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“If she deems you a lost cause early, meet up with us,” Cross said.
“Will do.”
I ended the call, shaking my head at my friend. He’d pay for this bet he concocted—regardless if I was destined to lose or not—and it would be so fucking funny when he did.
“What in the hell?” I asked aloud, my brow pinching as I followed the navigation system into the parking lot of a community rec center. I blinked a few times, double-checking the address before navigating through the crowded lot, finally locating a space near the back to park.
I slipped out of the car, locking it behind me while I scanned the area, realizing it had been ages since I’d been anywhere without valet. The notion made my stomach twist, and I made a mental note to check myself.
I hadn’t come from money, hadn’t inherited my wealth. I’d scraped and bled and worked my ass off to get where I was today. I would not become one of those out-of-touch billionaires who couldn’t relate with the real world.
My first job had been at a concession stand at Shipyard Park, for fuck’s sake. I could park my own damn car.
Nodding to myself, I straightened out the lapels of my suit jacket and walked confidently toward the building.
Butter-yellow streamers decorated the entrance, a few glittering green strands interwoven with the yellow to create an arch over the glass double doors. I cocked a brow, curiosity overtaking all other thoughts as I stepped inside.
What kind of anger management session was this? From what I’d read about, most were one-on-one sessions that operated almost like therapy, but with a focus on breathing and regulating emotions. Most certainly not whatever this was…but I suppose nothing with Alexandra was predictable.
“You came,” Alexandra’s voice sounded in the entryway, where she stood at a little table covered with blank nametags and a few spare markers.
A shoe box sat next to the markers, decorated with bright green construction paper with the word donations scrawled across the front, a little piece of paper explaining the donations were for iPads for the third-grade classes and new football uniforms for the seventh-grade classes.
“I was invited,” I said, confusion still holding strong to my tone.
I glanced around the corner, the space blending into a gym illuminated by colored lights, music filtering through a little set of speakers resting on a fold-out table.
There were kids everywhere. Dancing or lingering against the walls. Running around, giggling and wild.
The woman had invited me to a middle school dance.
And I couldn’t stop the laugh that left my lips as I turned my attention back to her. “This is the dance you were talking about?”
“My best friends are hosting,” she explained, waving toward the gym where her friends must be. “Nora is a third-grade teacher and Ella is the school nurse.”
“And this is a session?” I asked, utterly confused.
“Of course,” she said. “What else did you think it would be?”
I shrugged. “Dancing screams date to me.”
She visibly swallowed, her cheeks flushing slightly. Okay, so she wasn’t totally unaffected by me. Good to know.
“Still trying to get me to fall in love with you?” She grinned.
“Always,” I replied in the same way I had in the coffee shop. I’d be an asshole to pretend like I wasn’t, whether I thought the bet was moot now or not.
She laughed, shaking her head as she leaned over the table to write something on one of the blank nametags.
Fuck me, she looked stunning in a simple black dress that cut off just above her knees, revealing long legs, her delicate feet tucked into a pair of glittery pink flats. A little jacket covered her shoulders, her long black hair falling in waves over it.
I swallowed hard as she rounded the table, her bright blue eyes hesitant as she scanned my suit.
“Shoot,” she said, her hands dropping in front of her.
I noted my name written on the sticker and took it from her, peeling it off the protective backing.
“No, you can’t,” she said, trying to reach for the sticker. “That suit looks custom. It’s probably worth more than my car.”
“Hand-crafted Italian,” I said proudly, flashing her a smile as I stuck the name tag just beneath my right shoulder.
“Wow,” she said, biting back a smile. “Okay, then.”
I looked over my shoulder again, then back at her. “You said your friend teaches third grade.”
“Yes, I did,” she said, leaning casually against the little table.
“Those are not third graders,” I said, motioning to the dance happening behind me.
“Those are seventh graders,” I said. “They’re from Nora’s sister school.”
I pursed my lips. “Are you on a planning committee with them?”
She shrugged. “Yes, and no.” I raised my brows for her to elaborate. “I don’t have an official title,” she explained, and we had to move aside as two more kids came barreling through the doors, grabbing name tags and racing into the dance.
