The Presence of Grace (Love and Loss Book 2)(20)
I was also immediately noticing the dress Grace was wearing.
There was nothing overtly sexual about the dress, but everything about Grace was sexy. The way the soft blue fabric crossed over her front, cutting right between her breasts. Or the way it hugged her waist and hung perfectly from her ass.
I couldn’t remember the last time I purposely looked at a woman’s ass.
The bottom of the dress flared out slightly when she turned, letting me take in the length of her legs.
“You look amazing,” I stammered before I could stop myself.
“Thanks,” she replied shyly. “You look pretty great too.”
I looked down at my white cotton button-up shirt and jeans. Nothing special about me. Guys had it easy in the What to Wear on a Date department.
I led the way to my SUV, opening the door for her, watching as she nimbly folded herself in, giving me another shy smile. I crossed in front and climbed in, turning to her with another apology on the tip of my tongue.
“We can’t make the early movie, but we can get dinner and hope we make the later showing. I’m sorry, again.”
“Dinner sounds great, Devon. And it’s fine. No more sorrys.”
We talked all the way to the restaurant and the conversation flowed effortlessly, which only made me more nervous. I wanted the evening to go well, for us to be comfortable around each other and for everything to go smoothly. It was scary how much I wanted all that. It had taken me long enough to come to terms with the fact that I wanted to take Grace out on a date, and now that the official date was happening, I was prepared for disaster—for some cosmic joke to play out and to hear the laughter ring inside my head, saying, “You didn’t think dating would be easy, did you?”
But aside from the late arrival, so far it was smooth sailing.
I didn’t know what to do with goodness—it had evaded me for so long.
Still, there we were, driving to dinner, talking, and nothing terrible was happening. Grace laughed as she told me stories about all the drunken college kids she’d served over the weekend, and I entertained with my account of the elderly woman who’d come into my hardware store looking for a chain saw to take down the tree in her front yard that blocked her view of the hunky swimsuit models that lived across the street.
“She did not!” Grace teased, laughing as I pulled into a parking spot at the one good Italian restaurant in town. That time I managed not to ram my car into any cement dividers.
“She did. And even though it went against my better judgment, I couldn’t find a valid reason to not sell her a chain saw.”
I listened to her laughter as I climbed out of the car and then opened her door for her. I held out my hand to help her out, and when she placed her hand in mine it was as if every part of me was aware of it: my heart rate increased, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and my mouth ran dry. My whole being was completely attuned to the fact that her hand was in mine and it felt incredible. Once she was on her own two feet, I let her hand fall away, even though it almost hurt to lose the contact.
We walked into the restaurant and, luckily, were led to an open table. The waiter took our drink order and then we were left to each other once again.
“So,” I said, trying to keep the conversation going. “What made you want to be a teacher?” A smile started in the corner of her mouth, a small one, and I could tell she was trying to hide it, but she couldn’t contain it and eventually it shone brightly. “What’s so funny?”
“Do you know how many times I’ve been asked that question? Something about teachers, I guess. Everyone always asks that. I imagine investment bankers don’t get the same question. Or mechanics.”
“Maybe it has something to do with the entire universe understanding that teachers get royally screwed when it comes to pay and appreciation. I think people are interested in why someone would willingly sign up for a job that doesn’t get the thanks it deserves.”
“Perhaps,” she said in a way that made me think she didn’t agree. “Or maybe it’s that everyone thinks I’d have to be crazy to willingly become a second-grade teacher,” she said with a laugh.
“Is that it? Are you crazy?”
“No,” she said on a sigh, her gaze slowly falling to her hands, clasped together and resting on the table. “I just really love children.” Her words were somber and sad; a blaring contradiction to the laughter just seconds before, and even the words themselves.
“Well, I’d say you picked a great job, then.”
“Yeah.” A hint of a smile returned.
I thought about my career choices and how none of them were born out of love—well, not really. I went into business consultation for the money. I had a kid on the way and I had a mind for it, so consulting seemed like a good place to start. And it was. That job allowed our family to have a good start—a nice home, a stay-at-home mom for my kids, vacations, and nice cars. But a few months after Olivia died I realized I couldn’t be that same guy anymore. I wasn’t the go-to-work dad, who could come home to a meal on the table and freshly bathed children I could tickle and play with for an hour before bedtime. I was now mother and father. And even though I came into my new role in the worst way possible, I wouldn’t give it up. I would gladly take a job I didn’t even need a degree for if it meant I could watch my kids grow up, be there every step of the way, and see every gruesome and wonderful moment.