About That...: A Small Town Romantic Comedy Read online

  About That…

  Sylvie Stewart

  Rolling Hearts Press

  Copyright

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than brief quotations for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by the author who can be contacted at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Sylvie Stewart

  Edited by Heather Mann

  First edition: July 2018

  ISBN: 978-1-947853-16-4

  Also by Sylvie Stewart

  Then Again (the full-length follow-up to About That)

  The Fix (Carolina Connections, Book 1)

  The Spark (Carolina Connections, Book 2)

  The Lucky One (Carolina Connections, Book 3)

  The Game (Carolina Connections, Book 4)

  The Way You Are (Carolina Connections, Book 5)

  The Runaround (Carolina Connections, Book 6)

  Carolina Connections Box Set 1

  Carolina Connections Box Set 2

  The Nerd Next Door (Carolina Kisses, Book 1)

  New Jerk in Town (Carolina Kisses, Book 2)

  The Last Good Liar (Carolina Kisses, Book 3)

  Between a Rock and a Royal (Kings of Carolina, Book 1)

  Blue Bloods and Backroads (Kings of Carolina, Book 2)

  Stealing Kisses With a King (Kings of Carolina, Book 3)

  Kings of Carolina Box Set

  Happy New You

  Game Changer

  Full-On Clinger

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Then Again - Excerpt

  Also by Sylvie Stewart

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  I was like an Olympian in training, beyond prepared, to the point where I may have even been a bit smug about it. Carefully crafted bulletin boards lined the walls, cheerful bouquets of “Welcome to First Grade” pencils and stickers sat on each desk, lesson plans were flawless, and Martha Stewart herself couldn’t have found a single fault in my door decorations. I’d even arrived an hour earlier than anybody else besides the maintenance crew.

  But none of this counted for shit as one of the smartly-dressed little pig-tailed girls leaned against my desk and puked her guts out into my shiny new chevron-printed trash can (the one that perfectly matched my door decorations, by the way). My first day as a teacher had officially begun, and I was already feeling underpaid.

  “Oh, wow. That’s… wow.” A deep voice sounded from behind me as I stroked the poor girl’s back and she dry-heaved again. Thank God I had a strong stomach. I didn’t bother turning to see who’d made that amazingly helpful comment. My brain was too busy trying to remember the name these pigtails belonged to. Crap! I was tanking at this new gig.

  A throat cleared from the same direction. “Do you want me to go get the school nurse or something?”

  Now that was much more helpful, although I’d heard winning the lottery was easier than getting Nurse Bolanger to emerge from her office to attend to a child. But I was willing to try anything at this point.

  I turned my head and looked up, and up, at the man standing there. My mouth opened, but that was it. Nothing. I’d actually lost the ability to speak. One could only hope my other senses would become more acute at the loss of this one. Wait, speech wasn’t a sense, was it? Oh well. Whatever.

  Worn blue jeans, beat-up leather belt, black t-shirt, prominent Adam’s apple, three days of scruff. My eyes skipped upward to his brow, creased with concern, and—oh lordy—it was hot-guy overload. I swear the man stole the eyes from a puppy in one of those animal rescue ads because they were the best kind of melty brown and sincere. Knowing if I tried to speak, the only words to come out would be something along the lines of, “You. Me. Babies. Good,” I chose to nod my head.

  He turned and strode to the classroom door, affording me a tiny peek of the back view before—Janey! That was her name—whimpered, drawing my attention back where it belonged.

  “Aww, sweetie. Do you think you’re just nervous because it’s your first day?”

  She sniffled and I handed her another tissue. “I don’t know. I maybe had too much breakfast.”

  “Oh. Well, what did you have?” I glanced around quickly to make sure my teaching assistant was handling all the kids and parents. Greeting each one individually had been one of my many plans that were busy crashing and burning.

  “Just a bowl of cereal.” That didn’t sound troublesome. “And some eggs and sausage. Oh, and my dad gave me a KitKat ‘cuz I promised not to tell my mom about the earrings I found in his car.”

  Good God.

  To my surprise, Nurse Bolanger shuffled through my doorway laughing at something my future baby-daddy was saying and tucking her grey curls behind her ear. It seemed even senior citizens weren’t immune to this guy’s appeal. I gave Janey’s back another stroke as I scanned the classroom and, yup, every set of female eyes over the age of six was fixed on the nurse whisperer. Mr. Tall, Blond, and Let’s Find a Janitor’s Closet pointed my way. The nurse’s face fell when she spotted me and my little charge. Tag! You’re it, lady. I sent her a smile as a consolation prize. She didn’t return it. She did, however, come to Janey’s rescue and took the girl back to her office, promising to call maintenance for me since it was my first day and all. I thanked her and scrambled to get my morning back on track.

  Some parents couldn’t get out of there fast enough (read: Janey’s philandering father) while others chose to linger, making sure their kiddos were settled and happy before they left. I spotted one mom who would no doubt be filling my inbox over the next nine months. She must have kissed her son’s head a hundred times before he finally grunted an angry, “I got this!” and shooed her away, looking more than a little embarrassed. The boy, not the mom. She was too busy crying.

