Present Day

I’d been painting when the doorbell rang, so I answered with a smudge of blue on my right cheek. Of course, I hadn’t known there was paint on my face, but the little girl giggling at me sure noticed it.

“You’re all messy, Miss Travers,” she said, holding her hands up in front of her mouth, though the gesture hardly stifled her amusement.

“Ava. What are you doing here?” Although I’d taught her last year, it was unusual to have house calls from former students. I wiped at the paint with my raggedy sweatshirt sleeve, adding to the variety of paint smears on its fabric.

“I live in that house now,” she said, pointing to the bungalow next door. “But my dad’s busy and I got locked out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Ava. Does your father have a phone number we could call?”

Ava shook her head, the brown waves on her head tumbling around in cascades as she moved. Before I could ask a follow-up question, she pushed past me and trotted to the canvas I’d been working on.

“Ooh, pretty! You paint things?”

“I do, this one’s going to be an island like the one where I grew up. But I’ve just started, so it’s only water right now.”

“Did you go swimming all the time?”

“Yes, lots of swimming. Do you like swimming, Ava?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not really. Were there pirates?”

I laughed. “No, no pirates in Rhode Island. But there were some people who liked drinking lots of rum on boats, do you think that counts?”

“Sure,” she pronounced. Ava sat down on the couch across from my studio corner, where she could watch me and my canvas. I added a touch more white to the top of the waves and tried to return to our conversation’s prior topic.

“So when is your dad going to be home?”

“Soon,” said Ava. But there was a pause before she spoke, a moment of hesitation that caught my attention.

I glanced out the window to the house next door, where I saw a light on in the back room.

“Ava, where’s your dad right now?”

She blinked up at me, huge brown eyes seemingly swimming with innocence. I’d seen oh so many children’s faces with their eyes widened in this way before.

“He was going to play hockey, and then come get me so we could eat cake.”

She was definitely lying.

Oh good Lord.

I loved my job, really. It was an incredible privilege to mold young minds and all that, watching the future grow up before your eyes. But teaching Kindergarten certainly had its downsides, and lots of the kids wanted you to be their parent, friend, or confidante.

I was just a teacher, not a surrogate mother.

Moreover, I didn’t want to get in any fights with the parents. Principal Shrike already thought I was too much of a hippie, maybe a liability to the school. Last thing I needed was a vote of non-confidence from Ava’s dad.

“Ava, honey,” I said, putting the paint brush down and kneeling in front of her. She shuffled on the couch, fidgeting with nervous energy. “Is your dad next door right now?”

I didn’t remember the parent-teacher conference with Ava’s parents last year, but the thought struck me that they had been foster parents. Maybe there was trouble at home and she didn’t want to deal with it.

I had to be sensitive to the possibility that she was happiest avoiding something painful. Maybe I should call social services.

Ava didn’t meet my eye, just looked down at her knees and said “uhh, no.”

“Is somebody hurting you?”

She looked up. “My daddy’s being mean,” she said.

“Ok, well why don’t we go talk to him?”

I could get a read on the situation, find out if I should call someone. The girl obviously needed some support. Painting could wait.

Charlotte Travers, you get yourself into some weird situations.

It was only Thursday and the week had already felt like an eon.

Though Ava protested softly, she followed me to the front door and down the walk, chewing on her lip while we made our way to the next house over.

Someone new had moved in a few weeks ago. I remembered seeing the FOR SALE sign taken down, and hearing music blaring later that night, but I’d just assumed it was college students from the lack of moving van and late-night din.

Maybe Ava’s father was some edgy lowlife, and he was making the poor girl feel like she had no recourse except to run next door.

But when I rang the doorbell, the man who answered looked nothing like I expected. A tall, broad-shouldered figure with impressive biceps met my gaze. His eyes were dark blue, moody and framed by thick eyebrows that matched his equally thick beard. From the tattoos visible on his arm and the casual t-shirt he wore, I got the sense that this was a somewhat rebellious man, but definitely no low-life.

Then he saw Ava.

“Ava, what are you doing with a stranger?” he asked.

“I’m not a stranger, actually. Charlotte Travers, I teach Kindergarten at Dawson. Ava was in my class last year.”

