Page 2 of Please, Sir

Leah clears her throat because I’ve likely missed my cue. I stick out my hand. “Riley Rivers, nice to meet you.”

The man slips his hand in mine, hot and strong. The shake breaks when a little boy and girl run full stop into his legs, wrapping their arms around him. The little girl, whose white fuzzy hair is in a cute little ponytail with a pink ribbon, reaches for his pocket, whining “up, Dada, up!”

He grabs them both, sliding the boy onto his back before putting the girl on his hip. He smiles, returning his focus to me. “Hudson Gray, nice to meet you Riley.”

When he says his name, Leah clears her throat and my eyes immediately go back to his neck, riddled with last night’s passion. “Hudson, I’ve heard your market is really part of what makes Bluebell so special.”

“My dad is the greatest,” the little boy says, peering around his dad’s head, Hudson’s hat wobbly on his son’s head.

“I’m Honey,” the girl states proudly, smiling to expose a mouth full of baby teeth, chocolate at the corners of her lips.

“Well, I’m honored Leah reflects on it in such high regard. I love the market. My wife and I run it together, so I can’t take all the credit.” He lowers the kids to the ground gently, plucking his hat from the boy’s head. “Bear, take Honey to see Aunt Ivy.” He crouches, kissing the little girl on the nose. “Weren’t you fixin’ to get your honey pot tattoo today? Bear’s gonna take you, then it’s time for your nap.”

Honey leaps, and the boy takes her by the hand sweetly, leading her off.

“Temporary,” Hudson says, placing his hat on his head. “My sister-in-law is a tattoo artist and she gives all the kids fun, temporary tattoos at the market. Sets up a booth like it'sreal, makes them sign a consent form, all of it. The kids love it.”

“Just another thing about this farmers market that makes it so special,” Leah says, using her professional voice. “Well, I’m gonna take Miss Rivers around to meet some more folks.”

Hudson dips his head and smiles, and I’m almost scared to look too long after Leah’s warning and the sight of his neck. “Nice to meet you, Miss Rivers.”

“You too,” I tell him, just as another group of people approach. Leah launches me into yet another introduction.

“Riley, this is Coach McAllister, the varsity football coach. Coach McAllister, this is Miss Rivers, the new health teacher and JV cheer coach,” Leah says, waving her hand from one of us to the other to make the introduction.

Coach McAllister stands at least two feet taller than me, I swear. He tugs his hat off his head, revealing a damp tangle of reddish blonde hair. He drags the back of his wrist over the perspiration on his forehead before extending his hand to me. “Nice to meet you, Miss Riley.” We shake hands, and while I’m expecting a sexist jab about the way cheerleaders are simply frivolous distractions to the main event—football—I’m pleasantly surprised at what Coach McAllister says next.

“Those girls work hard, real hard. I’m glad to see Ms. Campbell found a coach. The hunt’s been goin’ on for a couple of years, hasn’t it?” Hooking one thumb in his belt loop, hat pinched in his other hand held over his heart, he smiles.

Leah strokes her hand down her arm before swatting a fly away. “Yeah, I think Layla’s been coaching varsity and JV for the last few years. But good things take time,” she beams, slipping her arm through mine. “I hate to cut it short, Coach, but Mr. Cunningham is right over there and,” she jiggles our linked arms a bit. “I need to introduce them.”

Coach McAllister places his hat on his head before stroking his pointer finger and thumb along his thick mustache, smiling. “Great to meet you, Miss Riley,” he beams, and then I’m being drug off to meet Mr. Cunningham… and about fifty other people.

By the time I’ve met Mr. Cunningham, who is the only other health teacher at Bluebell High, there’s a small circle of people forming around us, waiting to be introduced. My shoes are adorable, but I realize these people aren’t coming for my smile and espadrilles—the fact is, I’m new on staff. Acting interested in me is also about putting on a good face for their principal. But after each person leaves, I start to reflect, these folks are all pretty genuine.

An hour and a half later,I can hardly remember Leah’s name as I tell her I need to use the restroom and sneak away from the tented area. Is there a restroom? The commotion fades as I walk lightly through the lawn, toward the barn adjacent to the market. I don’t need a restroom, I only need a sliver of privacy for a minute or two. Five at the most.

Meeting so many people at once–while processing the fact that… I don’t live in Willowdale anymore–it’s a lot. I don’t identify as an anxious person usually, but right now, with my hands shaky and my chest tight, I am beyond anxious.

I’m overwhelmed by everything. I don’t know why it didn’t hit me when I got my rental home key. Or when I signed the paperwork with Leah on site. Or when I drove past the “now leaving Willowdale” sign. Why did the reality that my life is starting over at age twenty-four decide to crash into me today, when I’m becoming acquainted with my newlife? I don’t know, but as I drag myself around the edges of the barn and sink my back against the sun-soaked wooden wall, I’m just happy to get a moment alone.

My eyes fall closed as I fan my fingers out along the barn wall, feeling each jagged groove and waiting splinter. Warmth pours over my face and I tip my chin to the sky, hungry for more private warmth and peace. My toes poking from my fancy sandals tingle as the sun finds them, too.

It’s only overwhelming because you’re facing it all at once, I tell myself, breathing in through my nose, then exhaling slowly, hoping the sense of overwhelming change leaves my body with my breath.

“You alright?” A low, gruff voice makes my eyes fly open, and I clutch my collarbone in surprise. I blink to my left, in the direction of the husky voice, and have to raise my hand to shield my eyes from the sun. A few more blinks and my vision settles on a tall, strapping man–a cowboy, because Bluebell breeds them exclusively. He's wearing worn leather boots, faded and filthy blue jeans, and a green and black tartan flannel tucked in, revealing an ornate leather belt and a wide silver buckle. A few buttons at the top are undone, exposing sleek skin and a striation of muscle between his pecs. His large, sweat-stained cowboy hat hides his hair, but the ends poke out, loose, wild, like he’d been working and tossed the hat on without a thought. The hairs are dark, somewhere between espresso and light roast. The rim of his hat shades his eyes, but the longer I assess him, the clearer his face becomes—despite the sun’s best efforts.

His strong jaw tells me he’s been too busy for a razor for a few days. Lips pressing together in a flat line with eyes set on me, he doesn’t give off friendly energy, but he does ask me if I’m okay. His eyes, some intoxicating blend of sea moss andchestnuts, smoulder beneath his hat, and, for whatever reason, staring into them makes my pulse skip.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I breathe, still lost in his eyes. A splinter sinks into my palm while using my hand to stand steady against the barn, the other still shielding my face. I jump back and bring my hand to my chest, cursing beneath my breath, whispering, “splinter.”

He closes the distance between us, and I’m not sure where to look, so I look at his belt. Truth is, I’d love to stare into his eyes but I can’t risk that this man is like Hudson, and that some Bluebell wife is gonna come punch my lights out if I look at him too long.

“I like your belt,” I tell him awkwardly as the scent of his aftershave drifts my way. He grunts an “mm” in response, knocking his hat back a few inches with a curled knuckle. His gorgeous eyes find mine.

“Want me to get it?” he offers. My nipples think he’s talking directly to them, apparently, and though the sun is beating down on me, they noticeably harden.

“Get… what?” I ask around the sudden cramp of shyness that has taken up residence in my chest.

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