Page 8

Chapter Eight

Ivy

I’m running late.

I laid in bed for an extra thirty minutes this morning, fingers tracing the outline of my lips gently, thoughts stuck on the events of last night. Jesus, I am so far gone already and I don’t even know his last name.

Careful not to spill my coffee all over the front of myself, I take the front steps two at a time. One hand blindly searches my bag for my car keys while my jacket hangs off one shoulder.

My concentration waivers for a single moment as my focus snaps towards something shifting in my peripheral vision but before I can center myself, my instincts have already forced me to flinch, glancing over my shoulder to try and get a better look at whatever is there.

I only have a second and half to take in the tall form wearing his signature black baseball cap and running shorts when I feel my coffee slip from my hands and my bag fall from my shoulder. I try to save it all at once, over correcting myself.

It’s too late.

I’m falling.

Or I would’ve been falling.

Two large hands find themselves wrapped around my hips as Scott keeps me the right way up.

“Woah.” His fingers dig into my jeans, steadying me. I give in, leaning into him and watching as my coffee pours from my keep cup and onto the pavement.

“You okay?” he asks .

I sigh. “Yeah.”

My poor coffee.

He laughs quietly, one hand loosening as the other curls further around my waist. He lifts my bag from where it’s hanging off my wrist, his breath skirting my skin as he leans down. My attention is drawn away from the wasted coffee when his lips gently press into the stretch of bare skin at the base of my neck. His grip on my waist tightens, and he presses another into my skin.

The coffee is no longer important, time is suddenly irrelevant, the school day completely forgotten.

I turn in his arms, lifting my chin and meeting his eyes. His cap keeps them in shadows despite the rays of sunshine that peek through the trees lining my street.

“Hi,” I say quietly leaning up on my toes.

He nudges his cap up before dipping down, kissing me softly. “Good morning, Ivy.”

He doesn’t pull back very far, keeping me tightly wrapped in the one arm that was around my waist where the other holds my bag beside us. “Are you okay?”

“Running late. I had a lazy morning and now I’m paying for it.”

“Lazy morning, huh?” he asks.

“Laid in bed with my thoughts for too long.” I elaborate, lifting a hand to fix his cap as thoughts of the blistering kiss from last night fill my head again. I already know that the same soft smile that I’ve been sporting all morning is spread across my face again. I can’t bring myself to care. Not when I am wrapped tightly in this man’s arms. Not when our mouths are so close. Not when the intoxicating smell of him fills my nose and makes me light headed.

“What were you thinking about?”

I don’t hesitate.

“You. ”

He hums, a smirk curling his lips up. “Me too.” He leans down, kissing me again. And again. I press myself against him.

I could do this all-damn day.

But with my hand pressing into his chest and gently pushing him away, I know that I can’t. “I’m already running late. This isn’t helping.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He kisses me again, swallowing my answering sigh when he does. He pulls back, further this time, untangling himself from me. “I just wanted to see you before you went to school.”

This man.

“I’m sorry you spilt your coffee.” He eyes the coffee-stained sidewalk.

“It’s okay. I can make another at school.” I take my bag from him, finally fishing out my keys.

I turn away and make my way to ward my car, unlocking the doors and shoving my bag into the back seat. I slip my jacket on properly.

When I turn back to him, expecting him to be behind me, I find him closing his passenger side car door. He’s got a Starbucks cup balanced in one hand, a small brown paper bag hanging from his fingers. My heart skips a beat, possibly two and I feel my jaw drop.

“Luckily, I come bearing sugary gifts.” He holds them out to me but I don’t—can’t—move.

What the fuck .

“Who are you?” I say, my eyes bouncing between the coffee in his hand and his face, the sheepish look he’s sporting utterly adorable.

“Huh?”

“No man is this good. No man does this. Not anymore.” I shake my head in disbelief. “Haven’t you heard? Chivalry died. Ages ago.”

This makes him laugh, a smirk replacing the sheepish expression. He crowds me again and I don’t protest. He reaches behind me, placing the coffee cup and the bag on the roof of my car.

“Hm. Sounds like a challenge.” He cups my face angling my face towards his. He tilts, the sun peeking under his cap and brightening his eyes. “Me. I’m this good. ”

I forfeit.

He wins.

As long as he keeps kissing me and bringing me coffee, I’ve got all I need right here.

“Can I take you out tonight?” he murmurs. His lips hover above mine again.

Something in my chest jolts, probably my heart skipping yet another beat.

“What’s your last name?” I say, my heart slowing to a dangerous pace.

He freezes. Caught off guard? Maybe. Or, surprised?