“Hi,” he said to me, his voice tense and attention only briefly focused on me. Then he continued to look at Ava. “Did you run away?”

There was a layer of hurt to the tone of his voice, as if he was surprised, not angry. My hackles lowered, the anxiety of worrying about whether to call social services disappearing.

I let Ava answer. She nodded, still avoiding eye contact with both her father and with me.

“Are you new to the neighborhood?” I asked, suddenly struck by the need to deflect attention from Ava. She looked like she felt guilty enough; an apology was sure to come later.

The man seemed to notice me all over again, as if he’d thought I’d left while he was talking to his daughter.

“Yeah,” he said. Then he stopped talking, a mask of worry and frustration still evident on his face. He was staring at Ava mournfully.

“Miss Travers, can you read me a story?” Ava said, taking my hand and curling up close to me.

I froze, unsure of what to do. This man likely didn’t want his daughter accosting me, treating me like she was closer to me than to him. And I didn’t want to intrude.

“She needs to go back home, honey,” he said, beckoning to her that she should come further inside.

But Ava clung to my hand and frowned. “Please?”

Without warning, she burst into tears. Though they may have been crocodile tears, they clearly affected her father deeply. His face was stricken, brow knit so tightly he might as well have only had one eyebrow. As I watched, he placated Ava and then focused his gaze on me, eyes silently imploring me to run with the request.

So I relented.

What was one odd night in a stranger’s home helping him with his sweet, though upset daughter?

“I’d love to read you a story, Ava. Did you have one in mind?”

It took no more than that for her crying to stop, for Ava to take my hand tightly in hers again and to tug me into the house. Inside, there were four or five boxes near a dining room table, a solitary couch pushed into the corner, and a few plastic bags that looked like they contained home decor. Mostly, the space felt empty. Transitional.

I didn’t envy this man, rebuilding a life in some new house in the suburbs, trying to bond with a daughter who seemed to have her guard up. The quiet chaos of the place reminded me of my last move, shuffling from the curb where I’d parked my rental van to take box after box into the house. All without Duncan’s help.

Of course, at that point I didn’t want Duncan to lift boxes any more than I wanted him to be part of my life romantically, but it had been years and years since I’d had to do anything so life-changing all alone.

Divorce was a bitch, it turned out.

So when I saw this man’s ramshackle living room, I wanted to squeeze his hand and tell him that it would get better. Whatever he was dealing with, it would be easier in time. Only, when I glanced at him to give him a look of commiseration, his face was still drawn, and shockingly intense.

What happened to you?

He seemed too handsome to have had his heart broken, though I knew full well that beautiful people still felt pain. There was something vaguely familiar about his face, a shape to it that conjured up feelings I couldn’t precisely locate and name. All I knew was that when I looked at him, my heart beat a little faster, and though I told myself it was the bizarre circumstances, it was likely more than that.

Ava chose a book about dinosaurs for me to read, something about a chatty triceratops encountering friends and rivals in the jungle. I sat on a chair near Ava’s bed while she burrowed under her blankets, leaving only her face peeking out at me, those huge brown eyes rapt.

When the story was done, she sighed as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

“Spike should have kept going,” she said.

“But she found her friends again, remember? Twiggy and Bert made a stew for them all to eat, so they could stay together.”

“Yeah,” Ava said, unconvinced. “But then they might leave again.”

This was veering into dangerous territory. I scanned the room for another book I could read her, finding one about ponies that she agreed was a good choice. By the end of this story, Ava had fallen asleep, still wrapped tightly in the blankets.

I tiptoed out into the hall, where I ran into her father.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

Had he been listening? Guess I couldn’t blame him.

He shrugged and then led me to the front door. “I’m just glad she’s asleep.”

“I didn’t catch your name, by the way,” I said. I held out a hand to shake, which he only took reluctantly. The warmth of his hand surprised me, weighty and masculine against my skin. It sent a tingling feeling up my arm and down my back.

“Jack.”

“Charlotte,” I said.

“Yeah, you’d said that already.”

Ok then, someone’s feeling grumpy. Rough day for Dad.

