When I said the school is down the street, I wasn’t lying. I can walk to it and I usually do. As I walk inside, I go to the office first as they don’t allow anyone to go to the classrooms without getting a pass to do so.
Charlotte, the sweetest and probably oldest staff member at the school, greets me with a smile. She pushes her thick-framed glasses she’s had since the seventies up her nose. “Good morning, Mrs. Jacob.”
I wave my hand around and adjust my purse on my shoulder. “It’s Aly, Charlotte. Please just call me Aly.”
I’ll stab the next person who calls me Mrs. Jacob.
Charlotte smiles tenderly and hands me a clipboard. “Just sign in and the classroom is in the second grade pod. Third door on the right.”
I do as she says and make my way out the doors and to the second grade pod. Since I went to this school, it looks entirely different, or at least that’s my memory of it. Maybe it’s the same and I’ve forgotten.
When I get to the third door on the right, there’s a sign on the door that reads: “Mr. Lucas 2nd Grade.” I’m not sure why, but it doesn’t click with me at this point. Do you know what’s coming? I bet you noticed the sign, didn’t you?
Maybe I don’t because I’m ready to knock Cash in the head for whatever he did that I’ve been called to the school on the first day.
I open the heavy metal door and notice the teacher sitting in the classroom at his desk, but no Cash.
The teacher’s hunched over and engrossed in papers. At first, I wasn’t sure how Cash would deal with having a male teacher, but I thought after the trouble he caused with Mrs. Lacey last year, having a male teacher might help him. Apparently not since he’s already in trouble within the first four hours of school.
Even when I enter, closing the door behind me, trying to grab his attention, the teacher doesn’t look up.
“Hello, Mr. Lucas. . . . I’m Aly. . . .” I don’t say Jacob because I don’t want to say my soon-to-be ex-husband’s last name. Briefly I wonder how hard it’d be to change the boys’ last name to my maiden name of Sprague. I wouldn’t do that to the boys though. They’ve been through enough.
“I’m Cash Jacob’s mom.” And here’s where I stop. Here’s where my world stops. Because that’s the minute the man with the tousled dark hair looks up and immediately relaxes back in his chair.
My heart summersaults in my chest, my breath hitching, a choked gasp.
Ridge.
I blink, trying to decipher the image in front of me.
And just like this morning, he still looks better than me in a lot of ways. He’s relaxed in his chair, long legs outstretched in front of him. Those bright dark eyes that displayed the warmth in his soul he refused to let anyone see or believe he had. His unruly black hair that’s clean cut on the sides. The perfect jawline. . . . Everything about his face is stunning as usual.
When I can respond, I’m not surprised to see the I-dare-you-to-say-anything-to-me expression on his face, much like the night he left that rainy summer night.
I hadn’t noticed what he was wearing earlier today, other than the tie, but I take a closer look. Black jeans, form-fitting, black Oxfords, a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and that gray tie I had wrapped around my fist as I called him a juvenile dipshit for being in my lane.
“I. . . uh. . . I’m Cash Jacob’s mom?” I repeat, unintentionally asking him a question, my throat closing up. Am I even breathing?
There’s a change in his expression as he regards me with unnerving silence. “You said that already,” he says, voice confident. He drags his eyes along the curves of my body, stopping at my chest, his tone amused. His gaze is focused on my face, then runs over my body again. And believe me when I say it’s the most attention I’ve had in months. I have to suck in a breath.
Goddamn, he looks good. Lean-muscled and all man. How’d I not notice this earlier? Oh right. Because I was about to rip his head off for almost running me off the road.
The years have been kinder to him than they’ve been to me. I bet he doesn’t have stretch marks and ten extra pounds I haven’t lost since I gave birth to the twins.
His eyes land on the door behind me before they level on my face, and my mind swims with thoughts. Most of them involving him fucking me on his desk.
Stop it. Stop. It!
Take a look at his face. His gaze tells me he knows exactly who I am now. He remembers me. What he said to me. He remembers everything about our last night together. We have history, memories, and he hasn’t forgotten them.
His eyes meet mine, and my stomach knots, a threat deep within his smirk.
My heart flutters in my chest, and an urgent need to fill the awkward silence takes over. “What are you doing here?” My voice sounds desperate. The words leave my mouth before I have the chance to swallow them.
I know why he’s in town. His father passed away, but why he’s a teacher at the school is what I should have asked.
Ridge chuckles and leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs as he hangs his head. A second later he raises his face and meets my questioning stare. He watches me with an intensity that tingles and shivers, makes me blush and envision naughty thoughts on the desk again. One of me in a schoolgirl outfit and him spanking me with a ruler. Maybe tying me up with his tie?
Too far?
Probably.
“I work here,” Ridge says matter-of-factly, eyeing my hair. My bleached blonde all over the fucking place hair. “Nice to see you too. How was the dickbag convention?”
I close my eyes, then open them, swimming in the sight of him. “Funny, their presenter never showed.”
It’s a jab at him and he gets it.
He laughs, but his smile disappears, replaced with a frown. He stands and steps toward me. His white dress shirt clings to his muscular physique and if I watch closely, and I do, I can see the muscles in his stomach and arms flexing with each step. “I can’t believe you married him.”
Ridge shoves his hands in his pockets. When his eyes slide to mine, my stomach turns to knots, his eyebrows raising. Just as I remember the smile he can bring me to my knees with, it curves up at the edges when he catches me staring at him.
“You left me here,” I say finally. “Without saying anything so you don’t get to ask me a question like that. And I’m divorcing him.” I had to add the last part, not sure why.
He considers my words, tilting his chin down in acceptance.
I had to remind him of the pain he caused me. It’s just like me to throw that out there right away, like it might change his next words to me. It doesn’t though. He still says exactly what I’m expecting him to and slays me with a look, the honesty in his face knocking me sideways.
