At least I didn’t fall on my patootie.
That’s what I keep telling myself when the box of supplies I’m carrying crashes to the floor. When the sexiest man in a suit to set foot in my place of employment finds me scrounging on the ground for markers and gluesticks. When he holds out a hand to help me to my feet, and his touch sends a shiver through me, just like in the movies.It’s only when he shows up to the toddler class I teach that I learn how wrong we are for each other.He’s more stoic than the statue of our town’s founder; I cry at commercials. He’s moved upstate from Manhattan; I returned to my small town roots after my big city relationship fell apart. He’s a grieving widower with two adorable kids; there’s a ninety-nine point nine percent chance that I’ll never be a mother.Oh, and did I mention that it’s his job to cut my mother’s legacy program?Despite all this, the only thing keeping our hands off of each other is a total lack of privacy.Despite all this, he’s got me dreaming of something I told myself I’d given up a family of my own.Despite all this, it’s apparently my job to welcome him to Climax. do not read this book unless you ❤️Buttoned-up heroes who are silly with their kids❤️Sunshiny, Cinderelly heroines❤️Nosy, interfering, small town bureaucrats❤️Possibly magical HEA-predicting clock towers❤️Romantic weekend getaways with Forced Proximity Smexy times❤️Parks and Rec and Schitt’s Creek vibes
