Mr. Klein is Fine

by Meghan Quinn

  Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC

  Copyright 2020

  Cover Design By: RBA Designs

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at meghan.quinn.author@gmail.com

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

  www.authormeghanquinn.com

  Copyright © 2020 Meghan Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter One

  GUNNER

  “God, I love teachers gone wild.” I take a deep breath, observing the bustling hotel lobby. “I can smell the alcoholic regrets already.”

  Romeo, real name, Brock Romero, co-coach and fellow physical education teacher pats his pants pocket. “I plan on acquiring some damning evidence this weekend. Love me some teacher conference blackmail.”

  Shuttles have been coming in from the airport on rotation, filtering into the Gaylord Rockies Resort and Convention Center all afternoon, dumping groups of educators into the pits of academic debauchery.

  Not everyone gets to attend the annual Educators and Scholars for the Children Convention—horrendous name, I know—but those who are lucky enough to be chosen know the kind of honor this is. An extended weekend of free alcohol, wild karaoke nights, long, drink-laden cruises down the lazy river . . . and, of course, seminars (snore).

  But if conducted correctly, you can attend a few seminars, get credit for attending, and then spend the rest of your time making bad decisions prior to the school year starting two weeks later.

  I can hear you now, up on your high horse saying, “Well, Gunner, shouldn’t you care about improving your professional teaching techniques?”

  Listen here, you Know-It-All Karen, my teaching techniques are some of the best in the state of Illinois. It’s why I’m constantly recognized for my job, and for bringing the Forest Heights Baseball team to State Championships every year.

  So back off.

  Sorry, Karen. That was uncalled for.

  I haven’t had a drink yet, can you tell?

  “Where’s Turner?” I ask, looking around.

  “Getting ready for his seminar on some bullshit about English literature and teaching it the right way.” Romeo yawns. “I didn’t pay much attention while he was rattling off on the airplane. At one point, I held my headphones in front of him, made eye contact, and slipped them over my ears, letting him know I was done.”

  “So you’re telling me you need a drink.”

  “Exactly.”

  Since this is our third year at the conference, we are familiar with the hotel and head straight to the open bar in the lodge.

  Romeo and I are not really into the whole conference thing, but since we know the rules, we both have our name badges tucked into our jeans pockets, lanyards hanging out in case anyone questions us. Meanwhile, others are glistening with excitement, conference badges strung proudly around their necks, binders tucked into their arms as they chat up their friends about all of the wonderful things they’re going to learn this weekend.

  Not me.

  I’m here to relax. I plan to take in a seminar about the advantages of creating an all-star staff for a kickball team—yes, that is one of the seminars being offered, and you can bet your ass I signed up for it. And then I’ll spend most of my time shirtless, ass tucked into an innertube, soaking up the Colorado sun.

  We reach the bar and Romeo immediately orders two Blue Moons for us. When in Rome, right? In case you missed that, Blue Moon originated in Colorado. For some reason, it always tastes better on tap at this high altitude.

  Hands gripping frosted pint glasses, we both lean against the bar and take in the bustle around us.

  “Think Turner will come join us at the bar?” Romeo asks about our arrogant friend Arlo Turner. The prestigious Forest Heights English teacher is every female faculty member’s wet dream. Known as Mr. Turns-Me-On behind his back, he would rather have his nose buried in a book, scowling about something in life, than letting loose and having fun.

  “No way in hell.” I take a sip of my beer. “Socializing isn’t on his to-do list this weekend.”

  “Is that so?” Arlo says, coming up behind us, gathering attention from all the female eyes around us. It’s the goddamn man cardigans he wears. I swear. Women can’t resist a man in a cardigan. Doesn’t help that the guy can lift just as much as me—a former baseball player—in the weight room either.

  Like the suave ass he is, he taps the bar with his knuckle and asks for two fingers of scotch.

  “Come to dust the stink off your social game?” Romeo asks with a smirk.

  “Came to make sure you two idiots don’t do anything stupid,” he says, taking his drink from the bartender and giving him a slight nod.

  “He cares about us,” I say, wrapping my arm around Arlo’s neck before he quickly slips out of my grasp. “Oh, you’re tense. Does this have anything to do with the new English teacher Dewitt just hired? Drinking your feelings?”

  “No,” he says gruffly.

  Romeo pokes him in the side. “But you didn’t get your first choice. Your last choice was hired.”

  “Are you trying to get me to leave?” Arlo asks, making both of us laugh.

  “No, just trying to lighten you up,” I say, bringing my pint glass to my lips. Arlo was not happy at all about the new hire. Something about Greer Gibson not being qualified enough to teach in his department. Dewitt saw it differently. She saw a fresh young face with new techniques, and a killer resume in volleyball. Division One athlete, full-ride, straight from UCLA . . . and hot. Holy fuck, is she hot. Pretty sure that’s what has Arlo’s undies in a twist. “Interesting that they brought elementary school teachers to the conference this year. In the past it’s only been middle school and high school. I wonder if Knox’s wife will be here.”