“Would it have really mattered if I had said goodbye? It wouldn’t have changed anything.”
It would have changed everything!
I stare at him, unable to breathe for a moment, pain saturating my heart, and I see what I think is anger in his features, the tightness of his eyes, the flexing of his jaw.
And it slides away just as easily. He moves my way again, his posture casual and relaxed, just like I remember. A man completely comfortable in his own skin.
I straighten my back nervously and tilt my chin up. The smell of him hits me, so masculine, earthy, filling my nose. I inhale, wanting to drown myself in his scent. My thoughts move to that night in his mother’s car. . . the way his weight felt pressing me into the seat, the way his mouth melted my heart, that same masculine scent all over, even when he was just a boy back then.
His eyes hold mine. No, they captivate mine and tell me to dive in, follow his lead. He’s always had this impact on me. And I always hated myself for it.
“Last I heard”—my voice sounds strained. Kinda always is when you start panting—“you were living down in Santa Barbara.”
He arches a thick, devilish eyebrow as if to ask, “So you kept tabs on me?” But he doesn’t say anything. At least not in words.
See that look on his face? The one that screams arrogance? That’s exactly what he wanted to convey. That me, Aly, the girl who turned him down, kept track of him.
“You knew where I was?”
“Yes. . . or did, um. . . .” Quick, pull yourself together. “Did you come back for your dad?”
“That’s part of it but not the entire reason.” He tucks one hand in his pocket, using his free one to tousle his hair. I look away, in fear I might jump him and cling to his body until he fucks me against the wall.
“I’m sorry to hear about his passing,” I tell him. “Michael was a good man.”
Ridge doesn’t say anything, but there’s an emotion plastered on his face. It’s not sadness, but it’s not relief either. I know despite his behavior growing up, he loved his dad. Ridge is tortured and crazy enough to burn down the town to get what he wants or to prove a point, but he loves just as deeply.
I have so many questions for him like does he have a girlfriend or a wife or maybe even some kids? Would it be inappropriate if I asked? I glance at his hand. . . no wedding band.
I clear my throat. “You called because of Cash, right? You’re his teacher until Mr. Burke comes back?”
He nods. “Yeah, I am. Cash spit on his desk and then yelled at another student for making fun of Grady. Called him a stupid head and threw his pencil.”
My chest tightens. “Who was making fun of him?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Another kid in class. Apparently his underwear is on backward.”
I blink, my blood pressure rising with the pounding of my heart. Is it hot in here or is it just me? “Who’s underwear?”
“Grady’s.”
That’s not surprising. Grady can barely dress himself properly. I still have to get on him about putting his shoes on the right feet. But it still doesn’t explain what started all this. “Why’d Cash spit on his desk?”
Ridge’s lips pull up into a smile. A devastatingly beautiful one. God, ten years did him so good. “He’d been drawing on it and decided to erase it, I assume.”
I don’t know for sure, but Ridge seems entertained by this, doesn’t he?
I have to get out of here. I can’t be in the same room with him. “Okay, well, if he’s not in any trouble, I’ll talk to him about it tonight. I have to go.”
Ridge grabs my elbow, effortlessly spinning me around to face him. I can’t even accurately describe the feeling that rushes through me when he touches me. It’s a jolt of excitement and panic, and I don’t even attempt to pull away or extract myself from his grasp. And I don’t want to.
His touch catches me off guard. I’m lightheaded by his presence, and I drop my purse in the process.
“You don’t have to go anywhere,” he whispers, way too close to my ear.
“I do, and you’re the last person I need to be in a room with alone,” I shoot back.
He doesn’t blink. “Because you don’t trust yourself around me, even after all these years.” His voice crawls inside my veins like the bite of a venomous snake, and I freeze, anticipating my reaction to the poison. “It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. I see the flush in your cheeks, the way your breathing increases. You never could resist me.”
What a cocky motherfucker. I square my shoulders, but I don’t say anything to argue with him. Why should I? He knows.
“That’s why you said no to me,” he says, unblinking. “You don’t trust yourself around me.” His mouth twists into something resembling a smirk, but it fails to last. “You were always easy to read.” He brushes his knuckles over my cheekbone, amusement dancing in his pupils. “Tell me I’m wrong.” His body is so close to mine I can feel his heat. It throws me back to the night we shared all those years ago.
“Why do you care?” My pulse drumming wildly.
I don’t think he likes that I’ve brought that up, but he also doesn’t give me a lot to go on as far as his facial expressions. “I’ve always cared.” His voice is velvet, caressing me in places he has no business reaching. But there’s certainly truth to his words. He did care. He just didn’t know how to handle the emotions that came with it.
“It sure didn’t seem that way,” I answer truthfully, closing my eyes.
“I can show you just how much I cared. Wanna pick up where we left off?” he whispers in my face, watching my reaction to him like it’s a game. Goose bumps spread and it feels like someone turned the heat on. I know I’m breathing heavily but you know, he is too.
“I uh. . . no. That’d be inappropriate,” I tell him, my voice a hiss in attempt to convey my anger for him. “You’re my sons’ teacher.”
He pins me with a grin. “That’s for me to decide,” he says, releasing my arm. “And I’d really like to start where we left off.”
Ridge Lucas is smart. No, smart isn’t describing him accurately. More like crafty. He’s sharp and almost always a step ahead of everyone else. Including me. Especially me.
“I have to leave.” Picking up my purse, I turn around and bolt out of the classroom, leaving the only guy I could never control myself around in the school.
I contemplate having the boys switch schools, maybe leaving the state all together if Ridge is back in town, but then again, I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t because I think I know why Ridge came home.
For me.