by Nicole Deese
This wasn’t going to end well. . . . I wove my way through a sea of seated children, closing in on Miles, all the while feeling Joshua’s humor-lit gaze tracking me from his side of the carpet square.
“There are millions of books,” Mrs. Dalton began. “No two are the same. Just like Miss Bailey and I are not the same. Every one of us has our own unique preferences.”
Five wiggly hands shot skyward, each one connected to the same question. “What does preferences mean?”
“It means that some of us may like scary adventure stories and others of us may like princess fairy tales—”
“Ooh, ooh!” Miles exclaimed as if he’d just had the epiphany of the century. “So you must like boring tales.”
The deep masculine laugh of a certain substitute teacher erupted in the open yet solemn space, igniting a chorus of laughter from every corner of the carpet square. He didn’t repress his amusement or even excuse himself from the room. Instead, he remained, wearing an expression that looked like an open portal to the kind of happiness most of the adult world had long ago forgotten.
As Mrs. Dalton clapped her hands and called the room back to order, foreboding pushed against the center of my chest. I worked to redirect my gaze—and my thoughts—to anything other than the distracting charms of one Joshua Avery. But like trying to calm this group of overstimulated kids, the task was proving to be impossible.
chapter
three
At exactly 3:41, Jenna entered my classroom, severing my direct line of sight into Mrs. Walker’s door window. “You ready to go? I told Brian I’d . . .” She stopped and glanced behind her. “What are you staring at?”
I blinked to focus. “Nothing. Just feeling a bit brain-fried today.”
She hiked her Marc Jacobs handbag higher up on her shoulder. “Ah, okay. Well, Brian just called. I’ve got to meet him downtown to switch cars. I guess an engine light came on in my car last time he drove it, and he wants to drop it off at the mechanic before his shift at the hospital. Did you want to walk out together? Or do you need more time to . . . daydream?”
Jenna and I rarely missed a day of walking through the parking lot together. It was our thing, our slow reentry to the world of adult speak. And it was often one of the best parts of my day. There was something profoundly satisfying about sharing the inner workings of your day with someone who could truly understand, someone who’d existed in the same time and space as you. Perhaps they’d also rescued a lost tooth from the bottom of a playground slide or saved the class fish from certain death by catching that flying pink eraser pre-splash. Or maybe even had the rare honor of transcribing a get-well-soon card featuring adult diapers.
I bit back a private smile at the memory of Joshua’s story. Because I shouldn’t be smiling over him. Just like I shouldn’t be hoping to accidently bump into him after he closed up his classroom for the day. Ridiculous. His position at Brighton was only for a limited time, and that was just one of a billion reasons I needed to forget all about his presence across the hall.
“Nah, I’m ready.” I stepped away from my desk so I’d have no choice but to follow through. “Let’s go.”
I collected my purse from my cubby, then unhooked my coat from the wall before exiting my room. With admirable restraint, I did not rubberneck when we passed by Mrs. Walker’s door. Instead, I chastised myself for all the mental energy I’d expended on something—someone—so temporary.
As we pushed out the main doors into the chilly November air, we set our pace to a casual stroll. The blue-gray sky was nearly as free of clouds as the school parking lot was of cars. I zipped up my jacket, my armor against the wind, and tried to focus on Jenna’s animated story about a student bringing her father’s snore plugs as her show-and-tell item.
She had just launched into the good part—the child trying to fit them inside her own too-small nostrils—when I heard the pounding of footsteps behind us. In a torturous kind of hopefulness, my stomach flipped at the thought of the potential owner of those hammering feet. I willed myself not to turn around.
Unfortunately, Jenna had no reason not to.
“Hey, um—Miss Bailey?” an unmistakably male voice called out.
As if she thought I hadn’t heard him, Jenna gripped my arm and pulled me to a stop before I had time to settle on the correct expression for this, my third and final meeting of the day with Mrs. Walker’s substitute.
“Sorry,” Joshua said on the tail end of a cheery laugh. “I realized halfway across the lot that I still don’t know your first name.”