  Somewhere between tending to Janey and ushering helicopter mom out the door with tissues and promises to take good care of her little one, I mentally sat myself down for a little talk.

  The hot dad had caught me off guard, sure, but ogling the dads of your students? Not good. That was a fast train to humiliation, teachers’ lounge fodder, and the unemployment line. Besides, my love life was known to be a dumpster fire, so this was an essential line to draw. Once my mind was settled, I straightened my dress—and my back—and stepped toward him where he squatted beside the desk of a small, red-haired girl. Her chin rested in her palm and she had a pretty decent pout in place.

  “Hi there. I’m Miss Martinez.” I leaned over and put out my hand to her, watching as her eyes crept over my way. “You must be Phoebe.” A glance at the tag on her desk told me exactly who she was. She finally let go of her chin and gave my hand a weak shake. At least we were getting somewhere. Then, without losing my ability to speak (Yay, me!), I extended my hand to her dad. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Evans.”

  He took my hand in his and held it firmly. “Please, call me Cal.” His voice was d
eep and textured, perfectly matching the whole look he had going on.

  Despite my resolve, my inner Sofia swooned. “Sofia Martinez,” I responded, my own voice ridiculously breathy—think Marilyn Monroe singing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” I mentally face-palmed. I may as well have twisted my brown locks with a finger while batting my damn eyelashes. But, dammit, I couldn’t help it. He was looking at me with those melty puppy eyes and his mouth kicked up on one side, making him look like he had a head full of all sorts of ideas I might like. Gah! This wouldn’t do at all.

  I cleared my throat. “So, Phoebe. Can you tell me what’s got you upset?”

  She shook her head, pout picking up some steam.

  “Her mom had to go into work and couldn’t make the first day,” Cal supplied, a rueful grin overtaking his lips. “I’m not sure who was more upset.”

  Well, that was just sweet as hell. I berated myself for any horny thoughts I’d had about Cal Evans to this point. His poor wife was at work somewhere, upset she hadn’t been able to share this morning with her family. I had to get ahold of my naughty little mind and get my priorities straight.

  “Aww. Well, I bet she’ll be super excited to see you when you get home. And you’ll have lots to tell her because I have some really fun things planned for today.” I changed to a stage whisper. “Some of them even involve prizes.” Phoebe shot me a glance from the corner of her eye and I knew I had her. Standing up again, I signaled for Cal to do the same and mouthed, “She’ll be fine,” over his daughter’s head.

  He took a deep breath and let it out before bending and whispering something to Phoebe. She giggled half-heartedly and he rested a hand to her head before starting toward the door. At the last minute, he turned and sent me the melty eyes and one of those casual man waves from his hip. “Thanks. It was nice to meet you, Sofia.” And then he was gone.

  “So, how did it go? Did you make anybody cry?”

  I shut the refrigerator with more force than was technically required. “What kind of thing is that to say to someone on their first day? God, you can be an ass.”

  My brother laughed unabashedly on the other end of the line. “I’m just messing with you. I’m sure you did great, Sof.”

  “That’s more like it.” The phone nestled in between my ear and shoulder as I juggled the fixings for my dinner and got them safely to the counter. I grabbed the phone and brought it to my other ear. “I think it went okay. Well, aside from one girl puking and me almost hitting on a married dad.”

  “What?!” Sam choked, setting off a coughing fit. I couldn’t feel too bad about it, though. Riling him was beyond easy. I set the phone on the counter and switched it to speaker so I could start making my sandwich while he recovered. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t! I said I almost hit on him.” The lid stuck on the pickle jar so I ran it under the hot tap. “It was a momentary lapse.” One I’d challenge any red-blooded woman to resist.

  “Thank Christ. But don’t even joke about that around Mamá and Papá unless you want Mamá dragging you in for confession. I had a week’s worth of Hail Marys just for saying Mrs. Trejo looked like she’d been hitting the gym.”

  That made me snicker as I finally got the jar open. “Well, I’m not an idiot like you. I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Whatever. Hey, you wanna come to my rec game this weekend? It’s the season opener.”

  I considered it while I spread peanut butter on two slices of bread. Watching Sam play football was usually a good time. He’d played back in college and was in a local league that got together on fall weekends. “When is it? Because I’m going dancing on Saturday night and I need time to beautify myself.” The pickles went on top of one bread slice.

  Sam’s eye-roll was practically audible. “It’s at two on Sunday. Do you think you’ll be over your hangover by then?”

  “Possibly.” I smiled and opened the bag of potato chips. “But you can count me in either way.” Really, who was I to say no to watching a crew of sweaty guys tossing a ball around? A generous handful of chips went over the pickles and the other slice of peanut butter bread fit right on top. I smashed the bread down, crunching the chips between the slices.

  “What are you doing?” Oops. My phone was right by my sandwich.

  “Sorry. Just making dinner.” I picked up my masterpiece and took a huge bite, savoring the combination of nutty, salty, and tangy flavors. There was possibly a moan involved.

