Prologue
Autumn
“It’s his ass and you know it.”
Magnolia has to cover her mouth as she laughs and haphazardly sets the wineglass down, doing her best not to lose any of the sweet wine with the motion. I’m awful glad I waited to take a sip until Renee said what she wanted to say. She’s the comedic one in our group of four. Twirling a lock of auburn hair, she leans back, her wicked hazel eyes glinting. Renee is sharp and shameless.
But it’s definitely not his ass. At least not for me. My comment remains unspoken because we’re discussing Sharon’s crush, after all.
“Renee, you know darn well I am not a butt lady. I couldn’t care less about what’s good on the backside.”
“But he has a really nice ass,” Renee insists, completely ignoring Sharon.
With the mason jar string lights hanging above us, Sharon’s patio offers plenty of light, even as the southern sun sets in a beautiful hue of marigold and rose. Add in the wicker furniture, a touch of salt in the air plus the smell of fall surrounding us, and I’m all for Wine Down Wednesdays starting up again with this group of friends. It’s been too long and I’ve missed them.
“What does Henry think of Mr. Morgan?” Sharon asks me and I instantly feel the telltale sign of a blush rising up my chest and making my cheeks flush.
My mother always told me I couldn’t hide a thing from anyone. My face gives away the truth every time.
“What does my son think of your crush?” I respond with a question and quickly take a sip of my wine, then another, buying time. Sharon called dibs on Trent Morgan in before I had even walked my son into the preschool for his first day. That was almost a full year ago.
Now that school has started back up, I have to see that handsome face every day, my words stumbling and my laughs coming a little too often every time he talks to me.
He’s off-limits. My son’s teacher and my friend’s secret infatuation.
Truth be told, even if Sharon hadn’t claimed Trent in our group of single ladies, I wouldn’t have the guts to make a move.
Single mom and a little shy is what would be on my dating profile … if I had one. I’m rusty, to say the least, and haven’t been on a date in over a year, other than horrible disasters which are “events that shall not be named,” according to this particular group.
They’re all still looking at me, waiting for an answer. Does my son like Trent Morgan?
Finally I shrug, setting my wineglass down and leaning back in my rocking chair. “You know all the kids love Mr. Morgan. He’s the fun one who makes the best airplane sound effects.”
All eyes are still on me as if they can tell exactly what I’m thinking, so I add a little comment: “They don’t like him the same as you, though.” Chuckles lessen the nerves racking me.
Little nerves that wish I’d make a move. Little nerves that pine from a distance just to see that smile again.
Trent
Any minute now. The exhale after my first sip of coffee, with just a touch of cream and a touch of sugar, is long and impatient. Any minute now she should walk through that door.
The doors open, catching my attention, but the person who enters isn’t who I’m waiting for.
“Morning, Mr. Morgan!” Savannah sings out, not bothering to slow down in her race with her brother Liam as the sibling duo run to their designated room.
“Good morning, Savannah,” I say, smiling broadly when they both get to Stacey, who’s waiting for them in her section of the first floor. There are already two dozen children playing and laughing, getting their excitement out, and another half dozen to go. My class is the first one, closest to the front door, filled with a mix of kids who are four and five years old, and shared with Miss Sandy.
There’s one student in particular whose absence forces my gaze to move back to the clock on the far wall. Any minute now and Henry will walk through those double glass doors. He’ll probably press his hand to the painted print of his palm that we did last week to decorate for September. It forms a pattern of fall leaves and is taped to the lower half of the door.
That moment is what I’m waiting for. He’ll let go of his mom’s hand and she’ll peer through the window, and those beautiful green eyes will meet mine.
With an asymmetric grin, fate gives me exactly what I ordered. Little Henry, with his dark, thick floppy curls falling in front of his forehead, races to the front door. It’s not quite a mohawk that Autumn gives her son, since it’s just a little higher on top. She told me it’s because she loves his curls. His skin’s a bit lighter than mine; a tawny brown. Henry’s treasured Iron Man backpack hits the cement and the woman I’ve been waiting for bends down in her sundress to scoop it up for him.
With a simper on her lips, she moves her gaze from her son to me. Those green eyes spark, her smile widens and I can hear that feminine sigh that I know she just let slip from those full lips as she looks away.
The first thought I had about Autumn Holloway is far too inappropriate for this setting. As is my reaction every single time I see her.
Last year, she teased me, giving me mixed signals. Watching her gather Henry as they enter, I remember how I asked her out almost a year ago. She declined. Clearing her throat far too many times and that rosy hue that drives me wild staining her cheeks.
I gave her space, but every day since then she’s given me that same shy smile paired with covert glances. Every. Single. Day. This year, the tension is even thicker and my longing for just a chance is even worse.
The front door opens, bringing in a refreshing fall breeze. “Mr. Morgan!” Henry yells although he’s not paying me any attention at all as he races past me to the gate where Miss Sandy is already waiting for him.
“Miss Sandy!” he calls out with the same enthusiasm as I tell the five-year-old good morning and watch Sandra take him back. He’s a happy kid and reminds me of my own son, Chase. Who just happens to be his best friend.
“Sorry I’m late,” Autumn says, holding the backpack with both hands.
“No worries,” I respond and hold out my hand for the backpack. I have to grin when she stares at my hand for a moment too long and then shakes her head with her eyes closed. She opens her eyes, her gorgeous green gaze finding mine before she passes over her son’s backpack.
“Right, right.” Her smile widens, beautiful and filling me with warmth as she stares back at me and says, “You’d think I’d remember this from last year.” With the backpack now in my hand, I swallow thickly.
“No worries,” I tell her again and inwardly scold myself. Say something else. Damn. This woman does something to me. I co-own the preschool and I don’t want to push boundaries, but I want her.
I’ve never wanted a woman like I do Autumn. Her sweet blushes, her shy smiles, her luscious curves—I want it all.
As she signs her son in, I can’t take my eyes off of her. That is, until her hand whips around, pen still between those fingers, to point at me and say something. She doesn’t get a word out though other than “shit.”
My disposable coffee cup was practically filled to the brim still and luckily only lukewarm since some of it splashed onto her forearm.