Chapter Twenty-One

AJ

Tuesday night, more than forty-eight hours of radio silence, I decide to put this baby to rest. It’s time to realize it was just a weekend fling and move on. I mean, isn’t that how we met anyway? We were supposed to have wild and crazy stranger sex and then move on? It’s not like I haven’t done that before, but for some reason, the thought of moving on now feels like the air is being choked from my throat.

It needs to happen, though.

With my papers all graded for the night and a half bottle of white wine sitting empty on my counter, I reach for my phone. Even if he dropped me like a sack of week-old potatoes, I still owe him a thank you. I’m not completely rude, even though I’d rather fire off the F-U text.

Me: Thank you for a great weekend. See you around.

There. Sent.

Before I can put the phone down, bubbles appear.

He’s answering!

But then they disappear, with no message popping up.

About ten seconds later, they appear again.

And disappear.

This goes on for the better part of a minute, with no message received.

I drop my phone on my table like it was on fire and let out a loud sigh of frustration. It’s fine, really. But he can’t just reply with either: You’re welcome? It was great? Something? I mean that’s just common courtesy to the woman who let you slip a finger into her ass this weekend.

Heading off to bed, my phone still doesn’t have a message and my mind is too fuzzy from wine. I leave my cell on the counter in my kitchen so I’m not tempted to tell him off in the middle of the night when the alcohol buzz is in full force. Or worse, cry all over his virtual phone-shoulder while it wears off.

That would be embarrassing.

My bed is as cold as the Artic, even as the calendar slides toward mid-September, but that’s what you get after you’ve spent two nights in bedsheets that were on fire. I toss and turn, unable to relax, unable to find comfort in the lifeless pillow I’m cuddled against. But why should tonight be any different? It’s not, in fact. Sleeping alone is just a typical night in the life of AJ Summer.

* * *

When I reach my classroom door on Wednesday morning, I stop dead in my tracks. I glance down the hallway both directions, waiting for someone to jump out, or waiting for the object to detonate like a bomb.

But no one jumps out and the huge display of red roses doesn’t explode.

After unlocking my door, I juggle my latte, work satchel, purse, and the embarrassingly large vase of flowers, since I can’t open the door without moving it. The scent instantly hits my nose, a fragrant mix of sweet roses and soothing purple lavender. It’s not your typical accent flower for roses, but I’m not normal. It’s my favorite, though, and a certain sister who owns a flower shop uptown knows it.

I set the vase on my desk, having to move a tray for students to turn in papers, to accommodate the display. It’s huge and at least two dozen dark red blooms. I sip the caramel latte I picked up for myself and stare. There’s an envelope, which will surely answer the burning question of who brought me flowers. Yet, part of me doesn’t really want to know. On one hand, it could be the answer I’ve been waiting for from a certain hot PE teacher, or it could be the knife that finishes me off if I open the card and don’t see his name.

With a semi-shaking hand, I reach for the white packet and pull out the small note. I burst out laughing when the words register.

Nothing sparks a man into action like jealousy.

Love, Gpa

I should have known one of those ornery elders would be behind this.

But I also think he’s wrong. There’s clearly nothing for Sawyer to be jealous of, if his radio silence is any indication. It’s not like he’s been beating down my door for the last few days to see me–or even talk to me.

Not like last week.

It’s just…over.

A knock sounds on my door and my heart rate kicks up. When I turn in the direction of the sound, I see Bryce standing there, a warm smile on his face. He glances at my desk, noticing the flowers, and that smile falters. “Wow, look at those,” he says, walking into my classroom.

“Oh, yeah. A little over the top, right?” I comment with an uncomfortable chuckle, dropping the note into my top desk drawer.

“It depends if you like that sort of thing,” he says as he approaches me. It’s the first time I notice he’s carrying a paper coffee cup and a bag. A white bag. “I stopped at that place you were raving about, and thought I’d grab you one of those fancy coffee drinks and a poppy seed muffin,” he adds, extending his hand to me.

My mind instantly recalls Sawyer asking me if there was anything I didn’t like. Bran and poppy seed muffins. He was considerate like that.

Pushing thoughts of Sawyer far from my mind, I reach for the bag. “Oh, thank you.”

“I see you already have a coffee though. Now you have two,” he says with his own uncomfortable chuckle. “And those,” he adds, pointing to the vase. “Are they from…Sawyer?”

Shaking my head, I reply, “Oh, no. They’re from–” thinking, thinking, I should tell him who they’re from, but instead I say quickly, “a friend.”

Stupid, right? Now I look like I’m the conductor of the whore train heading straight to Slutsville. One guy warming my bed on the weekend and another apparently sending me flowers just a few short days later.

“Oh, I just assumed. I heard you went to the game with him Friday night.”

“He just met me there. He’s still meeting people and I offered to introduce him around. What better way to get to know the town than at a Friday night game, right?”

“True.” He seems to be really considering his next words carefully. “So, I was hoping I could steal a bit of your time for some help.”

“What kinda help?”

“Well, I’m still getting used to all these new regulations on lesson plans, and I really think it would be beneficial to both of us if we worked together. You know, since we teach the same subjects and students go from my class to yours, I think we should make sure our plans match.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Maybe we can meet at that little Mexican joint uptown? They have great tacos and it’s usually pretty quiet. We could probably go over quite a bit,” he says with eager and hopeful eyes.

I mean it makes sense. Mrs. Cornell, who retired at the end of last year, and I had a great working relationship and often bounced ideas and new techniques off each other. We even would meet for coffee at the café in the evenings. The fact that Bryce is suggesting the same shouldn’t surprise me.

Yet, it feels different. Personal. Intimate.

And I can’t have that.

