Page 30 of Holiday Hopefuls
Callie
Ichanged my outfit four times this morning. Four times. The last time I did that was … well, never. But those four little texts this morning reminded me that Friday night really happened. That this could really be happening. That I, Calloway Leora Rutherford, might have a fighting chance to change the way my family sees me.
Maybe.
Unknown Number:
Are you allergic to anything at Sandra’s Sammies? It’s on the way, so I thought I’d stop there and grab us some food.
This is Oliver.
Rhodes. I got your number from John’s classroom parent phone number sheet. To be fair, I did have to bribe him with donuts.
I always bring my lunch, but thanks for asking. See you soon.
See you soon, Ms. Rutherford.
I’d be lyingif I said I didn’t have a mini panic attack standing in my bathroom wearing outfit number three. Because let’s be honest, a kindergarten teacher can only look so fancy without drawing attention. And not even from the other staff. If the kids think something’s off, they’ll have no reservations about telling me to my face. This is coming from a woman who once had a student say my tropical print skirt looked like thrown up candy.
Seriously, zero filters around here.
So, take kids with no brain-to-mouth filters and add one lunch date in my chaotic classroom with a man who is stupidly handsome and going to pretend to be my boyfriend at my family’s Thanksgiving, and what do you get?
One frazzled teacher in her only pair of actual work pants and a brand new green sweater that’s already covered with a giant hot cocoa stain. Thankfully, my name badge covers most of the chocolatey blob. Oh, and let’s not forget how my curling iron decided to quit working halfway through doing my hair, which is now in one very full ballet bun.
Lunch is only ten minutes away and counting, and dot tokens are absolutely everywhere as I attempt the world’s most chaotic cleanup. On the tables, on the floor. Stuck to Jack’s shirt, thanksto a booger he graciously showed me, and in Maria’s pigtails. And that’s just the ones I can see.
Checking one of the last two tables and their cleanup progress, a soft knock raps on the classroom door.
Panic wastes no time shooting through my nervous system.Relax, Callie. It’s probably just a literacy coach. Or the janitor.But a thorned vine winds itself through my ribcage, thoroughly attuned to who waits on the other side of the door. I guess that’s just what happens when one gets a fake boyfriend.
Outwardly, I scoff at my own wishful thinking that it could be literally anyone else.
“Ms. Rutherford, there’s someone at the door!” And there goes any remaining zen I’ve managed to gather this morning. Jameson should really be some kind of commentator when he grows up.
Anna giggles into her hand beside me. “He looks like my daddy.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” I mumble, steeling myself to turn around and face who I know waits on the other side of the door.
Sure enough, through the glass paneling, there stands Dr. Oliver Rhodes suppressing a grin. “Flipper nuggets,” I whisper. Marching toward the door with as much confidence as I can muster, I will myself not to take in Dr. Rhodes and all of his obscene handsomeness. It’s a lot easier than I anticipated thanks to the dark brown overcoat he’s wearing.
Of course, the reflection in his round glasses shows that I’m not lying to myself quite as well as I’d like to believe.
But his soft smile makes me extremely aware that eighteen pairs of eyes from tiny humans are glued to my back. In fact, I think it’s the quietest my class has ever been.
Opening the door, a subtle hint of sandalwood wafts into the classroom. Too bad this is the worst time for a drool check. Some kind of delicious food in a tan takeaway bag distracts meenough to remind me that the poor guy is still just standing in the doorway. “Hey, come on in,” I say as casually as possible. Though it probably sounds like a train just ran over my foot.
Rhodes looks past me at our audience. Amused eyes slide back to mine, brows raising.
“Don’t worry about them,” I laugh, “they have lunch in a few minutes. Why don’t you go hang out at my desk while we finish up?” I point to my corner sanctuary, which I did try to clean up a bit this morning.
‘Try’ being the operative word.
“Oliver!” Cici McNalley shrieks. Jumping up from her table, the sweetest girl in the world hurls herself across the room in record time, before throwing tiny arms around his waist.
The man tosses his free arm around her shoulder in a tight embrace. “Hey, Cici.” Releasing her, he crouches down so that he’s eye-level. “Have you made your dad any new drawings today? With extra glitter?” He sends a knowing look my way.
But my favorite student clearly has her own agenda. “Why are you here?”
