Page 16 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
"Of course. Have a good evening, Mr. Vale."
"Harrison," he corrected. "After hours, I think we can dispense with formalities."
"Harrison," I repeated, testing the name on my tongue.
It suited him—traditional, solid, with an edge of old-fashioned elegance.
He headed toward the door, then paused at the threshold. "Sadie? Take care of yourself. You work too hard."
After he left, I stood alone in my classroom.
I finished stacking chairs and gathering my materials, but my movements felt automatic, my mind elsewhere.
There had been something different about Harrison tonight—more open, more curious.
He was definitely checking me out, and I didn't know how to feel about it.
The drive home through Cape Cod's winding roads felt longer than usual.
My Honda coughed and wheezed through the hills, reminding me of yet another expense I couldn't afford to address.
The radio played softly, but I barely heard it over the replay of our conversation in my head.
He thought I was beautiful.
By the time I pulled into my apartment complex, full darkness had settled over the converted Victorian.
I climbed the narrow stairs to my second-floor unit, keys jingling softly in the quiet hallway.
The smell hit me as soon as I opened the door—stale alcohol mixed with cigarettes and the sour odor of unwashed clothes.
My heart sank as I took in the scene—Mom sprawled on my futon, still wearing yesterday's outfit, empty wine bottles scattered on the coffee table like accusatory witnesses.
I set down my bag and began the familiar routine of damage control.
Bottles in the recycling bin, cigarette butts disposed of, windows cracked to let in fresh air.
Mom didn't stir, lost in the deep sleep of someone who had drunk herself into oblivion.
The stress of the day settled into my shoulders and I decided I needed a shower, needed to wash away the classroom dust and the lingering scent of desperation that seemed to cling to me lately.
Under the hot spray, I let myself relax for the first time in hours.
The tension in my neck began to ease, and my thoughts drifted back to the unexpected encounter with Harrison.
The way he'd looked at me, really looked, as if he were seeing someone worth his attention.
The genuine warmth in his voice when he'd called me beautiful.
Heat and steam wrapped around me, but the memory of Harrison’s eyes burned hotter.
I closed my own, leaning into the spray as exhaustion and tension tangled in my muscles.
It had been so long since anyone had looked at me that way, as if I wasn’t just another worn-out teacher scraping by, but someone worth seeing.
My hands slid over my arms, slow, absent at first, just chasing comfort.
But my mind wouldn’t let go of the image of him standing in my classroom doorway—broad-shouldered, calm, that faint trace of cologne clinging to the air between us.