“Actually, what if we met at the café right after school? I have plans for dinner with my grandparents.” The little white lie flows easily from my mouth. I should feel guilty, but at this moment, I just can’t muster it. I know the uncomfortable conversation with him about a date is coming, but I’m just not in the mood to deal with it right now.

“That would be great,” he replies eagerly.

Before he can offer to pick me up or drive me there from school, I add, “I can meet you there, if that works. Say four? That gives me a little time to help any students who stop by after school.”

“Good idea,” he says, nodding quickly. “Four o’clock.”

“Great.”

“What happens at four o’clock?” The sound of his voice makes my entire body shiver. Dammit.

“We’re going to the café,” Bryce boasts proudly before I can reply.

When I turn around, I swear this man takes my breath away every single time I see him. And why would it be any different now? Just because I want to not feel a damn thing for him doesn’t mean my traitorous body doesn’t respond anyway. Stupid almost-thirty-year-old body. Here I thought my biggest issue would be saggy boobs and extra weight to my ass when I look at cheese fries.

“To go over our lesson plans,” I quickly add when it was left hanging after Bryce’s answer. Now, the tension is so thick it feels like a swinging battle-ax wouldn’t even slice through the choking haze.

“Ahh,” Sawyer says, stepping into my classroom.

He’s hypnotizing as he walks toward me. When he’s within touching distance, his scent wraps around me like a warm blanket, comforting and familiar. Beautiful blue eyes hold my gaze as he sets something on my desk. Glancing down, I can’t help but chuckle.

“I grabbed you a latte on my way in, but I didn’t realize you’d already be covered,” Sawyer says, nodding at not one, but two coffee cups on my desk. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he sets the white paper bag on my desk. “Cherry Danish,” he answers my unspoken question.

And because my body is traitorous (we’ve been over this, remember?), my stomach growls. Loudly.

“Oh, I already brought her something. Poppy seed muffin,” Bryce brags and indicates the other white bag.

I stand in my place, praying the floor opens up and swallows me whole. Could this get any worse?

“I didn’t think you liked poppy seed?” Sawyer asks innocently, but I can see the evil gleam in his eye and hear the underlying tone in his simple statement.

Yep. It could definitely get worse.

“It’s fine,” I mumble quickly, looking for the exit. “I really should get–”

“Wow, flowers too? Is it a special occasion?” Sawyer asks, his tone stopping my heart like a lethal injection.

He sounds hurt.

He sounds…jealous.

Why is he jealous? He has no right to be when he’s the one who hasn’t contacted me in three days. I’ve messaged him, but do I get a return text? Hell no. So why does he have this look in his eyes like someone ran over his family puppy or something?

“Um, no. No special occasion.”

“Well, I’ll see you later, AJ. I should get back to my classroom before the bell,” Bryce says with a smile. “Later, Randall.”

Sawyer offers him a head nod and watches him exit.

The silence in the room is deafening. After a couple of tense seconds, our eyes finally collide once more. My God in Heaven, this man can bring me to my knees with just one look. Every dirty thing he did to my body this weekend plays in fast forward through my mind, and if I’m not mistaken, the way his own eyes dilate and turn a deeper shade of sapphire, I’d say he’s recalling the same things.

“Am I too late?”

“What?” I ask with a silent gasp.

He steps into my personal space and slides his hand up my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. “Please tell me I’m not too late, Alison. Tell me I haven’t fucked this up.”

“Fucked what up?” I ask, desperately needing him to clarify.

“This.” Again, he touches me. “Us.”

“I’m not sure there was an us to begin with. It was a fling,” I say, trying to find my conviction, but probably coming up short.

“Oh, Alison,” he whispers, his words soft, yet seductive. “There is most definitely an us. You were never just a fling. Never a one-night stand. You’ve always been more,” he states with so much belief, I feel the righteousness in his voice, feel it in his words.

I open my mouth to reply, but am cut off. “Miss Summer, could you help me–”

Spinning toward the door, I see Kaylee Smith, an eighth grader who I’ve been helping with her work. I jump back from Sawyer, the connection of his hand to my arm severed.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” the young girl says with a blush.

“No, Kaylee, you’re fine. Come in and we can go over a few things before the bell rings,” I reply, reaching for the first coffee cup I can find. Unfortunately, my hand hits the vase, causing it to wobble. Sawyer’s there with his quick hands, diving for the flowers before they can tip over and crash to the floor. “Nice save, Mr. R,” the girl coos, completely smitten by the hot PE teacher.

See, even young teenagers aren’t immune to his hotness.

Sawyer rights the vase of flowers and turns his head toward me. Quietly, he asks, “Can I see you tonight? I know you have…plans with Bryce, but I’d really like to apologize and hopefully explain a little of what happened Sunday.”

His eyes hold mine and don’t waiver when he speaks. I have so many questions and there’s only one way to get the answers, so I give him a head nod. He seems to visually relax and offers me a relieved smile. Before he heads to the door, he grabs the white bag off my desk. Not the one he brought, but the other one. “Danish,” he says softly, pointing to the bag he brought and is sitting in the center of my desk.

With the other bag in hand, he heads to the door. “Oh, hey, Kaylee? Do you like poppy seed muffins?” he asks, flashing the girl one of those smiles that she’ll probably dream about for much of her adolescent years.

“Eww, no, Mr. R.” Kaylee wrinkles up her nose and giggles. “Those are gross.”

“That they are, Kaylee. That they are,” he says, dropping the bag into the garbage, throws her a wink, and walks out of the room.

There’s nothing but silence left in his wake. “He is so hot,” Kaylee mumbles.

“He’s your teacher.” Sure, I’m stating a fact, but it’s not like I can argue with her.

“Mmhmmm. I love PE.”

I clear my throat and reach for the teacher’s math book. “Let’s get started.”