Not My Kind of Hero

by Pippa Grant

I want her to know she’s strong enough to do hard things. But you have to do the hard things before you know you’re strong enough.

But pulling me out of my bad mood is an email from one of my former students. Kid graduated from college a couple of months back and has been working his dream job in New York City. Couldn’t be more excited for him. He was one of the first kids I took out to Tony’s ranch when he was having a rough patch with family shit and looked like he was on the way to dropping out of school. Seeing him happy and in a good spot is a win.

No, the worst part is that in those little milliseconds between hearing a throaty, sexy laugh when I walked in here and realizing who that laugh belonged to, every cell in my body lit up with undiluted, primal attraction. And I can’t make it stop.

He smirks. I scowl. I know that smirk. That smirk says, You’re being an ass to a woman because it’s your favorite defense mechanism.

Once I realized the biggest thing wrong with me was that I was married to a man who thought there was something wrong with me, it was damn easy to figure out what I needed to do to solve my problem, even if executing that plan was one of the hardest things I’ve done in my life.

She’s dressed in jeans, a faded T-shirt, and work boots again today. No dress. No jewelry. No makeup. Her short hair is clipped back at the sides with barrettes decorated with tiny butterflies. And she’s fucking gorgeous.

“Why do I have a stupid crush on Maisey Spencer, and why am I losing my fucking mind over it?” “Because she’s hot, you thought she was moderately evil for bringing change to your life, you found out she’s not unreasonable, and also that she’s emotionally unavailable, and that despite your idiotic assumption that since she looks like an airhead on television, she’s competent with power tools, and that’s hot, even to me, and all of that together basically makes her the first fresh blood in town that’s completely your type in about three years?”

Dude. You are fucked. Maisey Spencer is your catnip.”

Maisey likes math. Maisey does math. That’s as hot as competence.

I don’t know if I’m breathing. I don’t know if I’m still alive. All I know is that if there’s meaning to life, it’s this. It’s Maisey, beneath me on a furry rug in front of a fireplace, her breath coming in sweet little gasps while she peppers my head with kisses. This is it. This is everything. This is home. And it’s terrifying as all fuck.

“Hurt so much by the people who are supposed to care the most. Afraid to open up to anyone again. But so desperate to fit in that you’ll bend over backward giving and giving and giving until there’s nothing left for yourself.”

“We’re a mess, aren’t we?” I say. “Little bit.” His eyes flicker over my face. “But for the first time in possibly forever, I don’t feel alone in it.”

“Sometimes figuring out who you are and who you want to be involves figuring out who to trust to go on the journey with you.”

I feel a smile peeking out. “You’re kinda adorable when you go caveman.” “Cavemen are not adorable.” “And yet, here you are, being a caveman and being adorable . . .”