Her Name Was Annie by Beth Rinyu (the little red hen read aloud txt) 📕

know that’s what you were thinking about just now. You were a million miles away.”

“Yeah. I guess I was.” I nodded and bowed my head so my eyes wouldn’t betray me with what had really been on my mind.

Chapter 4

“COME ON, STEPH, the night is still young and tomorrow is Friday!” Tianna, my friend and coworker, pleaded, throwing back her head and downing another sip of wine.

“No, I reached my two-glass limit, not to mention I’m exhausted! Besides, you have your own personal chauffer to drive you home.” My eyes shifted to the other end of the bar to Tianna’s husband, who was vice principal of the middle school in our school district.

“Fine, I’ll give you a pass. You’ve had a rough week.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet? I’ll see you tomorrow.” I stretched my neck and planted a kiss on her cheek, then wrapped my scarf around my neck.

“Steph! Where are you going?” I turned around just as Michael caught up to me as I reached the door.

“Home. It’s past my bedtime, and it’s a school night.” I grinned.

“Well, at least let me walk you to your car.” He cut in front of me and held the door open.

I stepped outside and immediately put on my coat to try and chase away the chilly air. “The temperature really dropped. It feels like it could snow.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cold.” We both looked up at the clear sky and the full moon overhead, walking the short distance to my car.

“Well, this is me. Thanks for the security detail. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said with my hand on the door handle.

“Yeah.” He nodded and smiled. “Hey, would you like to have drinks with just me sometime?” he blurted out like a nervous teenager asking his first crush out on a date.

“Umm…yeah. I mean…I’ve got some things going on this weekend. So…” I realized I was sounding much like a teenage girl as well with my reply. “What I mean to say is, when were you thinking? My daughter is coming home for Thanksgiving break this weekend, so I’m going to be a little preoccupied for the next week or so.” I was to the point, just how a woman of my age should be responding to an invitation.

“That’s fine, we can set something up after she leaves. I have your number and you have mine. Plus, it’s not like we don’t see each other every day.”

I managed a nervous smile and nodded in agreement. “Sounds good, then. Get back in there and have another drink to warm up.”

He smiled back and waited until I was in the car before heading back into the bar. I jacked up the heat and foolishly held my hand up to the vents that were still blowing out freezing cold air. What the hell was I getting myself into with Michael? I was breaking my number one rule: Never date a coworker. It will only end badly. But the truth was, I had been a little lonely. My last real relationship didn’t end all that well, but that’s what I got for dating a man who had been in the process of a divorce for three years. Turned out, he was using those years only to finally figure out he wanted to get back with his wife. I was so angry for wasting almost an entire year on him, and even angrier at myself for not seeing the game he was playing.

After we broke up, I slowly got back into the dating game, becoming overcritical of each guy I’d meet, so I wouldn’t get burned again. It had been seven months since I’d gone on my last date, which happened to be a total disaster. It was a blind date my hairdresser had set me up on. He was a business acquaintance of her husband, who she believed to be forty-six…only to find out he was twenty-six. In her defense, he was prematurely gray, but his baby face gave it away immediately. I also came to learn his gray hair wasn’t brought on by Mother Nature, but instead by a drugstore color kit because he was into older women. He had finally confessed this to me when I confronted him about his real age. As if being young enough to be my son wasn’t grounds for ending the date immediately, the term older women was.

I hated that society viewed women over forty as old. We weren’t old by any means. My mother always said age is just a number, and you’re only as old as you feel, and mentally I still felt as if I were eighteen, some days even less mature than that. I did work a little harder to keep up these days than I had when I was younger.

When so many women in my age group were fighting with the excess weight that midlife brought on, I refused to let it overtake me. I ate healthy for the most part, hit the gym as much as I could, or went for runs when I was feeling ambitious. I scheduled my six-week hair color appointments to conceal the few grays that would poke through like clockwork and still dressed in the trending fashions. I didn’t shop in the junior’s section, of course, but I kept up with age-appropriate styles.

When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t think the forty-eight-year-old Stephanie looked much different than the twenty-year-old one. I still had my wavy brown locks; they were now shoulder-length instead of down the middle of my back. My deep brown eyes showed just a hint of wrinkles, thanks in part to my expensive eye cream. I liked to think of all the little extra steps I was taking as self-maintenance, and I was worth it.

I pulled out my phone before backing out of the spot to find a missed call and text from Jack.

Give me a call when you have a minute.

I pulled him up in my contacts and backed out of my spot, waiting for