Page 10 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

TAYLOR

Slightly embarrassed that I’ve polished off most of a giant slice of lasagna in three bites, I fork up some salad.

“Is your culinary repertoire limited to pasta?”

“Not exclusively,” he answers. “Although if I had a marry-me dish, it would be my Bolognese sauce.”

“Maybe a get-in-your-pants dish?” I tease, then choke at my flirty tone, barely recognizing my own voice. I suck at flirting, and I’m not interested in improving my skills with Eric, so I quickly continue, “Trust me, I don’t want to try your Bolognese.”

His smile is slow and…let’s face it…panty melting. “Trust me , Tinkerbell, I don’t need sauce to get into a woman’s pants.”

“Ewww.” I pretend to gag which makes his grin widen. “Also, don’t call me Tinkerbell.”

There goes that brow lifting again. “I assume that’s what Tink is short for?”

“None of your beeswax.” Oh, gah. Did I just say beeswax out loud?

“You’re funny.” He inclines his head. “I didn’t expect that.”

The compliment is so basic as to be nearly backhanded, but my heart pinches a little anyway. Talk about a low bar .

“I didn’t expect you to not be an asshole.”

He looks amused rather than offended. “I get that a lot.” He leans closer. “Tinkerbell.”

“Seriously, stop.” I roll my eyes.

“Tell me why Toby and your dad call you Tink.”

“Why do you care?” There’s no way in hell I’m sharing the origin of my family nickname with him.

He frowns as if he’s thinking about his answer. “I’m not sure. But Tinkerbell fits you.”

“The freak it does.”

“Freak? Beeswax?” He chuckles low in his throat. “It’s also cute that you don’t swear.”

“I swear. The fact that I’m choosing not to isn’t cute. It’s…”

“Adorable?”

“Also, no.” My face is flaming by this point. “It’s just me being weird.”

“Says who?” he demands. “Bryan Connor, AP English tool?”

I push my plate away with a few bites of lasagna, most of the salad, and a half piece of bread still left. Eric immediately pulls it toward him and starts eating.

“You’re done, right?” he asks.

“Uh…yeah.” Why does it feel weirdly intimate for this man to be cleaning my plate?

“You said you wanted to talk,” I remind him. “About something besides practice.”

He puts down the fork and leans back in his chair. “I don’t know what Bryan Connor said to my nephew, but I do think I understand part of Rhett’s problem with Beowulf .”

“Other than it being a challenging poem and potentially excruciating to read twice?” I ask.

He nods. “There’s that, but I think Rhett might have problems reading.”

“Do you mean dyslexia?” I ask.

He gives a slight nod .

“I don’t have access to his school records,” I tell him. “But as his guardian, you should. Any prior assessments should be included there.”

“Not if it hasn’t been diagnosed.”

I stand up and grab both plates. “It should have been identified when he was in elementary school. Maybe even earlier, with some of the testing schools have access to now.”

“Should have,” he agrees, elbows on the table, fingers steepled before him. “That doesn’t mean it was.”

“Have you asked him or his mom?” I open the dishwasher and place the plates inside, unsure of how sensitive this topic might be and not wanting to pry.

“My sister’s in rehab,” he says quietly. “At an inpatient facility near Denver. Alcohol, mostly. But things got more serious—seriously bad—with her last deadbeat boyfriend. We visit on Sundays. I don’t know...I guess I can talk to her then.”

I grab two glasses from the cabinet, fill them with water, and return to the table, setting one in front of him.

He stares at the glass like it’s a magic eight ball he’s hoping will reveal whatever answer he needs. “She needs to focus on recovery. I don’t want to give her one more reason to feel like she failed as a mom.” He glances up at me. “Which she hasn’t. She loves Rhett.”

“I believe you.” I slip back into my seat. “What makes you think he has trouble reading?”

“Let’s just say I recognize some of the coping mechanisms.”

“From personal experience?”

He nods. “You’d be surprised how motivated certain teachers are to let kids slip through the cracks if it means they won’t have to deal with a troublemaker the following year.”

“But there are tests,” I insist. “Education plans that should be put into place to get kids the core interventions and accommodations they need.”

“In theory,” he agrees with a shrug. “Maybe I’m just projecting my own history onto Rhett. But he needs help. That much is clear.” He pushes back from the table. “I want you to tutor him.”

I try to hide my shock even as he turns away from me and walks over to the family room. Something in his tone tells me asking for help doesn’t come easy.

“I don’t think I’m the right person to tutor Rhett if he’s facing the challenges you think,” I say.

