The Last Strike by A.R. Henry

Chapter 4

“Cami? What are you still doing out here? Where’s your dad?”

I just walked out the front door to the school, ready to head home for the day, to find Cami sitting on a bench by herself.

Where are the teachers that were in charge of pick-ups today?

I can’t believe they just left her here alone.

“My mom was supposed to pick me up today, but she’s not here. I didn’t know what to do, so I’m waiting for her.”

Jesus. This is not okay. I’ll have to talk to Mr. Pond tomorrow to make sure this doesn’t happen again. No kid should be out here alone. Who knows what could have happened to her.

“Okay sweet girl, do you know your daddy’s number? I think we need to call him.”

Maybe I should have offered to call her mom first since she said that’s who was supposed to pick her up, but I already know her dad so that seems like the safest route.

Plus, it wouldn’t hurt me to see him again.

To remind myself why I shouldn’t want to see him again.

She shakes her head in answer to my question, so I bring her back to my room to pull up the parent directory on my computer. I dial his number and he answers on the third ring.

Unsurprisingly, I’m greeted with a gruff, “Hello.”

“Um, Hi, Mr. Bell? This is Miss Lonsdale, Cami’s teacher?”

There’s a pause and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s waiting for me to continue, or he genuinely is trying to remember who I am. Naturally I just decide to keep talking.

“Um, Cami is still at school with me. I found her waiting by the pick-up line outside. She said her mom was supposed to pick her up, but she obviously hasn’t shown up, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Can you come to the school to get her? Or call her mom to see if she’s on her way?”

He mutters something that sounds like, “Unbelievable,” under his breath then tells me, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” and hangs up.

“Can’t wait.” I mutter to my blank phone screen.

I turn my attention to the seven-year-old patiently waiting at her desk. “Cami, your dad is on his way. Do you want to play a game while we wait? Or read?”

Almost thirty minutes later Mr. Special-Baseball-Man comes bounding into my classroom. Cami and I are laying on my reading area rug taking turns reading to each other from the book I assigned them this week.

Today, instead of the workout clothes I saw him in the last time he was here, he’s dressed up in a white button-down shirt, a Tennessee Orange tie, and dark-grey slacks.

He would make a paper sack look edible.

As he approaches us, he doesn’t even look my way.

Instead, he holds his hand out to his daughter and tells her, “Come on Cami, let's go.”

I take note that the tone he uses with Cami is probably the most gentle I’ve heard from him. I’m surprised he doesn’t just grunt at her like he does at everyone else, or at least the way he grunts at me.

I stand and give Cami her backpack, “Here you go sweet girl. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

I wrap her in a hug, and thankfully she squeezes me back. That would have looked awkward in front of Mr. Freeze over there.

“Goodnight, Miss Lonsdale. Thank you for staying with me,” she tells me softly.

“You’re welcome, sweet girl,” I whisper back.

When I glance back up towards Mr. Bell he has the strangest look on his face, and before I have the chance to decipher it, his stone persona is back in place.

Cami runs from my side straight towards him, launching herself into his arms. He picks her up, swinging her in a few circles before setting her back on the ground and saying, “How’s my Bunny? Ready to go home?”

I think my ovaries just exploded at the sight, and when he called her “bunny”?

Swoon.

Damn it this man isn’t supposed to have feelings.

Actually, this man can’t have feelings because if he does then there is a tiny (large) part of me that’s going to develop a full-on crush for him. That can’t happen because I would have to eat crow to Ash, and she raises all kinds of hell when she’s right about something.

Cami turns and waves goodbye, and just before they’re out the door she yells to me, “See you tomorrow, Miss Lonsdale! My daddy will see you too! He says bye!”

Before I can reply they’re out the door heading to the parking lot. What did she mean he’ll see me too?

Maybe he’s picking her up tomorrow?

Oh shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

How did I forget?

I freaking planned this.

Ugh, how could I have forgotten that the kids’ parents are coming tomorrow for career day.

Great.

I had to stay so late most of the workday traffic was gone, and I made the drive home in record time.

When I pull into my garage, I notice that my neighbor is standing out on her lawn waving at me.

Mrs. Winslow is a frail looking older woman who might look like she needs help crossing the street, but the second you offer she spits out fire. She’s a tough old bird, and I learned the day we met not to offend her again by asking if she needed help with getting her groceries inside.

“Hi Courtney, getting home awfully late, aren’t you? Did you have a date with a handsome man after work?”

Did I forget to mention that she, too, is very interested in my dating life.

Can’t a woman focus on her career, and enjoy being single?

I am starting to get a little lonely though. Maybe I’ll see if Ash has plans for dinner tomorrow.

“Hi Mrs. Winslow, no hot man tonight I’m afraid. One of my kids’ parents was late picking them up. Did you need help with something?”

“Oh, um, yes dear. I’m afraid my grandson couldn’t make it tonight, he had an emergency, and I need help fixing my cable box. The channels aren’t working. I don’t know anything about this new-fangled technology, and my grandson, bless his heart, usually fixes it for me. Not that he knows that much either; he just looks it up on his phone half the time. If I knew how to use my phone, I’d save us all the trouble and fix it myself.”

A few hours later—after I’d fixed Mrs. Winslow’s TV, ate dinner, and watched several episodes of The Office to unwind—I found myself in bed staring up at the ceiling thinking about my earlier encounter with Mr. Handsome-Baseball-Face.

Yes, I know these names are getting worse. I really need to come up with better insults, but the quiet brute—who seems to always be in the back of my mind these days—is somehow better looking every time I see him. Maybe that was part of the reason every woman in the area was throwing herself at him. I could certainly see the appeal in that sense.

Hotness aside, he was still an asshole.

An asshole who managed to pick his child up without so much as a, “Hello, I’m so sorry no one picked my child up from school today, and you were forced to stay late to look after her. Also, thank you for not calling child services and instead calling me and reading to her. Can I take you to dinner and let you sit on my handsome, grumpy face later to make it up to you?”

Too much?

Probably.

I still don’t know how I didn’t realize that the ass didn’t even utter a “thank you”.

In fact, I don’t think he even looked at me.

The same man that picked me out in a crowd of thousands just to come stare at my face a few days ago couldn’t even look me in the eye when he came to pick up his daughter from school.

Interesting.

I wonder if he’ll be able to look me in the eyes when he comes back tomorrow for career day.

I spent the rest of the night mentally planning my outfit for the next day. My thoughts may have also drifted to thinking about how it would feel to have that beard grazing all over my skin.

I didn’t fall asleep until well after the sun had melted over the horizon.