Free Skinny Bitch in Love by Kim Barnouin Page B

him.
    “Terrific. Meet me in front of Taft Middle School at 1:50.”
    Middle school? What?
    I tried to do the math fast in my head. Alexander couldn’t be more than thirty. How old were middle-school kids? Eleven? Twelve? Could he have a twelve-year-old kid? He could.
    Crap. Not that I didn’t like kids and all, but . . . did I want to watch that twelve-year-old kid blow into a clarinet or whatever for an hour? Not really.
    Before I could come up with a good excuse, he said, “Looking forward,” in that cute British accent and hung up.
    What did you wear to a middle-school concert at two in the afternoon, anyway?

    My own middle-school years sucked, just as I’d told Zach. My parents had switched me from a crunchy private school, where you took electives in African drumming, to the public school, which had four times the number of students. It took me a while to find my people.
    And it took me a while to spot Alexander among the throngs of people walking and milling around the school. Everyone’s parents and grandparents and bored-looking little siblings were heading toward the main entrance. No one else was wearing incredibly cool four-inch over-the-knee ecru faux-suede boots, though.
    Sara, who’d once substituted as an aide in a middle school, told me I could wear my skinny jeans and sheer, flowy shirt and amazing boots.
    Alexander was sitting on a stone bench and stood up andsmiled when I approached. Damn, he was cute. He took off his sunglasses and squinted his sweet dark brown eyes at me.
    “So, you were a teen dad or what?” I asked as we headed in.
    “More like a teen mentor,” he said with that irresistible British accent. “It’s a Big Brothers–type program. I mentor a great young bloke called Jesse. He’s in sixth grade. Crazy good tuba player.”
    He was a Big Brother. Brought his grandmum soup. The guy might be too good for me.
    “What kind of stuff do you do together?”
    He led the way into the auditorium. “Everything from basketball to helping with science fair projects. My father took off on my mum when I was young and I had a few different mentors in a similar program. One taught me how to cook, and here I am.”
    Huh. “That’s really great,” I said, noticing that he smelled great, too. Like the ocean and clean. He also had a handsome profile. Strong, straight nose. Excellent chin.
    “So Jesse knows you’re here?” I asked as we sat down close to the stage. Under the dark blue curtain across the stage, I could see lots of little feet moving around.
    He nodded. “His mum can’t take off from work, especially since she works so far from here, so I go to all the school events she can’t attend. Make sure he’s represented, you know?”
    Man, that was nice.
    “You might make me want to become a better person,” I whispered, because the audience was quieting down.
    He smiled, his eyes on mine. He took my hand and held it for a second, then began clapping as a woman in a really long skirt walked onto the stage.
    The principal. She made her introductions, there was more clapping, and then the curtain parted to reveal a bunch of kids of wildly varying heights, some looking like munchkins and others like teenagers, sitting with their instruments.
    “Which one is Jesse?”
    “See the kid in the second row with the floppy blond hair and tuba next to the redheaded girl?”
    “Aww, the tuba is bigger than he is.”
    They weren’t half bad, which I expounded on to Alexander, who smiled and squeezed my hand again.
    I liked this guy. Thank you, universe. I wouldn’t even remember Zach Jeffries’s last name in a couple of hours. Or the way that kiss of his shot straight from my toes to every part of my body. One little kiss did all that. But by four, maybe five o’clock when Alexander would have to head to Fresh for work, I should be completely over that kiss.
    Forty-five minutes later, after a standing ovation, we headed backstage. I could see Jesse in a crowd of kids being hugged