Page 39 of Please, Sir

SIXTEEN

I hadevery mind to come over here and rip Riley Rivers a new one.

Every damn mind.

Doesn’t matter that I sucked a splinter from her hand, that she makes me fantasize about all the things I’ve never let myself consider, that I’ve thought about her more than any other woman since my wife, or that my daughterfucking adores her. I had every damn mind to tear into her for taking Jo Jo to get her damn belly button pierced.

But my heart.

When I rolled up on her place and saw some dude all up in her space, my heart did a freefall. At first, I thought she had a boyfriend or a date or something. And the jealousy that overtook me was incredible. I got out of my truck, still set on tearing her up, whether she was playing ‘no, you hang up first’ with some fuckhead or not.

Then she reared back and smacked the shit out of him with the bouquet, and started hollering at him to go.

My heart did something else.

It squeezed. It leapt. It felt suspended in time until I got onto the porch and put myself between her and that dickwad as a barrier. And I couldn’t fully breathe until I got her inside and had that door shut and locked.

And now, with tears streaking her ruddy cheeks, her hands shaking at her sides, I don’t want to do anything but find out who that was and why she’s upset. Then I want to make her feel good, and in turn make myself feel better.

But I know I can’t.

Her eyes drop to the floor as she toes her way out of her running shoes. She pushes past me, like she’s just gonna carry on with her day but I stop her, placing my hand on her shoulder, the tips of my fingers splayed gently over her collarbone.

“Who was that?”

She sighs, her shoulder sloping. “My ex.”

I step back and let her move through her house, but I follow her until we’re in her kitchen. She gets to work filling a carafe of water, making coffee, and I stand there, watching. She’s in tiny black leggings and a white tank, tied in a knot at her side. Her flaxen hair sways in a ponytail, and traces of her run still glitter along her back and chest. My eyes can’t rakeover her fast enough; there isn’t a single place on her I couldn’t look at for hours.

She dumps grounds into the filter, using the back of her wrist to swipe at her eye. At the sink, she wets a paper towel and blots it to the blood on her chest, cleaning herself up.

“What happened there?” I ask, stepping closer but holding off on getting too close, coming into her personal space too fast.

“Thorn cut, it’s nothing.” She tosses the paper towel and washes her hands.

She said it’s her ex and I can see this conversation is going to be me pulling answers from her but luckily, I have a teenager so I’m well versed. “I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never seen that prick before.”

Using a light blue tea towel tied around the handle, Riley tugs it, opening the fridge. I try my hardest not to watch the way her tits weigh down her tank top as she leans over and rustles through the contents of her fridge, and I especially try to not look at the black thong, defined even through her pants.

She uses her socked foot to close the door. “He’s not from here. He’s from Willowdale, where I was raised. Where I moved from.”

Having set a carton of eggs on the counter, she finally stops moving, and plants her hands on her hips. Her blue eyes are wide, but there’s hesitancy lining them, like she’s trying to come off unaffected by whatever it is I drove up on—no small feat.

“What were the roses for?” I ask, knowing I ought to drop it since she clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, it is none of my goddamn business and I’m actually here to yell at her. I’m not here to figure out what’s going on. And yet, I wait with bated breath for her response.

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose before she laughs, melodic and light, but not genuine. I arch a brow, waiting to hear why her ex brought her roses. Roses are for romance or apologies, ain’t no two ways about it.

“He’s trying to win me back.” She laughs, speaking maybe to herself more than me, “which is like, never, ever, not in a million years going to happen. But, yeah,” she says, finally meeting my eyes again after she’s looked at everything in her kitchen but me. “He was trying to win me back.”

“Why?” I ask. Then, because it kind of sounded like I was asking why she’d ever want him back, I clarify. “I mean, why is it never gonna happen?” I don’t know a lick of specifics but I already know Riley Rivers is too good for that fuckhead. After all, they broke up at some point if he’s trying to win her back, and anyone that lets a woman like her get away is clearly an absolute moron fuckboy.

“I don’t want to talk about it, and you said you came over here to yell at me so…” she shrugs, her features drooping with defeat. “Yell.”

“Miss Rivers,” I start, because I’m not exactly sure what to call her. The girls call their coach Miss Riley, and the students call her Miss Rivers, but she isn’t my teacher or my coach. She isn’t really anything to me, so I settle on Miss Rivers.

She pressed her palms to her face, dipping her fingers into her eyes, rubbing. With a big exhale, she drops her hands. “Just… yell, Mr. Turner. Do what you came here to do. Please, sir.”

Please, sir.There it is again.Sir. It just rolls off her tongue, as smooth as any first name. Our eyes lock, a spark ignites between us, invisible but undeniable as she takes two steps nearer, leaving mere inches between us. “Please, sir. Just… give it to me.”

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