The emotion flickers and disappears so quickly from his face that I don’t have time to decipher it.

“Harvey.”

“Scott Harvey.” I roll the name around on my tongue. Smiling, I look up at him. “Mine’s Booker.”

“I remember,” he tells me. I feel my brows pull together in confusion. He clarifies, bringing a thumb to gently smoothly out the crease between my brows. “From mini golf. You signed your full name. So, Ivy Booker, can I take you out tonight?”

The way he remembers a moment so insignificant. Something as small as signing my name. A contented sigh leaves my mouth as my smile widens and I lean up on my toes, kissing him. “Yes, please.”

“What time will you be home from school tonight?”

“I have to go to a pep rally at the high school this afternoon after class. First one of the year and all.” I’m a kindergarten teacher yet they still require me to show up. Show some school spirit. The downside to the school having all three campuses in one. “But I’ll be home by six.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven then?”

“Okay.”

He smiles and kisses me again. “Okay. ”

“I have to go,” I say. Scott makes no move to let me go. I don’t move either. He just keeps kissing me, stepping me back a little until we’re leaning against my car and making out like teenagers.

From somewhere in my car, probably lodged deep in my bag, my last alarm of the morning rings out and breaks us apart.

“I really do have to go now.”

“Okay.” He places a final kiss against my lips before opening the driver side door for me to slide into the car. I take the coffee and the small bag from the roof of the car and slide in. Tapping the push start button in the car, I press down the window and gaze up at him. He leans down, his cap securely back on his head. “I’ll see you tonight.”

I nod. “See you.”

He backs away from the car and I back out of the driveway.

The twenty minute drive to the school is mostly spent sitting in traffic, completely unaware of my surroundings and, once again, my finger tracing my lips with a soft smile.

***

I give up on trying to teach the kids about numbers before lunch. After this morning, I’ve found it difficult to concentrate on anything but Scott Harvey and his lips. The kids won’t stop giggling, the grey clouds have been threatening me with a lunchtime spent inside the classroom and as soon as those first drops of rain run down the windows I officially call it.

The paints come out, the kids are dressed in multi-colored protective plastic smocks, music plays on the speaker, and I slowly trail between the bunches of desks, eyes roaming over the finger paintings they are creating.

I asked them to draw their heroes in an effort to try and make it semi-educational. But as I justified to myself after a lunchtime spent indoors, they are five-year-olds and everything they do is educational .

“Who are you painting, Macy?” I ask bending down to her level. Macy is a quiet girl who sits on a table full of boys. When I’d let them pick their own desks at the beginning of the school year a few weeks ago I found it strange at first, mostly because they all think the opposite gender have cooties at this age, but when I finally met her dad during the first week of school, I understood.

Four older brothers, raised by a single dad and her uncle. Her mom had died a few months ago. Breast cancer. She takes comfort in being surrounded by the boys; they remind her of her brothers.

“It’s my daddy,” she tells me, her little fingers tracing the outline of the stick figure she drew. There is another next to him, smaller, with yellow hair. I know who it probably is, but I ask anyway.

“And who’s this?”

“My momma,” she tells me, chin tucking into her chest.

I twirl some of her hair around my finger, waiting for her to look up. “She’s very pretty. You have the same hair.”

Macy gives me a small smile. “My daddy says I look just like her. He says she was beautiful.”

“I reckon he’s probably right.”

Macy nods in agreement and goes back to her painting. I look around at the drawings of her table mates.

Like Macy, most look to be drawing their parents. An ache spreads through my chest. A memory of my own parents, happy and alive, clouds my mind and for a second I can hear the echo of my dad’s voice in my head. Explaining plays, talking to my mom, talking to me. Words I heard over and over whenever I poured over the home videos they made.

I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling and exhaling a few times.

When I open them, blinking away a tear, I look at the boy next to Macy.

Connor is only painting one very large figure in the middle of his page. The figure has what looks like brown hair, although Connor's mixed it with the blue he’s used for the figure’s shirt so I can’t quite tell.

“Who’s this, Connor?” I squint, leaning my head side to side, trying to make out the emblem he’s drawn on the figure’s shirt. I realize it’s a Broncos logo. It makes me laugh. “Do you know a football player?”

I tap my figure lightly on his page, drawing his eyes to the emblem. Connor shakes his head, brow furrowed as he continues to work on the figure’s hair. Connor, I’ve discovered, isn’t very chatty.

“Do you have an older sibling who plays football?”

“No, Miss Booker,” he replies. His tongue is now poking between his teeth as he works on the figure’s shoes.

“Who are you painting then?” I ask again.

