My shoulders continued to shake.
“Teachers,” came Mrs. Dalton’s tight voice from two shelves over. “We’re ready to move to the carpet for story time now.”
I nodded and tugged at the hem of my navy cardigan, trying to regain composure. What Mrs. Dalton lacked in stature, she made up for in stern scoldings. I pinched my lips together, working to erase the image Joshua had created in my mind. Quietly, I ushered my students toward the square carpet where Mrs. Dalton sat on a tall, spindly chair, her feet dangling three inches above the floor.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Joshua doing the same with his students, only where I gave light guiding touches, he gave fist bumps and high fives. Given the sour line of Mrs. Dalton’s lips, she was not amused by his tactics. For some reason, this made me smile all the more. He certainly had his own way of doing things.
“Hush now, students. It’s time for our weekly chapter reading of The Boxcar Children.”
Miles Kennewick from my class waved his hand in the air, not waiting to be called on before he spoke. “Can we read something funner today?”
Oh boy. Miles was a say-it-like-it-was type of kid.
Mrs. Dalton closed the book and stared at him pointedly. “Funner is not a word, Miles. And we are continuing this series for the rest of the school year.”
A handful of students groaned, and Miles blurted, “But your books aren’t like the books Miss Bailey reads to us. Hers are funny.”
This wasn’t going to end well. . . . I wove my way through a sea of seated children, closing in on Miles, all the while feeling Joshua’s humor-lit gaze tracking me from his side of the carpet square.
“There are millions of books,” Mrs. Dalton began. “No two are the same. Just like Miss Bailey and I are not the same. Every one of us has our own unique preferences.”
Five wiggly hands shot skyward, each one connected to the same question. “What does preferences mean?”
“It means that some of us may like scary adventure stories and others of us may like princess fairy tales—”
“Ooh, ooh!” Miles exclaimed as if he’d just had the epiphany of the century. “So you must like boring tales.”
The deep masculine laugh of a certain substitute teacher erupted in the open yet solemn space, igniting a chorus of laughter from every corner of the carpet square. He didn’t repress his amusement or even excuse himself from the room. Instead, he remained, wearing an expression that looked like an open portal to the kind of happiness most of the adult world had long ago forgotten.
As Mrs. Dalton clapped her hands and called the room back to order, foreboding pushed against the center of my chest. I worked to redirect my gaze—and my thoughts—to anything other than the distracting charms of one Joshua Avery. But like trying to calm this group of overstimulated kids, the task was proving to be impossible.
chapter
three
At exactly 3:41, Jenna entered my classroom, severing my direct line of sight into Mrs. Walker’s door window. “You ready to go? I told Brian I’d . . .” She stopped and glanced behind her. “What are you staring at?”
I blinked to focus. “Nothing. Just feeling a bit brain-fried today.”
She hiked her Marc Jacobs handbag higher up on her shoulder. “Ah, okay. Well, Brian just called. I’ve got to meet him downtown to switch cars. I guess an engine light came on in my car last time he drove it, and he wants to drop it off at the mechanic before his shift at the hospital. Did you want to walk out together? Or do you need more time to . . . daydream?”
Jenna and I rarely missed a day of walking through the parking lot together. It was our thing, our slow reentry to the world of adult speak. And it was often one of the best parts of my day. There was something profoundly satisfying about sharing the inner workings of your day with someone who could truly understand, someone who’d existed in the same time and space as you. Perhaps they’d also rescued a lost tooth from the bottom of a playground slide or saved the class fish from certain death by catching that flying pink eraser pre-splash. Or maybe even had the rare honor of transcribing a get-well-soon card featuring adult diapers.
I bit back a private smile at the memory of Joshua’s story. Because I shouldn’t be smiling over him. Just like I shouldn’t be hoping to accidently bump into him after he closed up his classroom for the day. Ridiculous. His position at Brighton was only for a limited time, and that was just one of a billion reasons I needed to forget all about his presence across the hall.
“Nah, I’m ready.” I stepped away from my desk so I’d have no choice but to follow through. “Let’s go.”
I collected my purse from my cubby, then unhooked my coat from the wall before exiting my room. With admirable restraint, I did not rubberneck when we passed by Mrs. Walker’s door. Instead, I chastised myself for all the mental energy I’d expended on something—someone—so temporary.
As we pushed out the main doors into the chilly November air, we set our pace to a casual stroll. The blue-gray sky was nearly as free of clouds as the school parking lot was of cars. I zipped up my jacket, my armor against the wind, and tried to focus on Jenna’s animated story about a student bringing her father’s snore plugs as her show-and-tell item.
She had just launched into the good part—the child trying to fit them inside her own too-small nostrils—when I heard the pounding of footsteps behind us. In a torturous kind of hopefulness, my stomach flipped at the thought of the potential owner of those hammering feet. I willed myself not to turn around.
Unfortunately, Jenna had no reason not to.
“Hey, um—Miss Bailey?” an unmistakably male voice called out.
As if she thought I hadn’t heard him, Jenna gripped my arm and pulled me to a stop before I had time to settle on the correct expression for this, my third and final meeting of the day with Mrs. Walker’s substitute.
“Sorry,” Joshua said on the tail end of a cheery laugh. “I realized halfway across the lot that I still don’t know your first name.”
Within a single blink, my brain snapped a succession of mental pictures: tousled hair that flecked copper in the natural light, pine-green eyes with enviable lashes, and a mouth that seemed permanently curved into a smile. And there, just under his shadow-lined jaw was a tiny but angry red nick, as if he’d cut himself while shaving before showing up at school. Perhaps this clean-shaven look wasn’t his usual routine? Somehow, envisioning a dusting of scruff along his jaw only added to the intellectual charm he embodied so well already.
“It’s Lauren,” I answered a beat past awkward.
“Lauren Bailey,” he said with unexplained approval. “I imagined it would be something like that.”
He’d imagined my name?
Jenna’s eyes rounded to the size of her gold hoop earrings. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met yet. I’m Jenna Rosewood.” She held out her hand in that proper I-likely-have-royalty-in-my-blood way of hers, and I prepared for an exchange I’d witnessed a thousand times.
There were certain things one got used to when selecting a former beauty contestant for a best friend. The redirection of any and all positive male attention while in her presence was one of them. But unlike every other man who appeared gut-punched by Jenna’s distinctive allure, Joshua’s gaze didn’t linger. Nor did his handshake.