Chapter 11

Eleven

Everett

W eek one of teaching at my new school is done, and I’m feeling pretty good about it. The teachers and staff all seem welcoming, and I got an incredible bunch of kids. I was more than a little nervous about this, considering I’ve been teaching at the same school since I graduated, but as I walk out of Blossom Beach Elementary toward my car, I can’t help but feel like, yet again, this move was the right call.

Over the weekend, I got to explore the town a bit. Checked out Grace’s bakery and had the most delicious pink champagne cupcake I’ve ever tasted, visited a number of the small shops that line Main Street, and even checked out the grill nearby the bakery for lunch. Everybody I run into is so friendly, all smiles and saying hello. It’s different from Seattle. I wouldn’t say people are un friendly back home, but they aren’t exactly stop-and-chit-chat type of friendly either. It’s a busy city, with people constantly having places to be. Blossom Beach is slower paced, and I didn’t realize until I experienced it here just how much I yearned for that. Something about it has me feeling fulfilled at the end of the day.

Pulling into my driveway, my eyes automatically slide over to the house on my left, noting that Gemma’s car isn’t parked out front. With the start of school, I haven’t seen much of her except for a quick hello in the mornings when she drops Sutton off at school. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t itching to find any excuse to see her now that the weekend is here.

Sutton and Beau were telling me about the start of baseball practice. A couple of their new classmates are also on the team, and they both practically vibrate with excitement every single time they bring it up. They’re both really good kids. I’m happy they wound up in my class this year, and not just because I think it’ll maybe, possibly help me get closer to Gemma.

Nah, it’s definitely not that.

I mean, it would be foolish and silly for me to pursue something with the mother of one of my students as a brand-new teacher in the district.

Too bad I can’t get the woman off my mind, no matter how hard I try. There’s just something about her. She’s, hands down, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. Her dark, rich eyes, the smattering of freckles I can’t seem to get enough of, the pout to her full, pink lips, the way her cheeks almost squish her eyes when she smiles. And fuck, don’t even get me started on the sound of her laugh. The way it’s breathy and feminine and so fucking sexy.

Every single time I’m in her presence, I want more .

I want to know more about her—know everything. I want to hear her talk more—for hours. I wonder what it would be like to sit under the stars with her and just listen. Take in everything she has to say. Hear her thoughts and opinions on every topic.

Is she a sweet tooth or a savory type of girl?

What’s her opinion on pineapple on pizza?

Does she believe in any silly conspiracy theories?

What makes her tick? Does she have any pet peeves or things that get her riled up for no good reason?

And piggybacking off that last one, what does she look like when she’s riled up? Do her cheeks flush a beautiful shade of crimson? Do her chocolate eyes narrow and sharpen? Does her breathing pick up, her chest rising and falling with rapid succession?

I want to know it all, and considering I only met the woman a couple weeks ago, that’s a little alarming, but I can’t help it. She’s a beautiful, captivating force that I want to be utterly consumed by. And if she has me this enthralled now, how the hell will I be once I know even more about her?

Changing into a pair of blue athletic shorts and a heather gray t-shirt, I grab my earbuds off the dresser, deciding to go for a little afternoon run around my neighborhood. It’s a beautiful afternoon, the sun shining, and there’s even a nice, cool breeze. I’m not the only one who decided to get a little fresh air and exercise today. I pass several of what I assume to be my neighbors, walking, running, or playing fetch with their dogs.

Back at my house, I strip out of my clothes and climb into a cold shower, rinsing off before getting out and starting dinner. It’s right there in the front of my mind to call my mom and check in, but… I don’t know. Something is stopping me, and I have a feeling that something is my father. Fridays are his work-from-home days, so he would more than likely be home with her if I called, and she’d want to have him join in on the call, and I’m just not in the headspace to deal with his shit again. Not after the last time we spoke and it went horribly.

Over the last week, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. A lot of trips down memory lane, if you will. Growing up, my dad always prioritized work over everything, including family. Work was number one to him, and he had no problem making that known. It’s something my mother has long since accepted, and most of the time, I think she prefers it this way. She gets to do whatever she wants without having him around, like shopping or trips with her friends.

But as a kid, it was hard. Especially as an only child. I remember the sadness and frustration I would feel when I so desperately wanted my dad to come to a baseball game, or take an interest in anything I did. Our relationship has always been strained because I was left wishing for my father’s love and approval while he was too busy working.

Just before I finish making dinner, my phone buzzes with a text where it’s sitting on the counter.

Conway: Hey, just confirming my guys will be there to start work around 8am Monday.

Me: Sounds good. I’ll be at work, but I’ll leave the back door unlocked when I leave in the morning. They can come in that way.

Conway: Perfect. Still coming out tonight ?

“Ah, shit.” I completely forgot that he had invited me to go out with him and his friends. It was supposed to be last week, but it got pushed to tonight. I’m not really in the mood to go out and socialize, but I have to admit, it would probably be good for me. And it wouldn’t kill me to get out of the house for a few hours.

Me: Yup, I’m still down. Just let me know where to meet you guys and I’ll be there.

