Page 36 of Ewan

I don’t know what to do first. Grab the steering wheel? Hit the brakes? Am I supposed to do both at the same time?

I lift my foot off the gas and attempt to hit the brakes.

I know it the moment I’m doing it that it’s not a good idea and I could spin and fall into a ditch.

I also know I shouldn’t panic and make sudden moves. Only pump the brakes gently and let the engine lose power.

I’m doing my best, trying not to roll over, but I can’t regain complete control of my car, and after a few moments of struggle and skidding toward the side of the road, my vehicle shudders and the engine suddenly dies.

A long ribbon of billowing mist lifts in the air from under the hood, and what I have feared the most happens.

I’m stuck in my car with only my heels, a skirt, and a jacket on me. A bottle of wine, and as I reach inside my bag, a dead phone.

“Ugh… The story of my life,” I groan, dropping my arm against the wheel and pressing my forehead into my sleeve, already shivering from the merciless cold.

8

EWAN

Earlier

Not sharingthe space with that woman is a big relief. What a walking tease she is. Does she know what she can do to a man’s body? Does she?

I still get shots of wicked pleasure through my bones at the memory of her sitting on my lap, ahem, my package. I swear I didn’t want it to grow into a menace under her round perfect ass.

And I thought about all the bad things I’d done in my life. It worked to some degree, but she wasn’t stupid.

She knew what I was packing in my scratchy pants.

She knew that if we were in a different setting, under different circumstances, andalone, I would’ve cleared the table with a sweep of my hand, lift her up, plop her down, legs up in the air, and ram my flesh into her so I could extinguish the fire consuming me.

She must be aware we can’t be in the same room without something bad or good––depending on how you look at it––happening.

There’s no sharing names with her or seeing her again.

It’s not safe for a thousand reasons.

It’s not wise either.

And yet, as I run my fingers through my hair and check myself in the mirror, a smirk tugs at my lips, but I instantly dismiss the idea.

No fucking way.

Miss Scarlettis little Colley’s teacher.

Elisa would give me an earful if I tried to lay a finger on his favorite teacher and not because she was Margot’s sister.

But because she’d hate the idea that I touched the woman and wasn’t serious about her.

If you asked Elisa, she’d say I needed a woman in my life to give me balance, soften me, and sometimes, pull me back from being hard on Ezra.

She said it many times after her sister’s passing.

Long after my late wife had turned into a beautiful memory, and I could think of her with soothing nostalgia as the grieving time was way in the past.

Margot would have agreed with her statement, she also said.

I know all that.

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