“Oh yeah?” he asks with a crooked grin, telling me he’s already heard and feeling smug about it.
“Apparently, the art teacher is dating the football coach.”
“Scandalous. Wonder what kind of woman she must be to put up with a guy like that.”
“Probably very patient,” I sigh dramatically. “And unbelievably tolerant of bad jokes.”
“Hey now,” he protests, but his smile widens, “My jokes ain’t that bad.”
I hum in disagreement. “They kind of are.”
His thumb keeps grazing back and forth over my hip, and it takes everything in me to ignore the reaction my body is having. It makes me want to squirm away and lean into it all at once, and when I look up at him, there’s a knowing smirk on his face.
“Stop,” I tell him, trying to pull out of his grip.
“Stop what?” He asks, all fake innocence, holding on tighter.
“You know what.” I glare, “If you’re feeling up to being an asshole, you can at least make yourself useful and help me clean up.” I gesture toward the messy tables left over from the students’ projects.
He chuckles, that low, rough laugh that makes my stomach flip in a way I’m still not used to. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, giving me a mock salute before stepping back.
I watch him roll up his sleeves, and for a second, my brain stops working altogether. “Where do you want me?”
I turn away to save what little dignity I have left. “Pick up the paper and stack the palettes, please. And try not to be a distraction.”
We fall into a rhythm, wiping down the tables, gathering the mess the students left behind. Every so often, I catch him watching me, and even though it makes my heart flutter, I try my best to ignore it.
“Seriously, though, thanks.” He says, tossing a handful of crumpled paper into the recycling bin.
“For making you clean?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.
“For letting me come here. And taking my mind off things.”
When the room no longer looks like the aftermath of a watercolor explosion, Nate speaks up again. “You got plans tonight?”
“No,” I say casually, an attempt not to sound too eager. “Why?”
“Thought maybe you’d want to grab dinner. I got practice with the team, but then after, I’m free for the rest of the evening.”
“I’d like that.”
“I figured. Since you’ve been checking me out for the last half hour.”
That playful grin returns, and I roll my eyes, but I couldn’t stop myself from smiling if I wanted to. “That is so not true. Text me when you’re home?”
“I will.”
On his way out, he catches my hand, squeezing it gently before leaning over and kissing my cheek. And then he’s gone, leaving me all alone to think about his arms and his hands on my body and-
Ugh!
Nate
Alex and me, we’ve got a Halloween tradition.
It started when mom was alive, and she’d make us a homemade pumpkin pie, and we’d all compete to see who carved the best pumpkin.
Now, I’m not making any pumpkin pie, but I bought one from the store along with the pumpkins ready to carve.