Within a single blink, my brain snapped a succession of mental pictures: tousled hair that flecked copper in the natural light, pine-green eyes with enviable lashes, and a mouth that seemed permanently curved into a smile. And there, just under his shadow-lined jaw was a tiny but angry red nick, as if he’d cut himself while shaving before showing up at school. Perhaps this clean-shaven look wasn’t his usual routine? Somehow, envisioning a dusting of scruff along his jaw only added to the intellectual charm he embodied so well already.
“It’s Lauren,” I answered a beat past awkward.
“Lauren Bailey,” he said with unexplained approval. “I imagined it would be something like that.”
He’d imagined my name?
Jenna’s eyes rounded to the size of her gold hoop earrings. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met yet. I’m Jenna Rosewood.” She held out her hand in that proper I-likely-have-royalty-in-my-blood way of hers, and I prepared for an exchange I’d witnessed a thousand times.
There were certain things one got used to when selecting a former beauty contestant for a best friend. The redirection of any and all positive male attention while in her presence was one of them. But unlike every other man who appeared gut-punched by Jenna’s distinctive allure, Joshua’s gaze didn’t linger. Nor did his handshake.
“Joshua Avery. Tech nerd. Dinosaur freak. And as of today, a first-grade sub.” He glanced my way again.
“Avery . . . Avery . . . Why does your name sound so familiar?” Jenna repeated it slowly, as if his last name was the only thing she noticed about a grown man wearing an Ask Me About My T-Rex T-shirt. Also, where was his coat? Was he immune to the barely above freezing temperature? It wasn’t as if he had extra insulation to work with, either. Joshua was made of lean muscle, long limbs, and likely the kind of metabolism that could make millions if bottled and sold on the black market.
If possible, Joshua’s smile brightened several extra watts. “You might know my father, George Avery? Although sometimes he’s not as eager to claim me as a son.” He leaned in as if to tell us a secret. “Just don’t ask him about the time I shot a weighted bottle rocket into the windshield of his Volvo. I keep waiting for him to find the humor in that one, but it’s been nearly twenty years, and he still won’t allow me to bring a two-liter bottle into his house.”
“Hold on,” I said, finding my voice and raising up a hand, as if that gesture alone might slow the world long enough for me to process the revelation unfolding in my brain. The instant he spoke his father’s name, my mind rattled awake. It was a name that made my voice skip an octave and my pulse trip over itself. “Your father is George Avery—as in the author of Create a Reader in 30 Days and Reading Express for Kids and Reading Express for Parents and Every Teacher’s—”
“Reading Dream,” he finished with me. “Yep, that’s the one.”
I’d never been the fangirling type. Not even when I spotted my favorite HGTV host signing autographs at a Starbucks downtown last July. But this . . . this was different. This was personal. George Avery wasn’t just a brilliant teacher-turned-author who lived somewhere in the inland northwest—he was also the reason I’d strayed from a degree in childhood psychology and ended up with a master’s in early childhood development. And that was only the start of his influence on my life.
During my second week as a freshman at Boise State, I’d stumbled into what I thought was a lecture on modern psychology. Instead, I
found myself mesmerized by a professor in his late-forties reading the classic children’s book Horton Hatches the Egg to a crowd of checked-out, early-twenty-somethings. Obviously, they, too, had believed they’d entered the wrong class. But with his gentle and confident manner, Mr. Avery had continued to read about a loyal elephant who overcame every kind of hardship in order to keep his promise to sit atop a lonely egg until it hatched.
George Avery showed each illustration to the massive auditorium the way any seasoned elementary teacher would show a classroom of wiggly children. Less than five pages in, the emotionally charged tale had entranced even the most cynical of students.
By the last page, my cheeks were tear-soaked. And when he finally closed the book and fixed his gaze on his enraptured audience, his last words pierced me like a destiny-tipped arrow. “The way to shape a child’s heart is through love. And the way to shape a child’s mind is through literature. When you read to a child, you accomplish both.”
