Page 16 of Signed With Love

I don’t know about flying myself. It sounds terrifying, but I’ll think about it.

You want to know about my job? I have a class of ten rambunctious ten-year-olds. I love what I do. Fourth grade is never without entertainment. It’s not brave, it’s fun. It’s what I love. Once, Dad asked me to come north with them, but I wasn’t willing to leave my students behind. Mom wants me to return to Washington State and work on my doctorate instead of teaching, but I haven’t yet. I’m not quite ready to leave Alaska behind.

Well, I’ll end this now and see you this weekend.

Claire

???

Chapter Seven

Claire

I’ve made some rash decisions since Jamison asked me on a friend date, or so he calls it. A date with someone like Jamison seems like so much more, and it terrifies me.

With my recent boldness and rash decisions, what I wear tonight isn’t one of them. I start with a hundred options and finally settle on soft denim jeans and a cashmere sweater.

I straighten my long blonde hair, then curl it. The curls I brush into a wave. I try a peony-colored gloss, then firecracker red. Then I wipe that off and go back to peony, which is deeper than before because the firecracker red stained my lips some.

The cap of my lipstick slams on the counter as I level my breathing. Never in the last twenty-six years of my life can I remember doing something that held so much adventure, that put me out there in such a risky way. Going on a date with Jamison is a risk to my heart. I like him...a lot.

The few dates I’ve been on in my life were a disaster. The need to curl up and hide somewhere is overpowering. I don’t know what Jamison has planned for us. What if there are a ton of people? Maybe my lipstick is too dark. Now my sweater is itchy. Last night was spontaneous and fun with his friends. This time it’s a date, and that makes me fidget. I’m epically bad at dating.

I want to crawl into bed. The lights flash, so I turn toward the bedroom door. Dad is leaning on the doorjamb.

I can tell him to go away. Dad looks sad at the thought. Even though Maddie usually pushed me to be more social, Dad helped along the way too. Mom is a bit more socially awkward like me. He was never a dad who told me not to put myself out there. He always swore if I did, they would love me. Mom understood better.

My face falls, and everything drains from my body. It’s not in relief, I quickly realize, but sadness. I want my father to tell Jamison to stay, but I also want him to leave. I’m not ready.

With a hand on my forehead, I nod. Yeah, I’m not feeling well at all. I’m sick to my stomach. And what if he takes me to a restaurant I don’t like? Or tries to take me to a movie. I had that happen once. It’s a classic date option. Oftentimes, hearing people forget things like I can’t hear the movie. I sat through the entire movie unable to actually know what was happening.

Dad just nods, a solemn look on his face as he turns to leave. I’m disappointed in myself too. I angrily swipe the lipstick away from my lips with my hand and tear my cashmere sweater over my head. I have to get the itchy thing off me.

The moment my eyes are exposed, I find Jamison looming in my doorway. His eyes flare as they take in my chest, but he pivots quickly, giving me his back instead. Such a gentleman. I quickly slip a t-shirt from my bag on as the tingling wave of desire crashes against me. A date with Jamison is too complicated with how much he works up my emotions.

When I turn back from grabbing my shirt, he’s still blocking my doorway, but I get an impressive view of his gorgeous backside. His hand, currently clutching the back of his neck, tenses.

Since he’s blocking the doorway, I can’t go around to get his attention, so I’m left with two choices—speak or touch him. Both are equally terrifying right now. I walk over and pray he is sensitive enough to hear my footsteps across my carpeted room, and I’m never so lucky.

I glide my hand across his shoulder. It tenses beneath by fingertips as I graze the soft fabric of his shirt. God, he’s so firm, and the scent of him engulfs me when he turns quickly, the breeze carrying it even stronger. My hand slips away. His mouth opens, the red blush apparent as his hands move.

I’m so sorry. Sorry. I... His movements are less fluid than any previous attempts to communicate with me.

I raise my palm toward him. You’re okay. I’m sick, so I can’t go out today. I place the back of my hand on my forehead to emphasize.

He’s recovered from catching a glimpse of my chest and smirks like he knows what I’m up to. His large hand lands on my forehead as he closes the space between us. I shiver from the contact. I don’t let people touch me. The way he touches overstimulates my body.

No fever, he declares, and his smile remains.

I point to my stomach. I’m sick. Don’t want to go to a restaurant. I’m not hungry.

Okay, we won’t, he signs.

I don’t understand. You said it’s a date.

It is.

I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to get ready for a date. I don’t want to feel this way, unprepared with variables that I don’t know or understand. I can’t figure out Jamison or my emotions. Why does he want to be my friend and go on dates with me? Why does the thought of him wanting to be more get my stomach in knots?

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