The Dating Resolution. Hannah Bernard
time outdoors.
Jordan shifted his weight as if to leave. “Well. All set? Any questions?”
She held up the key to show her new neighbor, and pointed at the offending terra-cotta pot. “I can’t believe this! This is not good. It’s an open invitation for any serial killer to enter your home!”
“Really?”
“Yes! How do I know somebody hasn’t made a copy of this?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking at her as if she was the crazy one. “You can always change the locks, I suppose. If it makes you feel better.”
“I mean—why bother to lock your door in the first place, if you just leave the key right next to it in the most obvious spot you can think of?”
Jordan grinned. “Yeah. That’s why I never lock my door.”
This was a serious culture shock for an L.A. girl.
“And you haven’t been murdered in your bed yet?”
“I don’t think so, no. Alaska’s too cold to be hell and this street is too damn noisy to be heaven.” He nodded toward the street. “Last few days before school starts. They are desperate to cram all the fun they can into this weekend. It usually isn’t quite this bad.”
“That’s not a problem for me. I’m a teacher. We’re impervious to this kind of noise.”
“That must be handy.”
“Yup. It’s a special course we take at college. ‘Closing Your Ears 101.”’
Why was she prattling on like this? Jordan smiled at her stupid joke, and she felt it in her gut. Dammit. But there was no reason to worry—he wasn’t even her type. Not even close. Hot, yes, but too scruffy. She liked neat guys. His hair was far too long, unruly and slightly curling, and although he seemed to have shaved recently, it was a bit lopsided, as if he’d been in a hurry.
She liked guys in suits and ties, hair neatly combed until such a time she saw an occasion to change that state. She liked sophisticated aftershave and polished shoes.
This guy’s tennis shoes looked like they’d seen better decades.
Feeling better at having reassured herself she would not be the least tempted by her new neighbor, she slid the key in a pocket and stood. She held out a hand. “I guess Jane told you my name, but for a proper introduction—I’m Hailey Rutherford.”
“Welcome to Alaska.” Jordan took her hand, and as she felt the warmth of it shoot up her arm she thought she detected a flash of interest in his eyes. His hand was large and warm and he held hers for what to her male-ienated mind was a moment too long.
Oh, no.
“I’m married,” she blurted out and snatched her hand back, inching her left one behind her back to hide the lack of a ring. “Happily married. Very happily.”
Amusement sparkled in his eyes—silver eyes—and a muscle at the corner of his mouth jumped, as if he were holding back a grin. Hailey gritted her teeth as a familiar feeling of folly crept up on her. Subtlety, girl!
“Congratulations,” Jordan said. “I’m happy for you.”
“Daddy!”
One of the little hooligans terrorizing the street came sprinting, taking a running leap up on his father’s back.
Dammit. The guy had a family and she’d virtually pointed a stun gun at him without a reason. Her antenna must have rusted.
An elfin face looked at her over his father’s shoulder. He looked about seven or eight. He might even be in her class, Hailey realized with excitement. She loved the feeling of meeting a new class, getting to know all the different emerging personalities inside the squirming group of children. “Hi!” the boy said, waving a grubby hand, and Hailey smiled at him.
“Hello. What’s your name?”
“Simon. Are you the new Miss Laudin?”
Jordan grabbed his son and put him down. “Her name is Mrs. Rutherford. Simon will be in your class,” he told Hailey.
“I see!” She smiled broadly at her new pupil. “Nice to meet you, Simon! Maybe you can show me the way to school, then. Ms. Laudin told me it doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes to walk there.”
The boy stared at her. “I live on the other side of school. Way over there!” He pointed east. “I ride the schoolbus.”
“Simon lives with his mother and stepdad,” Jordan explained. “But he spends a lot of his time over here with me.”
Hailey decided to feel less embarrassed about the stun gun incident. “I see.”
“Miss Laudin is a really cool teacher. She’s prettier than you, too. And she’s a Miss, not a Mrs.”
The small pout in the child’s face and the petulant tone had some alarm bells ringing. If the children adored their regular teacher, she might be in for some rough times. It might take a while for them to accept her.
But, well, that was part of the package. Part of the challenge.
“Simon!” Jordan put his hand on his son’s shoulder, gently shaking him. “You know very well that was a rude thing to say. Apologize to Mrs. Rutherford.”
“Sorry,” the boy said, with that unique expression children wore when they were not sorry at all.
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt my feelings,” she said to the child. “Apology accepted.”
The child grunted and ran away again. Hailey dug into her pocket for the rusty key. “Well, I suppose I’ll go inside and explore my new home.”
“Of course. Will your husband be joining you soon?” Jordan asked.
This was the drawback of spur-of-the-moment decisions. She didn’t have a story yet. “No. He’s…ah…he’s away. We won’t be seeing each other again until Christmas.”
Jordan nodded. “That’s rough. He’s away on a job?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of a job takes him away so much?”
Questions, questions—and a considerable lack of answers on her part. She peered at him, trying not to notice how well that sweater fit. Could she say it was none of his business?
No. That would be way too rude for the new elementary schoolteacher in such a small town. He was a helpful neighbor, a friend of Jane’s. Not good for her image in the neighborhood.
What sort of occupation took husbands away from their wives for months on end? A flash of inspiration struck, and not a moment too soon, judging from the puzzled look dawning on Jordan’s face as he waited for an answer. “He works on an oil rig.”
“Oil rig? Is that a fact?”
“Yes.” Jordan seemed to be waiting for an elaboration, so she elaborated. “You see, he’s far away. Siberia. So he can’t come home very often.”
Jordan raised both eyebrows. “He’s in Siberia?”
She started praying Siberia had oil rigs. That would teach her to do her homework in good time. “Yes. Siberia. Oil rig.”
“Fascinating. I know very little about oil rigs. What kind of work does Mr. Rutherford do?”
Hailey desperately worked at conjuring up a quick image of her fictional husband. Oil rig guy, so her preferred look—a suit and a tie, polished shoes and neatly combed hair—probably wouldn’t work. “He’s an engineer,” she said, hubby’s occupation coming to her in a second spark of inspiration. “He maintains their machinery and such.” Not bad! She smiled, proud of herself. Excellent save. A vague answer, yet detailed enough not to arouse suspicion. She could do this. Yup. She could