My heart was beating hard and fast. I felt ridiculous, like a fifth grader who’d just held hands with a girl for the first time. For fuck’s sake, I’d tackled her on my bed the other night. This was nothing.

Except, it felt like something.

Four

Cheyenne

Cole Mitchell held my hand.

Cole Mitchell held my hand.

Cole Mitchell held my hand.

I took another sip of wine, traced the same damn feather I’d already traced five times, and reviewed the moment again.

Had I imagined it?

I’d picked the cardboard turkey up off the table, held it out to him, and instead of just taking it from me, he’d sort of enclosed my hand inside his and paused for several seconds.

Could I call that handholding? Did it count? Did it mean anything that he’d changed his shirt, combed his hair and put on cologne? Because Mariah was right—he’d definitely spruced himself up a bit before coming back to the table. Was I flattering myself that it could be for me? But what other reason was there?

I took another swallow of wine. At this rate, I was going to finish the entire glass inside five minutes.

“Okay, I’m ready to cut out my feathers,” Mariah announced, reaching for the scissors.

I snuck a peek at Cole, who was tracing a feather on red construction paper. His profile gave nothing away. He looked the same as he always did—and by that, I mean perfect. I’d always loved the color of his hair, not quite blond, not exactly brown, which he’d worn short as long as I’d known him. His jaw was slightly stubbly, somewhere between a five o’clock shadow and next-morning scruff. His nose was long and straight, his lips and lashes full. But it had always been his eyes that made me melt into a puddle of take me now. They were just so blue. So clear and bright, like they could see into your soul.

I may have sighed.

He glanced over at me, and I realized too late that I was staring at him like you’d stare at a double rainbow or a really spectacular pair of Louboutins. Embarrassed, I straightened up in my chair and focused on my work. “I’m about ready to cut out my feathers too.”

“I’m done cutting out,” said Mariah, setting her scissors aside. “Now I need a glue stick.”

I handed her a glue stick and forced myself to concentrate on cutting out feathers, but in the silence I discovered I could smell his cologne, which took me down a sexy rabbit hole of imagining his naked body moving over me in the dark, the scent of him filling my head. I thought of that bulge in his pants the other night—the way it felt against my thigh—and how it might feel slowly easing inside my body, inch by hard, thick inch.

Suddenly I realized I was panting. And both Cole and Mariah were staring at me.

“Are you okay, Miss Cheyenne?” Mariah blinked at me. “You’re, like, breathing really hard.”

“Um. I’m fine. I was just . . . thinking about something.” Before I could stop myself, I fucking glanced at Cole’s crotch.

And he saw me do it.

I could tell, because he followed my gaze directly into his lap, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Shit!

Setting down the scissors, I grabbed my empty wine glass and held it upside down above my lips until two tiny drops fell into my mouth. Then I shook it, hoping for more.

“Can I get you another glass?” Cole asked, rising from his chair and adjusting his jeans.

“Sure,” I said, even though the last thing I needed was to have a headache in the morning. All-school assemblies were enough to make my temples pound on their own.

But when Cole returned with a second beer for himself and my glass refilled, I gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He took his seat next to me, and I concentrated very hard on keeping my eyes on my work and not breathing too loudly.

While we finished our turkeys, Mariah chattered a little about some of the houses Cole had shown her online. She was excited about getting to paint her room any color she chose—she was leaning toward yellow—and hoped her dad would let her get a puppy if they bought the one with the doghouse in the yard.

“Ooh, you should go down to the shelter and pick one out,” I said. During the summer, when I wasn’t teaching, I volunteered at a local shelter. Once I had my own place, I couldn’t wait to rescue a couple animals.

“Can we, Daddy?”

“We’ll see,” said Cole, setting down a glue stick. “Okay, I think I’m done.”

“No, you’re not, you have to write things you’re thankful for on the feathers,” insisted Mariah. “Like this.” She held up her turkey so we could read the words she’d carefully printed. Her feathers read, FAMILY, HOME, SCHOOL, NEIGHBORS, SHELTER DOG.

“You don’t have a dog yet,” Cole pointed out. “Shelter or otherwise.”

“I know.” Mariah closed her eyes. “I’m trying to manifest it by positive thinking.”

I laughed. “Those are good choices, Mariah. And there’s nothing wrong with positive thinking.” Maybe I could manifest sex with Cole if I wrote it on my turkey.

Cole quickly scribbled words on his feathers and held it up. “Okay, here are mine.”

I leaned forward so I could see them better and grinned. They read, FAMILY, FRIENDS, BASEBALL, TAX REFUNDS, BEER.

“Dad,” Mariah scoffed. “You can’t say beer.”

“Why not?” He picked up his beer and took a sip. “It’s one of my favorite things.”

“Because this is supposed to be for kids.”

“Oh.” Cole picked up a marker, crossed out BEER with an X, and wrote MILK. Then he wrote NOT FOR KIDS with a little arrow pointing to the crossed-out word.

“Now it looks even worse,” Mariah said, giggling.

“That’s okay, Mariah,” I said. “I’ll use yours for the example. And mine.” I finished labeling my feathers and held my turkey up. “What do you think?”

“Family, friends, students, holidays, love,” Mariah recited. Then she smiled in approval. “Those are good. Better than my dad’s.”

Cole crumpled up a piece of construction paper and threw it at his daughter like a snowball. “Enough, you. It’s time for bed. Let’s get this table cleaned up.”

“I’ll clean it up,” I said, rising to my feet and reaching to gather up all the scraps. “You can put Mariah to bed.”

“She can help,” Cole insisted, taking his maligned turkey over to the fridge and sticking it onto the front with a magnet. “Mariah, return Grandma’s scissors to her junk drawer and put the glue sticks and extra paper back in the craft cupboard.”

“Okay.”

A couple minutes later, the table had been cleared except for my wine glass and Cole’s beer bottle. “Say goodnight to Miss Cheyenne, and get upstairs,” Cole told his daughter.

“Can’t she come up and say goodnight like she did before?” Mariah asked.

Exhaling, Cole looked at me. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” I said. “That gives me a chance to finish my wine. I’ll come up in five minutes?”

“Great!” Mariah grinned and scooted out of the kitchen, and I sat down again.