“Listen,” I said. “Ava’s really bright, I remember that from teaching her. And if she wants to stop by my place or if you need help looking after her, I really don’t mind. Just check in with me, we can make a plan.”

Jack’s broad shoulders straightened as he drew himself up into a stiff posture. His body was formidable, muscular and tattooed as it was. I wasn’t sure whether to back down or run a hand along the lines of his chest. My hormones were apparently flooding my body, clamoring to be heard and have me do their bidding. It was downright embarrassing.

Luckily, Jack had no such intentions.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, glowering.

For a moment, I thought he could read my mind and knew that my thoughts had been venturing into the gutter. Then I remembered he meant Ava.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, fumbling for words. It was a simple gesture, meant to alleviate the struggles of a single father. At least, I assumed that he was single.

On some level, I think I hoped that he was single.

Good grief, Charlotte, can’t even meet the dad next door without falling for him? You need to get out more. Spend time with adults, not just five year olds.

“So… thanks,” he said, and then Jack started to close the door with me still standing there, fully expecting the conversation to continue. I found myself facing the dark green wood, mouth agape, struggling for a comeback or witty phrase that would make me feel less strange about the evening.

Instead, I walked back home and kept on painting, pouring myself a glass of red wine to enjoy while I worked on those stubborn clouds. I hoped Jack wasn’t too mad at me, that Ava and he could find a way to get along.

But when I slept that night, my thoughts and worries weren’t the topic of my dreams. I didn’t read stories to Ava or falter for words in front of Jack.

Instead, I dreamt that I spread myself across a huge, silk-sheeted bed, naked except for a flimsy slip dress that almost matched the sheets. In the corner, Jack was standing there fully clothed but clearly wanting me.

And I wanted him to want me that way, felt a deep, urgent desire for him to rip the dress off my body and taste my skin with the dark beard on his face rubbing against me, tingling and teasing all the way. I longed for the heat of his body next to me, to feel the intensity that radiated from him.

In this dream, I was somehow more centered, more myself than I’d been in years. Gone was the self-doubt and worry, gone was the sense that I’d squandered so much time in my life on things that turned out not to be worth it. The only emotions I felt were joyful, sensual, and present. Totally in the moment.

It was an aching dream, one in which I felt myself sweat as Jack hovered over top of me, held up by his muscular arms so that I could see him and he could see me. His eyes ran down the length of my dress like he wanted to consume the picture, relishing every last morsel. My body was so sensitive that I could feel the soft fabric of the dress pucker against my nipples as they anticipated Jack’s touch.

But he didn’t touch me, at least not for a long, long time. Rather, he watched me with those eyes, searching and sad and lustful all at once. It was enough to make me squirm with white hot desire, try to pull him closer and feel him, but he didn’t relent.

Jack of the dream was perhaps too similar to the Jack I’d met in real life: standoffish, concerned, a well of damage lurking beneath his handsome exterior. Though I was boiling over with lust in my dream, even then I felt an emotional pull to him. I wanted to feel his cock against me, yes, but I also longed to unfurl those hidden feelings of his, to gently rub his cheek with my hand and tell him that I could help.

I wanted to help.

My dream self spoke, saying “It’s ok, Jack. Whatever it is, it’s ok.”

It was, apparently, what he needed to break the spell and distance, because shortly after I spoke he tore off the dress, ripping the silk with a decisive pull. My naked body exposed, he soon stripped off his own clothes and plunged into me, hard and long and completely delicious.

We moved in a sweaty, hypnotic rhythm that eclipsed any other sex dream I’d had, including ones I’d thought were scorching. Nothing could compare to the dark, writhing chemistry that Jack and I found in that bed, the softness of the sheets propelling him to grip me harder, push into me with more force, nip me, bite me, taste me.

When I cried out in the dream, it woke me in real life to a damp, warm cocoon of my bedsheets. I wiped beads of sweat from my upper lip in a fog as I remembered where I was.

Home, alone.

But there was a man next door who’d awakened something within me, even if it had happened while I was deep in slumber. I lay there catching my breath and feeling my heartbeat slow down to its normal pace, unable to shake the mental picture of Jack’s face so close to mine.