Page 17 of Class Act

“So, again, why is he here?” I stood straight and grabbed the stack of clean glasses that were waiting to be moved from the island to everyone’s place settings.

“The important thing is that he is here, isn’t it?” he shrugged.

Ugh. That meant nothing. “You owe me for this.” He grinned, which prompted me to say, “It’ll be great to have all my fieldtrips funded this year.” I moved to the dining alcove where Connie was primping the centerpiece.

Leonard laughed. “I’ll consider it.”

Too late I realized Ford was still hanging around in the dining area, his hands tucked into slacks, his eyes following me. He looked like a guy preparing for a photo shoot, relaxed and dressed well, hair attractively mussed, five o’clock shadow giving him an alluring edge. The light from the window near him showed slivers of gray in his beard growth, and it was a reminder of the fact that he was ten years my senior. Maybe if I thought of him as a friend of the Coxes, I could shake this melting feeling shivering down my spine.

I was not a person who made assumptions about the feelings of others. I took a person at face value, preferring to believe they meant what they said. So when Ford had said he wasn’t looking to date, I’d never once thought he was merely playing hard to get. I wasn’t about to chase a man who didn’t want to be chased. Instead, I was doing my best to respect his words. Something I wished Leonard would do, too.

I took a deep breath and rose to the challenge of offering kind hospitality to someone who created a maelstrom of feelings inside of me. I wanted to run from them. My heart wanted to smile and flirt and bask in his closeness. My head screamed at me to be cautious and treat him like I would treat someone I’d never met.

While I couldn’t understand how he was comfortable being here or what Leonard had said to get him to leave his children on a Sunday to have dinner at a stranger’s home, I did understand that I could control how I acted. And I would. Just because he frightened me didn’t mean I had to be rude.

“Hello, Mr. Whittaker,” I said with as much calm as I could, struggling to meet his eyes. I purposely used his formal name, hoping to keep the four old schemers who were listening in from getting any ideas.

“Hi, Hailey,” he replied in a very casual way. “How was the bath?”

Missile launched.

“The bath?” Mom asked with a squeak in her voice.

I shot a glance to my mom in time to see her offer Connie a little fist bump and a raised eyebrow, proving my theory that hope had bloomed. Ford may not have intended to elicit the reaction he got from that greeting, or maybe he knew exactly how it would go over. Either way, it made me look like a liar after the hour I’d spent only two days ago convincing my parents that Ford and I were barely acquaintances. Acquaintances were not aware of bath time. My entire ‘don’t get any ideas’ speech was going up in wondrous flames.

I was surrounded by traitors.

I pressed my lips together in an unaffected smile and ignored the entire thing, especially the way the men were all trying to pretend they weren’t laughing. They may as well have been giving Ford a high five for that preposterous statement of his and how it had made me visibly squirm. What had he hoped to accomplish there?

“Let’s eat,” Dad called, coming to the rescue as he strode to the kitchen and hefted the platter of roast.

The rest of us followed suit, grabbing food to bring to the table. Even Ford pitched in, carrying the mashed potatoes. Then, because even Connie was in on it, those four oldies moved faster than they had in years, leaving only one seat open for Ford. Yep, right next to me. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, we could have pretended that that seat was always open, except that Connie gave a little giggle and gave Leonard’s hand some sort of absurd celebratory hand squeeze, high five combo under the table.

This was bad. Connie--my only hope--had gone dark. A mixture of amusement and suspicion made a home in my chest. How was I supposed to manage their expectations when they were in the middle of some off-the-charts hustle right now.

From the head of the table, Dad thanked everyone for coming--a formality not normally seen around here--and suggested we hold hands to say grace over the food. I was a thirty-year-old woman merely trying to understand what kind of runaway train I was on, so it was with some shock that I felt Ford place his hand around mine. My hand had been resting on the table, and I hadn’t moved it before he reached for me. The back of my hand was tucked into his palm. My other hand reached for my mom, but all I could focus on was Ford. His hand was surprisingly cool. My hand flexed involuntarily, which opened up space for two of his fingers to slide in between mine. While his hand remained relaxed, I could feel my skin heating where we touched, and I bit my lips in response as I closed my eyes.

Dad said grace, which was thankfully short, but I didn’t hear a word of it. I simply felt every heartbeat as though it were filtered through the point of contact between Ford and me. I’d never experienced anything remotely like it, and I was terribly upset that it was happening. His hand against mine brought back silly images I’d created in my head. Images I wanted gone. The second the amens were said, I snatched my hands into my lap and looked across the table to be met by Connie’s questioning expression.

Connie was as dark in coloring as my mother and I were light. She still kept her hair dyed the same black color it had always been and dressed in bright jewel tones. She was kind and warm, and something about the way she looked at me told me she understood my confusion even though she was fully supporting this disastrous plot. I ran my palms over my gray knit skirt and forced a relaxed smile as I tugged at the hemline of my white shirt. It was nothing more than a chemical reaction created by an attractive man and my discomfort. Anyone would heat up under those circumstances.

“The food looks great, Mom, as always,” I said, proud of how perfectly serene I sounded.

“Yes, Dr. Thomas,” Ford piped up. “I appreciate you allowing me to join you.”

“Please, call me Sylvia,” Mom said graciously. “We’re always happy to meet a new friend.”

A friend, yes. Even better, a friend of Leonard’s. That’s exactly how I should be thinking of him, I reminded myself. A corner of my mouth tugged up. I could do this one last, strange encounter, and then I’d cleanse him from my life and move forward. In fact, maybe I needed to get back into the dating world. It was clear that I was feeling lonely. Fulfilled people do not daydream about men the way I’d been doing. I needed to fill that space in my life with someone actually concrete. Someone open and looking for a partner. I’d give it some thought.

I handed my plate down to Dad, who was carving the roast on Ford’s right-hand side. “I feel bad that you were pulled away from your children to be here,” I said to our guest. “They must really miss you, with how busy you are.”

Ford nodded. “It’s a juggling act, that’s for sure,” he replied. “I find being a single parent comes with a lot of challenges, but we’ve been doing it for almost five years now, so we have a system set up that seems to be working . . . with the occasional adjustment, of course.” He chuckled good-naturedly, united with the other parents at the table, and they all lapped it up.

I took my plate with a mumbled thanks when Ford passed it back to me and reached out for the green beans to start sending them around the table. While the others began a friendly dialogue, I found myself having a hard time joining in. With people I knew and trusted, conversation flowed. However, at this table it was as though words had dried up inside of me, and even though my thoughts were racing, my mouth had stopped working. It was probably for the best, I thought. At least this way I wouldn’t actually say any of the embarrassing things racing around behind my stiff facade. Things like could you choose a less appealing aftershave, or maybe you need to buy baggier clothing because your arms are distracting me.

The four older adults at the table seemed relaxed, and I could see the way he was charming them. I wasn’t the only person who found him to be magnetic. I was discovering that Ford was naturally sociable, easy going, and energetic. He was a man used to being the center of attention and liking it there. We were so completely different. I took a swallow of my drink and looked at him out of my peripheral vision, trying to soak him in without being obvious about it. Who knew if I’d ever have the chance again?

“What do you do for work, Ford?” Mom asked.

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