Page 25

Change your mind about wanting me?

His voice plays over and over in my mind, and I can’t seem to focus on anything else.

The way he was panting, as if he was in the middle of some hot sex or something.

Was a woman writhing naked beneath him as he drove into her? Are the rumors true? Not the ones about how many women he takes to bed, but the ones about both his size and his prowess once he’s there…or the ones about his penchant and skill for licking the kitty, if you catch my drift.

I shake my head to get that thought out. No, not hot sex. No prowess. No kitty licking—something, by the way, my useless ex decided he didn’t need to do anymore once we’d been together a while.

No six-pack of abs, and no perfectly tight ass from all the running he does on the field. No girthy ten inches. Would that even fit?

I close my eyes for a beat, but then I pop them open so I stop picturing it. Jeez.

I try to refocus here. Maybe he was just working out.

Still, the way his voice rasped my name when he said “my daughter is perfect, Ms. Hartley” caused my thighs to clench together.

Nope. No thigh clenching. No tummy flipping. No deviant or sexual thoughts involved where Mr. Woods is concerned, and certainly no images of his head between my legs as I grip onto that thick, luscious hair of his and cry out his name.

This will remain a strictly professional relationship—if that, even. After the way he spoke to me, I wish there was another reading specialist I could lean on for assistance with Harper, yet I have to face her in another fifteen minutes when I pull her in with a small group of my struggling readers to work with them in a group setting today.

I shouldn’t be nervous to face a student.

I’ve never been nervous to face a student, but I’ve also never had to face a student whose father arouses such conflicting feelings in me.

No, I did not just say Travis Woods arouses me. He arouses feelings in me.

Strong feelings of anger and hatred.

I draw in a deep breath and head to the break room to fill my coffee. It’s my first day as a single woman, and surely that’s why my brain is misfiring today.

Focus, Hartley.

I head to the fifth grade rooms to pull the group of four students, and we do a little reading practice together. I ignore the fact that Harper’s father is a hot asshole who might be good in bed when I have needs that haven’t been met in far too long, and instead I focus on seeing where Harper’s struggles seem to be stemming from.

I work hard for every child who comes across my case load, but every once in a while I meet one who is a little extra special. Maybe it’s because Harper just lost both her parents, but something about her seems to reach out to a different part of me. I want to help her adjust in whatever way I can, whether that means just being her reading teacher or being a female adult she can look up to.

She’s quiet today. She’s quiet every day, but the other three kids in the room are dominating the conversation, and she seems to be withdrawing. So I send the other three back to class, and I sit with Harper for a few extra minutes.

“Is everything okay?” I ask her.

She lifts a shoulder.

“You can talk to me, you know. Any time.”

She just stares down at her desk.

I try a different tactic. “Do you like music?”

Her brows draw together as she glances up at me, and she nods a little.

“What kind of music do you listen to?” I ask.

“My mom always made me listen to musicals, like the soundtrack to Wicked .”

My heart breaks a little that her go-to answer has to do with her mom and not her own identity. What bands we love and what music we listen to is a huge part of our own make-up, and I don’t want her to press down that part of herself because she feels like she’s letting down some memory of her mom. “But what’s your favorite band or singer?”

She twists her lips, and it’s a long time before she answers. “Imagine Dragons.”

“What’s your favorite song of theirs?” I press.

“Um, I don’t know. I like them all.”

“Is there one that you can sing from the very first word?” I ask.

She nods. “There’s lots of those.”

“Name one.”

“’On top of the World.’”

“Sing it.”

Her brows knit together again when her eyes meet mine. “Here?”

I glance around the room. “It’s just us, Harper. Go for it. Get up and dance if you want.”

She doesn’t get up and dance, but she quietly starts to sing the words in her little ten-year-old voice.

I join in on the second line, and she stops when I start.

“What?” I ask.

“You know this song?” she asks.

“Imagine Dragons just happens to be my favorite band, too,” I admit. And it’s not because of the lead singer’s six pack abs, though that doesn’t hurt. I pick up on the next line and keep singing with her until the end, and she wasn’t lying—she knew every single word.

“That song always makes me feel like I can do anything, you know?” I ask.

She nods. “Me too.”

I’m about to say something cheesy about how she can do anything, but I hold it back. I don’t want to push her too hard or get overly emotional because I have a gut feeling it’s not what she needs.

“You should get back to class,” I say instead.

“I know. But it’s more fun here with you.”

My chest squeezes at her words. To be a safe place for a little girl going through so damn much right now means the world to me. “If you ever need someone to talk to, you can always come to me.”

“What if I’m not at school?” she asks.

My brows rise in surprise that she’d want to get in touch with me outside of school. I’m not sure what the protocol is here, but I know she’s new to town and doesn’t know many people yet. “Do you have a phone?”

She shakes her head. “I have an iPad.”

“That’ll work. You can message me if you need me, okay? Any time.” I give her my number, and I explain what to do to send me a message.

“Thank you, Ms. Hartley,” she says as she stands, and then she gives me a hug.

My heart swells, and I pat her head a little awkwardly. “Let’s get you back to class.”

We hum “I Bet My Life” as we head back to Mandy’s room, and she smiles a little when we get to the door—a huge improvement from the sad girl who walked into reading group a little earlier.

“Thanks, Ms. Hartley,” she says softly.

“Any time, Harper,” I say with a smile, and as she heads back into class, my heart feels full as I remember why I got into this profession in the first place.

And I realize as I head back to my office that I haven’t even thought about Owen and the break-up once since this morning. Maybe this whole moving on thing will be easier than I thought…once I can find a more permanent living situation, anyway.