Spring Secrets - Allie Boniface Page 0,22
said. “I’m not much of a drinker.”
“I’ll have a light beer, Josie,” Dash said. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing.”
Sienna scanned the specials and decided on the pot roast with stuffing and asparagus. She needed something hearty on a winter night like this. She set her menu aside and surveyed the other tables. Mostly couples, a few businessmen eating together, and one family of six. A cute toddler sat in a high chair and waved her fist as her parents and grandparents oohed and aahed. An older brother, maybe six or seven, looked bored and played with his silverware.
Josie dropped off their drinks and a small plastic basket with slices of bread inside. Dash leaned over and touched his beer to Sienna’s glass of water. “Cheers.”
“What are we toasting?”
“How about making it to the weekend?”
“Cheers to that, then.”
He took a long pull on his beer. “How was your first week of work?”
She blew out a breath. “It’s been challenging, that’s for sure. I only have five kids, but it’s still a lot to wrap my head around. They’re all at different levels, and they all have different needs.” She took a sip of water. “I don’t know how Lucy did it with just a chalkboard and one computer. We have a table that’s falling down and chairs that look like they’re left over from the seventies. The books, too. Well, they might be from the late nineties, but still. I ordered some new ones, and a bookshelf to put them on, but they won’t get here for at least three weeks.” She stopped. “Sorry. I’m rattling on.”
But he just smiled. Josie came and took their orders, and when she was gone, he waved his beer bottle. “Go on. There’s more. I can tell.”
“Not much. You know what I’d really love?”
“What?”
“Bean bag chairs.” She laughed. “That sounds silly, right? But I had a teacher, I think it was in fourth grade, who had them all around the room. Whenever we finished our work early, or got a good grade on a test, we could sit in one and read.”
“Let me guess. You spent a lot of time in those bean bag chairs, Miss Smarty-Pants.”
She stuck out her tongue. “Why, yes, I did.” See, we can be friends. We can joke around and not have it mean anything. She just had to focus on something other than Dash’s searing blue eyes, or strong arms and hands, or low chuckle that made her belly tighten in wonderful, not-so-friendly ways.
“You have Silas Turner in your class, don’t you?” he asked as their salads arrived.
“How did you know?”
“His father works out at the gym. He mentioned it.”
“Hope he had good things to say.”
Dash grinned. “They weren’t all bad.”
“Meaning some of them were?”
“No. I’m kidding. He thinks you’re great.”
Sienna stabbed some lettuce and a cucumber. “I have a student who doesn’t speak.”
“At all?”
“Not at school. It’s not a medical or physical thing, either. She has selective mutism. I’ve read through her file, and there’s some history there...” She trailed off. She wasn’t supposed to break confidence about things like possible past abuse or families’ criminal records. “Anyway, it breaks my heart.”
“Does she talk at home?”
“I don’t know. I’ve called her foster parents twice, but they haven’t gotten back to me.”
“That’s awful.” Dash finished his own salad and pushed the plate aside. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Beneath one sleeve she could see the tail end of a red and blue swirl.
“You have a lot of ink.”
He flexed his hands. “Yeah, guess so. It becomes addictive. One turns into two and the next thing you know, you’re on your tenth.”
“Do they all mean something? Or were they just...” She trailed off.
“Drunken whims?” He grinned. “I have a couple of those from when I was younger. Probably oughta get ‘em covered up or changed someday.”
She cocked her head. “What’s your favorite one?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. His dark blond hair caught the light, and a jolt of desire hit Sienna yet again. With effort, she tamped it down. He wants to be just friends. You can’t look at him that way.
“I’d say I haven’t gotten it yet,” Dash said, and it took a minute for Sienna to realize they were still talking about tattoos. He turned his arms back and forth. “Haven’t gotten a new one in a while, though.”
“Any names?” she said lightly. “I always think of that Norman Rockwell painting with the sailor who has about eight or ten