“My favorite football player ever.” He sits back in his chair. I lean back on my heels, still squatting beside their table. “He just got traded to the Broncos. Grandpa says he’ll take me to a home game before Christmas. I’m gonna meet him.”

“And what’s his name?”

“Harvey. He plays quarterback. I’m gonna play quarterback one day.” Connor nods, probably more to himself. So young yet so determined. It makes me laugh quietly.

These kids. I love how their dreams have no limits; nothing is out of reach for them at five. I fiddle with the ring around my neck, turning it between my fingers a few times. I know Connor is probably just dreaming big and that it’s unlikely he’ll play professional sport. He might only be five years old but I've seen him try to throw a ball at lunch time.

I may not like football, but I do love my kids so I lean in and say quietly, “You know, my dad was a football quarterback.” Connor’s head whips around, his eyes wide as they meet mine. “Mhmm. He was good too. Was an American All-Star in college.”

“Woah.”

“I bet, though,” I lean closer whispering now, like it’s a secret just between Connor and I. “If you train really hard, you’ll be even better than him.”

“Really?” He stares at me with wonder .

“Yep.” I pull back, moving to stand up so I can check on the other tables.

“Wow,” Connor whispers, staring down at his own painting like he’s now imagining it’s actually him and not his favorite player, Harvey, in a Broncos uniform.

Scott’s face invades my thoughts. I wonder if he knows this new quarterback that shares one of his names. Just the mention of his name has me thinking about him showing up last night and then again this morning, coffee in hand, pastry in the other, and the feel of his lips invading my mind.

He is a really good kisser. Like, really really good.

I had to sit in my car for an extra five minutes when I’d parked at school just to calm down. I wonder what it would feel like to have his hands exploring my body like his tongue did my mouth.

His tongue exploring my body … him hovering above me … fingers pressing into my bare skin …

Fuck .

I force the images out of my head and take a deep breath. I cannot, will not allow myself to get hot and bothered whilst in the classroom.

As I move around the table, I tune back into the kids and hear Macy say, “Three of my brothers play football.”

“That’s cool,” Connor says. “I don’t have a brother.”

“You can have one of mine if you want. I have four.”

“Do you play football with them? I’d want to play football with them.”

“Sometimes. When my daddy lets me.”

At least football brings joy to some people.

***

Scott is on my front door step at seven o’clock sharp. The pep rally threatened to run over so I’d snuck out. Katie was all for it once I’d brought her up to speed with last night’s, and this morning's activities. Her smug smile had grown wider and wider as I told her about how Scott had showed up last night just to kiss me. She practically fell over when I mentioned he’d shown up this morning with a coffee and pastry, just because.

So I left early, racing home to shower and change. I am slipping my feet into a pair of my favorite heels when the doorbell rings through the house. Just the thought of seeing him has me smiling like an idiot as I head down stairs and throw open the door.

“Hi.”

He smirks, leaning against the door frame, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark gray dress pants. I barely get a proper look at him—black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms on display—before he’s swooping down to kiss me.

He pulls away and I’m left swaying slightly where I stand, light-headed from a simple hello kiss. “Hey, you. Good day?”

I nod. “Mhmm. It rained over lunch and the kids had to stay inside, so I gave up on teaching and we did finger painting.”

His quiet laugh sends an electric current through my nervous system. “Sounds like a productive day.”

“Yeah.” He takes my hand, stepping onto the porch and waiting for me to close the door behind me. I check it’s locked before sliding my keys into my bag. “Where are we going?”

He leads me to his car, parked in the same spot as it had been this morning. He squeezes my hand. “You like Italian?”

“Are you kidding? Pasta is one of my five food groups.”

He rewards me with another laugh. “Good. You'll love this place then.”

The restaurant is on the outskirts of the city. Scott parks in a small alley, rounding the car to open the door and holds out his hand. I take it and he doesn’t let go as he shuts the door behind me .

He leads me into the small restaurant, my hand encased in his as he walks a step ahead. It’s a dimly lit, hole in the wall, only a few tables, authentic Italian restaurant. It smells like fresh bread, and red wine, and pasta sauce.

My eyes flutter close as the aroma takes over my senses.

Nan used to make fresh pasta on my birthday. The flour would be everywhere and by the time we were done we’d end up eating in the middle of the mess.

This place smells exactly like home.

It’s also completely empty of any other patrons.

“Mr. Harvey! Welcome.” An older man, white mustache and balding head, comes towards us. Scott pulls me into his side.

“Big Al, good to see you.” When I look up into Scott’s face I’m surprised to see his smile is wider than I’ve ever seen it before. So much so, there are small wrinkles forming next to his eyes.