  A gagging sound reached my ears. “Oh, God. You’re eating a peanut butter pickle chip sandwich, aren’t you? How can you eat that shit?”

  “Surprisingly easily,” I mumbled through my mouthful of food. Living alone afforded one a free pass at good manners.

  “I can’t handle this. I’ll pick you up on Sunday at one-thirty. Later, sis.”

  I cradled my sandwich in my hands and pressed the hang-up button with one pinkie. A glance around the kitchen told me what I already knew. Not one thing was out of place. Clean dishtowels hung on the oven handle, the counters were tidy except for the space immediately in front of me, and the kitchen table sat spotless, all four chairs arranged perfectly.

  A sigh escaped me. Despite my being only twenty-three, my apartment screamed, “Single woman looking to adopt twelve cats! The moodier, the better!” There was no use bemoaning my single status, though. I’d just started this new job and was determined to give it everything I had. And, besides, my last boyfriend had annoyed the crap out of me and my whole family. I swear, I only kept Brody around as long as I did because he could reach the high shelves and didn’t mind killing spiders. Maybe I needed to stop finding boyfriends at bars—or better yet, just find a tall, arachno-friendly roommate instead. Splendid idea!

  It didn’t take long to polish off my sandwich and clean up the debris. I spent the rest of the evening cutting out bright yellow suns for my little cuties to use in the next day’s class project. Forget men! Six-year-olds were much more fun. Kind of.

  Chapter 2

  “Tattooed hottie checking you out at your four o’clock, Sofia.”

  I released the straw from my mouth and set my drink on the table. “What did I say? No men tonight!” My voice rose to be heard over the music.

  Wendy curled her lip at me while Didi fixed her face in an overly bored expression. Mallory just shook her head like I’d told her the saddest story in the history of mankind.

  “Come on!” I threw my hands out. “When was the last time you met a decent guy at a bar?”

  Mallory appeared to be the only one to give it any actual thought before replying, “Oh! That Matt guy senior year. He was a good guy.”

  “Seriously?” Didi dropped her hand to the tabletop, almost knocking over my drink. “He hit on me when he was leaving your bedroom!”

  “Well, yeah, but it wasn’t like I was going to go out with him again.” Mallory winked.

  “Eww,” Wendy offered.

  I shook my head. “Hey, we came here to dance anyway, right? We don’t need guys to do that.”

  Wendy rose a tentative hand. “Um, while that’s technically true, there’s a reason we don’t go to girls-only clubs. I need the guy action, or at the very least, some appreciative glances.”

  “Okay, whatever. But I’m keeping my dancing solo tonight—except for the usual girl-on-girl stuff.” I pointed at Didi. “But keep your damn hands to yourself.” This sent us all snickering, as Didi was known to get a little handsy when drunk.

  We downed the rest of our drinks and headed for the dance floor. Techno music pumped from the speakers, sending waves of bass reverberating through our chests and stomachs. With the lights flashing and bodies mingling, it was easy to get lost in the beat and the moment. I loved dancing. My body was instinctively drawn along with any beat or melody—whether that be in the car, on a dance floor, or in a first-grade classroom, as my students had discovered when we played a counting song earlier in the week. By the end of the lesson, I had them all up out of their seats and wigg
ling their little bodies to the song. It was a blast.

  Mallory was the first one to cave, getting swept away by a muscular guy with a buzz cut and unfortunate taste in cologne. Next went Didi, pleased to find herself sandwiched between two guys who were clearly frat boys looking for a good time. I made a mental note to keep my eye on her. Despite Wendy’s earlier assertions, her departure from the floor came from sheer exhaustion, not a suitor. She was parked at a table in the corner nursing a soda and waiting for her second wind.

  Never one to be self-conscious when it came to clubs, I continued my one-woman danceathon, moving through song after song, feeling the music settle in my bones. The few times a guy tried to gyrate on or near me, a good death glare was enough to send him away.

  “Sofia!”

  I turned at the sound of my name and came face to chest with a male specimen wearing a pale-blue button-down over a white t-shirt. Curious as to how this guy knew my name, I looked up and immediately recognized Cal Evans. Damn, he was tall! And still just as hot, unfortunately.

  The music was too loud for any useful conversation, so I just smiled and waved, mouthing “Hi.” He smiled back and I forced a mental image of Phoebe all tucked into her bed at home while her dad was out dancing.

  Huh? Wait.

  My eyes searched around, trying to identify which of these women could be Cal’s wife. Lisa was her name, and she was a nurse, that much I knew. She’d emailed me to introduce herself and check up on Phoebe, but I had yet to lay eyes on the woman. I hoped to God she wasn’t the unfortunate tube top lady to my left who kept losing her top. Cal motioned to the side of the dance floor and crooked his head that way. Oh! He wanted to take me to her and introduce us. Well, that was nice. There was no time to worry about the appropriateness of catching your daughter’s elementary school teacher drinking and dancing at a club. But, hey, teachers had lives too. Thankfully, I wasn’t drunk.