“You’re a tutor,” he says. “More importantly, you love books. Most importantly, I trust you.”

Cue the goosebumps. My skin prickles with an awareness that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the way he's looking at me. I shouldn't care about him trusting me, but it’s like he sees something in me I don't even see in myself.

“I just don't think–”

“You're the right person.” He says it like it's a fact, and that conviction wraps around my heart and makes me want to be the person he thinks I am.

He leans down, and my heart leaps into my throat for an entirely different reason when I realize he’s picked up the script from my sofa.

“That’s private.”

He reads aloud the words handwritten across the front cover: “Be brave. Be strong. Don’t pee your pants. This is your chance. He’s going to notice you. Believe.”

“Put it down.” I reach for his hand, but he body blocks me and lifts it above his head. I’m tall, but Eric is at least six-four.

“That’s private property, and you have no right,” I protest, grabbing for the script.

“Be brave. Be strong. Don’t pee your pants,” he repeats, grinning. “Who’s the ‘he’ in this?”

“You don’t even know that’s my writing.”

“Who’s the ‘he’?” he asks again.

“You have terrible boundaries.” I jump up, only I lose my balance, slam my shin into the corner of the coffee table and fall back onto the sofa, clutching my leg close.

“Why are you going to pee your pants?” He appears unfazed by my newest injury.

“I’m auditioning at the community theater,” I mutter, pretending to focus on the spot on my shin that’s throbbing even more than my injured cheek. But not quite as much as the embarrassment pounding through me.

“You have a fear of public speaking?” he asks, looking surprised.

I give a tiny nod.

“Then why try out for a play?” he asks.

“Because I’m pushing myself out of my comfort zone. It’s my bucket list challenge.”

He rubs a hand over his jaw, and more goosies erupt along my skin. “I thought a bucket list was about skydiving or swimming with sharks.”

“I don’t want to swim with sharks, and this bucket list is different.” I pretend to study my leg when it becomes too intense to hold his dark gaze. “Anyway, I haven’t decided if I’m going to try out.”

“Who’s the ‘he’?” Eric asks for a third time. Darn persistent, this one.

“Bryan Connor.”

“Ugh. I figured.”

“He’s the director.”

“And you want to get busy with him up in the balcony?”

“There’s no balcony in the Skylark Theater.”

“You know what I mean,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving up. “Why don’t you just ask him out?”

“Are you joking?”

“I guess the better question is, why would you want to go out with him? Assuming it’s not a result of your mixed-up concussion brain?— ”

“I don’t have a concussion.”

“Then be honest. Does Bryan Connor do it for you, Tinkerbell?”

The way he asks the question with such authentic confusion throws me off guard, and I forget that this should be awkward. When did we go from neighborly small talk to me spilling my deepest insecurities to a man I barely know?

But something about him saying he trusted me earlier makes me want to trust him back, even though I can count on one hand the number of real conversations we've had. He’s completely focused on me, like I’m the only person in the world right now.

The intensity of it sends heat spiraling through my body.

I need to get a hold of myself. Tonight’s dinner and the unexpected connection I feel is nothing more than him needing something from me.

Maybe I feel comfortable with Eric because he reminds me of all the hockey guys I knew growing up who saw me as nothing more than Toby’s dorky little sister.

He's not someone I'd consider dating, so I don't have to be nervous or tongue-tied.

Except his gaze keeps dropping to my mouth and I can’t seem to calm my pulse, which is fluttering against my throat at the rate of hummingbird wings.

The space between us feels charged, and I'm acutely aware of how close he's standing and the fact that there doesn’t seem to be enough air in the room for me to take a real breath.

I remind myself (mostly my lady parts) that I wouldn't want to date someone like Eric, even though I kind of like him.

As a friend, of course. Even though friends shouldn’t make your skin feel too tight or make you wonder what their hands would feel like against your skin.

He clears his throat, and I realize I still need to respond to his question about Bryan. The answer should be simple, but another few seconds pass before I can manage it.

“Yes, he does,” I whisper, then gather my knees to my chin and wrap my arms around them. “I haven’t asked him out because he doesn’t think of me like that.”

Eric laughs, a low rumble in his chest. “Every man who looks at you thinks of you like that.”

“Now who’s the one with a concussion?” My laugh sounds more like a manic hyena.

I hold up a hand when he starts to say more because I know he’s placating me. There’s no other explanation.

“Bryan and I are work friends. That’s how he sees me.” I repeat the words I said to my friends in the bar. “But we could be more.”

“You want to be more?” It’s a variation of the question he asked a few minutes ago, one I’ve already answered.