Conway: Meet us there at 7:30pm.

Then he sends the address, and I don’t know whether to feel anxious about meeting people I don’t know who know each other or feel relieved that it’s only been a couple of weeks and I’m already making friends. As I crack open a beer and sit down with my dinner, I decide to go with the latter.

“A chili cook-off?” I drawl, bringing the lip of my beer bottle up to my mouth, letting the crisp liquid slide down my throat as I listen to Davis, one of Conway’s buddies, explain this annual Blossom Beach tradition.

He chuckles, the sound deep and throaty. “Oh yeah. The townsmen and women of Blossom Beach are very serious about their chili.”

I look around the table, seeing if they’re fucking with me, because I’ve never heard of something like this. “So, what, everybody just cooks up a batch of chili?”

“It’s a contest, basically,” Davis explains, scratching a hand over the stubble lining his jaw. “A lot of the families here have years-old family recipes they make. There’s a panel of judges who try each one, and then the winners are announced.”

“What does the winner get?”

“Bragging rights,” Conway grunts out before he takes a swig of his beer.

My brow furrows as I glance around the table before laughter bubbles up my throat. “That’s some real small-town shit, you guys. Do any of you participate?”

“My wife does,” Sam, Conway’s other buddy, says. “It’s her great-grandma’s recipe.”

“I do not,” Conway adds at the same time Davis shakes his head.

“And it’s, like, a public thing?”

“Oh yeah.” Sam nods. “It takes place at the annual Blossom Beach carnival in a couple months. The whole town will be there. I know it sounds kind of wack, but it’s actually a fun time. I was skeptical when I first moved here too.”

“When did you move here?” I ask him, liking that I’m not the only outsider at the table.

“About ten years ago,” he replies.

“But your wife is from here?”

“Yup, we met right after I moved here, and the rest was history.” Sam grins, making a wave motion with his hand as Conway and Davis chuckle and groan beside him.

“Are either of you two married or dating anyone?” I ask as I lift my gaze to them.

I remember Conway telling me he had a daughter in the fourth grade, and he used the term honeymoon oopsie , but he’s not wearing a ring so it could go either way.

“We’re both divorced,” Davis offers. Hiking a thumb toward Conway, he adds, “This one is twice divorced. Can’t keep a woman to save his life.”

Davis laughs at his own joke as Sam chuckles along beside him. Conway, however, gives him the finger before downing the rest of his beer. “I’m getting another round,” he announces before disappearing in the direction of the bar.

The four of us throw back a couple more beers as we continue to shoot the shit for a while. By the time we all head our separate ways and go home, they exchange their numbers with me, and we make a loose plan to meet up again. I’m glad I forced myself to go tonight.

Pulling into my driveway, it’s a little after eleven. The cicadas are loud in the darkness, and yet, there’s something so soothing about the sound. When I first arrived in town, I thought it was annoying, but it’s started to grow on me. Climbing out of my car, something catches my attention, and when I turn my head, I find Gemma sitting on her porch, her laptop in her lap, and a glass of wine on the table beside her chair.

As if she can feel the weight of my stare, she looks up, gaze meeting mine as a small smile tugs on her lips. “Hey, Mr. Windward,” she drawls in a tone that sends heat down my spine.

“Hey, Gemma,” I call back, waving my hand for a brief wave. “What are you doing out here so late?”

Gesturing to her laptop, she says, “Slaving away on this manuscript.” She breathes out a laugh, grabs the wineglass, and takes a sip. “What about you? You’re getting home pretty late.”

I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Actually went out for a few beers with a couple guys. The contractor I hired to work on my house invited me out.”

“Look at you making friends,” she murmurs with a smile that makes my insides melt. “Conway?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Oh, Everett,” she murmurs, and I can’t help but love the way my name sounds falling from her lips. “One thing you’ll learn about this town is everybody knows everyone. Conway is the one and only contractor. It was an easy guess.”

My shoulders shake with a chuckle. “Fair enough.”

Thickening tension settles over us as we gaze at each other from across our yards. Wearing a tight ribbed tank that comes to just below her belly button and a pair of shorts that she’s got rolled up once, Gemma looks effortlessly sexy from where she’s sitting.

Images flash through my mind about what it would be like to feel her skin under my fingertips. I’ve got no doubt it would be soft, and I just know she’d smell delicious if I were to drag my nose along the column of her throat. I imagine the way her breasts would feel pressed up against my chest as she held on to me while my lips explored her creamy, smooth skin. The soft sounds she’d make as my teeth grazed her collarbone, or sucked on the spot below her ear.

Realizing I’m standing here, practically drooling over her, I smile, shaking my head of the dozens of thoughts passing through my mind. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work,” I tell her, every part of my body not wanting to go inside, but it’s late, and I worry if I stay out here much longer, I’ll make a fool of myself with my inability to look away. “Have a good night, Gemma.”

She returns the smile, but I don’t miss the way her eyes rake down my body before coming back up to my face. “You too, Everett. Good night.”

As I get inside and lock the door, I let out a deep breath.

This fucking girl.