With a sharp jab of her elbow, Jenna catapulted me fourteen years into the future. Back to a parking lot with the son of the living legend who’d changed my life with a children’s storybook.
“Sorry, I just—I love him,” I blurted without preamble. “Your dad. I’ve read everything he’s ever written—articles, blogs, books. And his documentary series on Little Readers Across the Nation was absolutely fantastic. I use many of his techniques in my classroom.”
“Understatement,” Jenna interjected. “Lauren’s responsible for overseeing the annual Reader Express Training for our entire district.”
Joshua’s face morphed from a delighted state of curiosity to an expression I couldn’t quite determine. “Wow. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt as envious of my father as I do right now. Although, usually his fans are about thirty years your senior and mention ‘the good old days’ at least once during their praise of his accolades.”
“He’s a hero in education.” A statement I’d said more times than I could count.
The right corner of his mouth tipped further north, revealing a deep-set dimple. “I’ll make sure to tell him you said so.”
“Please do,” I said in reply, only because the desperate “Please ask him to autograph my grade book?!” seemed a little too soon considering he’d only learned my first name five minutes ago.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Jenna’s head swivel from me to Joshua, and then back to me again. “How long do you plan to sub for Mrs. Walker, Joshua?”
His gaze didn’t stray from my face for longer than the eight seconds it took him to respond. “I’m not totally sure, but my guess would be a week, possibly longer depending on what the district allows. I’m up for whatever, though. I have the time, and it’s a nice change of pace to be on this side of things.”
This side of things? “You don’t usually work as a sub?”
“No. My degree is in education, but my career followed my minor in computer science. Charlotte allowing me to sub for her is the result of several phone calls between my father and the superintendent. He managed to convince the district that I’m in need of a refresher course inside my test market before we continue on with our project. And I’m not too proud to admit that my father and his lackeys at the district weren’t wrong. I’ve learned a lot today.”
Jenna cut in before I had the chance. “What do you mean by your test market?”
“First graders. I’m in tech development—educational apps and video games for early readers, primarily.” His eyes found mine again and something inside me leapt at his next proclamation. “I’m working on digitizing my father’s research into an administration application suitable for school districts across the nation. We hope the app will have crossover appeal. Both classroom and at-home use. Right now it’s undergoing some early approvals and recommendations by higher-ups.”
Jenna laughed a little too brightly, as if she, too, was experiencing the weirdest sense of déjà vu. How many times during our annual trainings had I said, “I wish this reading program was in a more user-friendly format for our kids and their parents to use at home”?
“What? What am I missing?” he asked, directing his question to both of us.
Jenna shook her head and began walking backward toward her Acura. “I’ll let Lauren fill you in on that one. I’ve got to run and meet my husband downtown before he starts his shift at the hospital.” Her smile was positively wicked as she eyed me from behind Joshua’s back. “I’m looking forward to having you at Brighton, Joshua—for however long you’re with us.”
He tossed a “Thanks” over his shoulder, and Jenna held an imaginary finger phone up to her ear for me to see, mouthing the words Call me!
A minute later she was gone from the lot, and apart from a few black birds fighting over some smashed Cheetos on the sidewalk, Joshua and I were alone.
He scanned the remaining six vehicles parked in the rows behind us, the breeze fingering through his hair. “Are you the white Cherokee on the end there?”
“What?” I gasped. “How could you possibly have guessed that?”
His gaze dipped to the Jeep key fob in my right hand, giving away his tell with yet another signature wink.
“Ah. Right.” I rolled my eyes and matched my stride to his. “For a second there, I was beginning to wonder if your mind-reading skills were as honed as your T-Rex impression.” I couldn’t help the breathy laugh that escaped me at the memory of him crouching atop Mrs. Walker’s desk.
“Unfortunately, my telepathy skills still have a long way to go.”
“Well, even so, I’m pretty sure you’ll be every student’s favorite dinner table topic tonight.”
