Page 45 of If This Was a Movie

Sorry, I can’t, I’ve got so much to iron out at the community center today. I’ll be back before 2 to get Sophie off the bus, though.

He gives me a thumbs-up in reply, and my mind has to remind me eighteen thousand times he is a man, so a thumbs-up isn’t a weirdly passive-aggressive move, and even if it was, it doesn’t matter.

Nate isn’t mine.

So instead of sitting in his kitchen and drinking coffee with him while he gets ready for his day, I chug an energy drink on the drive to the community center, teach an adult dance fitness class, and spend the rest of the morning making sure everything is ironed out for the final rehearsals before our winter recital on Tuesday.

I get back to Nate’s with plenty of time to get Sophie off the bus, give her a snack, and play Ashlyn dolls with her for two hours, but as soon as Nate gets home, I head out, telling Sophie I’ll see her tomorrow and barely giving Nate a wave. It works so well that I decide this is going to be my routine, because the easiest, if not the most childish, way to keep things completely professional with Nate is to simply avoid him.

But the next day, when he walks in an hour early and Sophie is still eating her snack, I’m foiled by a meddling five-year-old with a wickedly effective pouty face.

“Can you stay for dinner, Jules?” Sophie asks as I start to close my laptop. I was doing administrative work, which I usually put off until the last minute.

“Oh, I don’t think your dad—” I start, but Nate cuts in quickly.

“If you stayed, it would actually be a huge help,” he says, and I glare at him as Sophie smiles next to me. He has to know that my wanting to help is going to make me cave, since no matter what he says, getting Sophie off the bus occasionally is not equivalent to fixing up my place and giving me somewhere to stay.

“Pleassseeee, Jules?!” She begs, pouting at me.

“I…”

“I have to fix this sink,” Nate says, tipping his head to the kitchen sink that definitely works just fine. “And I don’t want Sophie to get all the parts mixed up.”

“And we’re having pizza for dinner! We each make our own pizza, and we put on the toppings ourselves. It’s so much fun! I use extra extra cheese because that’s the best part.”

“Well, I’m sure your dad doesn’t have enough?—”

“I have more than enough. Do you have a class tonight?” he asks, and before I can lie, Sophie speaks.

“She doesn’t! I asked her when I got off the bus!”

The way Sophie is looking at me with big, blue puppy dog eyes, I can’t find it in me to say no, so I sigh and nod. “Yeah, I guess I can stay if it’s cool with you guys.”

“It is!” Sophie shouts. And it sounds crazy, but the way Nate and Sophie look at each other when I agree, it’s like this was, in fact, planned like some orchestrated exchange to…what? Get me to stay for dinner?

You’re out of your mind, Jules. Be realistic,I tell myself, sighing as I settle back to open my laptop and respond to another email.

“What are you doing?” I ask a few minutes later when Nate sets a worn tool bag and a box on the kitchen island. “I didn’t realize the sink was broken.”

His forearms flex, the sleeves of his long-sleeve tee pushed up to the elbows as he opens the box, pulling out instructions.

No one should have forearms that good-looking. Add in a fading tan and the perfect light sprinkling of hair—it’s actually criminal.

“Jules?” he asks, snapping me out of the forearm porno running through my mind, my head snapping up to look at him. His lips are tipped up like he knows what I was thinking about, and a blush burns over my cheeks.

“Yeah?” I ask, fighting the urge to shake my head out, to dislodge my thoughts from the incredibly inappropriate place they had wandered.

“You zoned out.”

“Sorry, I, uh…”Think, Jules! Think!“I saw the tools, and my mind went straight to how much work my place probably needs. What did you say you’re doing with the sink?”

He looks at me, eyes dancing with humor, and I know he knows I’m full of shit, but what else can I do?

“Replacing this sink faucet. It drips, and I’ve meant to swap it for months.” I remember this: him telling me the sink drove him crazy back in January, and once again, in the way Nate always seems to be able to do so, I think he reads my mind, knowing what I remember because his lips tip in an embarrassed smile before he shrugs. “Never got around to it.”

“Huh,” I say, then watch as he starts to take parts out of the box, the instructions spread on the counter. “I’m surprised you use those.”

“What?”

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