Claire Harding

I live in Idaho. (Yes, potatoes. *eye roll* Can we talk about something else?) And I love it here. Small town values galore and it’s right where I want to raise my girls after my jerk ex traded me in for a “younger, newer model” (his words, not mine).

My mom’s the volunteer fire chief in our town and I’m pretty happy hanging out with the auxiliary at the fire hall and doing her grunt work—not fighting fires, because, please, I read, love science, and my idea of a lot of exercise is having to walk up the stairs twice in the morning before I send my girls off to school and leave for my job as a home nurse.

I guess it’s kind of weird that I also coach basketball. Long story.

I was pretty happy with my life until the hot shot, all-state baller from my teen years moved back in next door. (I babysat him, yes, but I never changed his diapers. Just wanted to be clear about that.)

Guess who’s now the assistant b-ball coach?

Logic would say me—especially since I coached my entire first year holding the play book upside down (it turned out to be an old football playbook from the ‘80s, so it’s not like it mattered which way I held it) but the accurate answer is Trey Haywood, my all-star neighbor, and I’m honestly not sure which of us is more upset about it.

Anyway, the team was trying to set us up (girls, they’re such romantics) and I don’t think they would have succeeded, but in celebration of breaking our 37 game losing streak, they locked Trey and me in the septic system control room.

That changed everything. Not in a good way.

Trey

Yeah. What she said.

And…when I first saw her again, I thought she was a catastrophe.

New thought post septic control: she’s a cute catastrophe. (And, holy man, can she kiss.)