Once we reached my Jeep, I tossed my purse and book bag onto the back seat. My phone and wallet spilled to the floor, and I reached to collect the items and tuck them back inside the zippered pocket. As I turned to face him again, Joshua’s forearm rested on the frame of my open driver’s side door, totally relaxed, as if he was perfectly content to wait on me. If only.
The kindness behind such a simple gesture caused my throat to pinch.
Until that moment, I hadn’t been sure there were still men in the world who took the time to open doors for women. Especially ones they hardly knew. Because if chivalry was alive in our culture today, I certainly hadn’t encountered it on any of the first dates I’d been subjected to. And I wasn’t sure which idea made me want to shed a tear more: the fact that chivalry wasn’t dead, or the fact that my timeline for romance was.
“About dinner . . .” he started, in a voice slightly less confident than when he’d spoken of his dinosaur impressions, “I’m not exactly sure what the protocol is here, or even if there is a protocol for this, but I’ll be kicking myself all the way home if I don’t ask.” His pause stilled my pulse. “I’d like to take you to dinner sometime, Lauren. Anytime, really. Even tonight, assuming you were planning on eating dinner tonight.”
The boyish curve of his mouth intensified the tightening in my throat. Not because I wanted to say no to him, but because I couldn’t remember ever wanting to say yes to a dinner date invitation more. Joshua Avery wasn’t some random setup. He hadn’t texted me out of the blue because a friend’s brother’s neighbor thought we’d have something in common. He wasn’t the result of an online matchmaking site or a bribe sent by my meddling sister.
He was simply a man, asking me out the old-fashioned, face-to-face way, and everything in me wanted to melt into a sappy puddle of Where have you been hiding these past few years?
A light gust of wind from behind lifted my shoulder-length hair and swished the ashy blond strands across my cheek. His eyes tracked as I worked to tuck it back behind my ears. “Crazily enough, I actually was planning on eating dinner tonight.”
“Well, would you look at us, two crazy people who planned on eating dinner on a Monday night. I knew I’d felt a connection with you—that must be it.” His good-natured laugh ribboned through me, causing me to forget, or at least to pretend to forget, why dinner with
him would be such a terrible, terrible idea. “Should we join our plans, then? Eat at the same place, at the same time? I promise my human table manners are superior to the manners of my T-Rex.”
My cheeks actually ached from smiling so hard. “Well, when you put it like that—”
Another gust of wind cut through us. A sharp rattling sound pulled our attention away from each other and toward the windshield of my car, where a small piece of white paper flapped against the glass, the corner of it tucked under my wiper blade. Joshua barely had to extend his arm to pluck it out. The note was written on a simple piece of card stock, no preamble or privacy fold. Just bold black ink and familiar penmanship.
Don’t forget about coming over tonight!
Ben
Our eyes locked on the sentence as the note became a living, breathing entity between us. I opened my mouth to explain, hoping the right words might magically appear on my tongue despite my jumbling brain cells. Because this note represented so much more than a previous commitment I’d made and nearly forgotten about. It also represented a commitment I’d made to my future, one I had no right divulging to a man I’d known for less than a day when my own family still hadn’t a clue.
Joshua spoke first. “Looks like you have plans tonight.”
I lifted my gaze to his. “Yes.” The only word I could force to exit.
His smile retreated to half-mast. “Maybe another time, then?”
“Actually,” I began with a boldness I didn’t quite own, “I don’t think I can do dinner for a while.” For a while? What was I even saying? No one mistook a while to mean years. But that was exactly what it would be for me: YEARS. And by then, Joshua Avery would have found some other woman to take to dinner on some random Monday night in the future. Heck, by the time I was eligible again, he’d likely be ready to enroll his own little caramel-headed first grader into an elementary school nearby. “My life is a bit complicated right now is all. I’m sorry.”
His measured nod of understanding halted my mental spiral. “Well, then, Lauren Bailey . . .” He tapped the inside of my door with his oversize hand. I stared at his fingers, noticing his too-short nails and cracked cuticles. Someone should really tell him to put olive oil around his nail beds so they wouldn’t split during winter and bleed. But that someone couldn’t be me. “I hope you have a good evening. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”