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Movement draws my eye to the door. A little girl points to the list of names I taped to the door and looks over her shoulder, crying excitedly. “It says Katie Paulson! This is my class!” Her eyes move to the classroom, then to me. “Hi, Mr. Blair.”
“Hello, Katie,” I say with a smile, repeating the name she just called out. I’m pleasantly surprised she already knows my name, and I start looking at the groups of desks for her name tag. I think I put Katie near the front of the class, since she’s new at school and I wasn’t sure what kind of student she’d be. But before I can confirm, my eyes are drawn to her mother in the doorway, and a ringing starts in my ears.
Katrina is standing there, looking as glamorous and beautiful as ever in her high-waisted blue linen pants and silky white top. Her softly curled hair gets tucked behind her ear as she watches me, her eyes betraying nothing.
She looks gorgeous. My heart seizes. All the words I could have said yesterday come rushing back to me, but they hit the brick wall of my lips.
“Trina,” I finally squeeze through my cotton-filled throat. “You…”
“Hi, Mac.” She blinks, then puts her hand on Katie’s shoulder, who stands frozen between us.
I clear my throat. “You can hang your backpack on a hook, Katie, then find your name tag on the desks. Your classmates should be arriving soon.”
Katie frowns, her eyes darting between me and her mother.
Another thing about young kids—they pick up on everything.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Go on, honey.” Trina gives Katie a gentle nudge. “I need to speak to Mr. Blair.”
Katie, who had been so excited a moment ago, bites her lip as her brows draw together. “Okay,” she drags out, sounding unsure, but she hangs her backpack up on one of the pegs along the wall and starts wandering through the tables looking for her name.
After hesitating for just a moment, I close the distance to Trina. She stands in the doorway, looking ready to bolt. “Now I understand why you never answered my messages yesterday,” I say, trying to keep it lighthearted and completely failing.
My chest feels raw, empty. Trina is the first woman I’ve met who’s made me want more. A few minutes ago, I was imagining a future with her. What future can we have now that her kid is in my class?
I can’t date Trina. It would be completely inappropriate. Not only that, but if the kids ever found out, they could bully Katie. Parents could think of me differently. It would affect my career.
And when—not if—things between Katrina and me go sour, it’ll be awkward for years. Just like it was with Belinda.
Which means whatever had been budding between Trina and me…it’s over before it ever really began.
Trina clears her throat. “I saw your name on the school papers when I got home after…” She glances away, takes a breath, and looks at me again. “That woman yesterday. She was a mom of one of your students?”
I hate how small her voice sounds. I hate the regret etched into every line of her face. I hate that she feels that way about me.
But most of all, I hate that she’s right.
The boulder in my throat makes it impossible to speak, so all I can do is nod. I want to slip my hand in hers and pull her close, but I can’t. So I just stand there, across the threshold from her, looking for the right words.
She releases a long breath and closes her eyes. When she speaks, her voice is so quiet I barely make out the words. “Did you know?”
“No,” I answer emphatically, my voice finally returning. “I didn’t realize until right now. I swear. I thought your last name was Viceroy. I would have recognized the name in the class list…”
“I never took Kevin’s name,” she finally says, lifting her eyes back up to mine. “Look, Mac—”
A child comes barreling down the hallway, nearly crashing into Trina’s legs. “Mr. Blair! Mr. Blair! I’m in your class!” Ricky is a super-smart little boy with white-blond hair. His father, Rick Sr., hangs out at the Grove sometimes. I extend my hand to the father as Rick runs inside and greets Katie, then starts looking for his name on the desks.
“Long time no see,” the father says, grinning. His eyes flick to Trina, bald interest written in his gaze. He looks her up and down, and all I want to do is throttle him. I’ve known this guy for years. I’ve had countless beers with him. He’s a friend—and I want to punch him in the face for daring to look at Trina.
This is bad.
This is so bad, it’s not even funny.
I want her, and I can’t have her. But I don’t want anyone else to have her, either.
