Page 27 of Pregnant in Pennsylvania

“You too! Love you, Mama!” He jumps up, gives me a kiss on the cheek, and then runs inside.

I clap my hands over my heart as he slips inside, struggling with the door, stopping halfway through to wave at me before vanishing. “Stop growing up so fast, Aiden,” I whisper to myself.

I brush away a lone tear—first day of kindergarten, I sobbed like a baby; first day of first grade, I cried enough that I had to reapply my makeup in the car before I went in to work; first day of second grade, I cried, but not enough that I had to redo makeup. Third grade? Only one lonely little tear. It still feels like I’m sending a piece of my heart into that building, though.

I summon my breath and my courage, and head back to my car. There are a few other stragglers dropping their kids off late, and the busses are trundling away from the bus drop-off line, diesel engines grunting and rumbling. I hear the bell ring as I slide in behind the wheel, buckle up, and put the car in park…

I get about two feet when I happen to glance in the rearview mirror, and see Aiden’s Star-Lord lunchbox on the back seat.

“Crap.” I let out another few unladylike words my mother would scold me for using, and then brake to a stop and throw the car in park again. I’m going to be late myself, now—I have an 8:15 appointment with Jen Hurley, and it’s currently eight thirteen, and I still have to get over to the high school, park, get to my office…yeah, I’m going to be late.

“Darn it, Aiden.” I lean to the back seat, snag the lunch box, and throw my door open.

I leave my car running and the door open as I jog toward the front door of the school—at the same time, I’m whipping off a text message to Liz, the main office secretary, letting her know I’ll be a few minutes late for my appointment with Jen. I glance up briefly as I reach the doors, then back down at my phone, finishing the message as I yank the door open. I hit “send” and launch myself through the door, intent on jogging to the office as fast as I can in my navy-blue knee-length skirt and red wedge heels.

I slam into a hard male body and bounce backward, dropping my phone and Aiden’s lunchbox with a loud clatter. I feel myself reeling backward, off-balance, with nothing to catch myself on. It happens in slow motion, as such accidents always seem to do. But then a pair of hands catch me, and I smell something male and familiar and comforting and arousing all at the same time. Warm, kind, intelligent brown eyes lock onto mine.

“Elyse—are you okay?” His voice is low, a smooth, intimate murmur.

I blink. “Um.” I find my feet, and my voice, as yank myself out of his arms, smoothing my hands over my skirt and tugging my slate gray V-neck blouse back into place. “Yeah—yes. I’m fine, thank you.”

My phone is at my feet, and Aiden’s lunchbox is a few feet away, open, the contents spread across the floor. I kneel and grab my phone first—I have a thick rubber case on it, because I’m prone to dropping it and can’t really afford a new one, so thankfully, the device escaped the fall unscathed, except for a new scratch on the screen protector.

Jamie kneels and scoops Aiden’s lunch back into the box, snaps the cover closed, and now we’re standing facing each other, a little too close for my comfort, and his eyes are piercing, penetrating, curious.

I blink at him, struggling to process what’s happening. “You—you’re…”

“The new Clayton Elementary Principal,” he finishes.

“I—um.” My brain is blank.

This is Jamie. The man I slept with eight days ago. The man who utterly rocked my world with unbelievable, mind-blowing, earth-shaking sex. The man I ran out on without so much as a note.

My son’s principal.

A coworker, seeing as we work in the same district.

“You’re Jamie Trent,” I manage.

He smirks. “That’s me.”

“All I ever saw in the district email newsletter blast about you was that your name was J. Trent and that you’re from the East Coast, and a grainy thumbnail photograph.” I lick my lips, and his eyes follow the movement of my tongue. “You—god, it’s you.”

“It’s me.” He glances behind himself, into the building; he has a walkie-talkie on his belt, crackling with a staticky voice requesting his presence in the fourth-grade classroom. “I have to go.”

“Me too,” I say. “I’m late for work.”

“Where do you work?”

“The high school. I’m a guidance counselor.”

He nods, and I can see he has a million questions, a million things to say, but the walkie-talkie is blurping again, requesting Mr. Trent go to Mrs. Fredrick’s room. “I really have to go, but could we talk at some point?”

I swallow hard. “I—um. I don’t know. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I back away. “I have to go. I was supposed to meet a student five minutes ago.”

“Elyse—”

I whirl, speed walking back to my car, pulse pounding in my ears.