Whoever this Big Al is, Scott seems to adore him.

“How’s Annabel?” Big Al claps Scott on the shoulder, laughing as he leads us to our table.

Scott squeezes my hand. “Still married, Big Al.”

The older man looks at me, winking. “His mother is the one that got away. I always told her that I was better for her than Mason but alas, she claimed she loved him.” He looks back at Scott as he shakes his head and says, “Your father can’t even cook!”

Scott pulls my chair out and I sit, laughing at the exchange. Big Al tells us he’ll bring over some wine and menus.

“So.” I lean my elbows on the table, dropping my chin to rest on my hands. “Big Al?”

“This is my parent’s favorite restaurant in Boston. They eat here every single time they’re in town, even if the only time they have available is three in the afternoon.”

I’m in serious danger of heart failure if he keeps saying things that make it skip beats. “Oh. That’s … well, that’s adorable. ”

Scott hums and nods, eyes roaming over my face. He lifts a hand, stretching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “They’ll probably drop dead from shock when I tell them I brought you here.”

Another skip, this time accompanied with something lodging high in my throat. I swallow, staring at him. “You’ve told them about me?”

“I told them I met a girl in a bar.”

“You’ve probably met a hundred girls in bars.”

“Sure. But none that I’ve told my parents about.”

Cue melting.

Cue me becoming a puddle on the floor, at his feet.

I lean over the table and take a sip from my water silently begging the heat in my face to calm down. The way he said it. The intense sincerity of his words. I completely, wholeheartedly believe him.

I stare at him, the green swirling in his eyes as the rest of the room blurs around us. It’s becoming a habit of mine, blocking out the world when he’s around. Pretending that no one else exists apart from him and I whenever he stares at me like this.

I break away from his gaze, watching as Big Al navigates the small number of tables in the space carrying our wine.

“What are they like? Your parents?” I ask him.

He doesn’t hesitate. The smile on his face is brighter than I’ve probably ever seen it, reaching his eyes and creating those little crinkles in the creases. His love for them is written all over his face.

It’s different to most men. I can see that instantly. Most men would shy away from showing so much emotion in the first few dates but not Scott. He’s proud of his parents, of being their son.

It’s so blatantly obvious it couldn’t be more clear if I was hit over the head with it.

“They’re great. They’re—” He takes a deep breath, eyes falling to his lap for a moment before meeting mine again. “I’m so grateful for them, they’re the best people in the world. ”

Something curls around my heart, aching deep in my chest coming to the surface. Not for the first time, questions on whether I would be saying the same of my own parents crawl up my throat.

A longing for them—to speak to them, to see them, to have them see me now—pulses beneath my skin. I suppress it.

“They sound wonderful. Well, your mom does if we take Big Al’s word for it.” I take the wine glass, now filled, and have a large sip. It dulls the ache.

“I’m adopted.”

The wine lodges in my throat.

“Oh.” I shake my head a little, completely caught off guard. I look up to find his eyes and it feels as though he is staring straight through me and into my soul. “Sorry, you caught me off guard."

He nods, the smile on his face still there. “I can tell. I guess that’s why I love them so much. Because they didn’t have to choose me but they did and I’m grateful.”

“Do they live here? In Boston?” I know the answer is no, seeing as he hates it here so much.

Like I suspect, he shakes his head. “Nah, they’re back in LA.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

He hums. “Yeah. Since I was five. Grew up in the same house they live in now even though it’s far too large for them both since I’ve been gone. But they’re the sentimental type so they refuse to move.”

He shakes his head, smiling and remembering whatever memory that’s popped into his head. I smile along with him as I imagine a small dark-haired toddler running around a garden. It is harder to reconcile the large man in front of me with the images in my head but it works.

“Will you tell me about your childhood?” I take another sip of my wine.

“Sure. What do you want to know?”

I look up at him. He is so genuine, so honest about his parents. So open about being adopted. Yet I sit here not wanting to share anything about mine because how do you admit that your childhood was spent angry, and upset, and confused as to why your parents weren’t there on the first day of school. Why my grandfather turned up to the daddy-daughter days at school, or why my grandmother was the one to get me my first bra (although I’m not sure I’d share that story with Scott anyway).

I avoid the subject of his job and where he works. I don’t want to talk about football or anything close to it. I don’t want to have to battle with the emotions that arise anytime I do.

There’s a chance if we get into his job, and he actually talks about it, we might get into my connection to football. Getting into my connection will drag up the past and I do not want to think about it.

I shake my head a little, almost as if I am physically trying to stop the spiral I’m about to go down and focus back on Scott.