  “Knox Gentry?” Arlo asks. Knox is my former college teammate at Brentwood University and the all-star starting shortstop for the Chicago Bobbies. Dude is a phenom on the field.

  “Yeah, his wife is a librarian over at Cedar Pine,” I answer. “Shit, I haven’t seen him in a while. Him or Carson. Have you?” I ask Romeo.

  He shakes his head. “Last time I saw them was Knox’s wedding. Dude, we need to set up a time to have them come talk to our team. Make all those freshly pubescent nitwits drool with envy.”

  “And then make them run pole lines in front of Carson and Knox. Really get those engines roaring,” Romeo says, making me laugh.

  “Drive them to the ground in front of their heroes.”

  “What positive and uplifting educators you two are,” Arlo says, voice full of sarcasm.

  “All in a day’s work,” I say on a laugh.

  In all honesty, we are good fucking physical education teachers. We’re the kind of teachers who push you, listen to you, and make sure you’re ready for the next step in your life. Romeo and I take pride in what we do and always have an open-door policy.

  Just had to clar
ify that in case you were developing a different opinion of us.

  “Arlo Turner,” a man with a nasal voice says, waddling up to our group.

  Like the sophisticated man that he is, Arlo turns and extends his hand. “Steven Garrison, good to see you.”

  “I would love to speak to you about your upcoming seminar, do you have a moment?”

  “Of course.” Arlo turns to us and whispers, “Don’t do anything stupid,” before he takes off with Steven—whoever the hell that is.

  “What could we possibly do that’s stupid?” Romeo asks.

  “Famous last words, man,” I say, as I hold my lips close to my pint, my eyes scanning the busy room. I take a sip just as I spot a familiar face.

  Heart-shaped face.

  Red-painted lips. Hell . . . I know those lips. I know them so goddamn well.

  Deep brown—surprised—eyes.

  Is that . . . fuck, is that Lindsay Nelson?

  Chapter Two

  LINDSAY

  “Abort, abort,” I say frantically, pushing Emory to turn around.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Emory asks, completely oblivious to the panicky attempt to escape.

  “I said, abort.”

  “Abort what?” Emory swats my hands away. “Knox’s mom is taking care of the child, there’s no risk of having a mini finger shoved up my nose just for fun, and there’s free alcohol a few feet away. I’m not aborting anything.”

  She pushes forward and I whisper, “It’s Gunner. He’s here.”

  Emory’s eyes widen and then she grins. “Oh, is he? Where?” She stands on her toes and glances around the bar area, and I know the minute she spots him because the slyest grin spreads across her lips. “My oh my, Gunner Klein . . . or what did you call him at the wedding? Mr. Fine?”

  “Shut it,” I say, pushing her. “There is another bar, we can—”

  “Yoo hoo, Gunner, is that you?” Emory chirps, waving her hand frantically.

  “Stop it, what are you doing?” I try to pull her hand back down, but her new mom strength is overpowering.

  “Getting you laid,” Emory whispers. “Gunner, over here!”

  “Stop, I don’t need to be laid, I need to get the hell out of—”

  “Emory, Lindsay, good to see you.”

  Fuck . . .

  Back turned to him, my eyes automatically squeeze shut at the sound of his rich, southern voice that carries just a hint of a drawl.

  “Gunner, it’s been too long,” Emory says while tugging on my arm, forcing me to turn around, and when I do . . . it’s devastating.

  Gunner Klein.

  The only aging this man has done since college is to develop a few laugh lines around his eyes and it only adds to his annoyingly handsome charm.

  Not to mention, he wears a button-up shirt like a glove on his torso, sucking and clinging to every part of his retired professional-athlete body—which I know for a fact doesn’t look retired at all. Match that with his messy blond hair, grey-blue eyes, and scruffy beard, and you have one intimidatingly attractive man—whom I’ve slept with several times.

  Several.

  More than I can remember during college.

  A wild fling one year when he was back in town.

  And of course, the night of Knox and Emory’s wedding—because why not?

  He’s irresistible to me.

  He’s the kryptonite to my strong will.

  And he’s also the father to my son, something he knows nothing about.

  Weren’t expecting that, were you?

  Trust me, neither was I. I just found out.

  How is that possible, you ask? Since my son is eight?

  Well you see, there was a time in my life when I had just finished my master’s and I decided to celebrate. Boobs were loose for a weekend and I had fun. Maybe a little too much fun. It was the weekend Gunner was home. It was a fling, but I also . . . “flung” with another gentleman by the name of Bobby Sharp.

  To give you a little background, Bobby was my study partner. He’d never been more than that while we were earning our master’s degrees. Gunner was long gone by then, playing professionally.

  But when we had finished, and were celebrating earning our teaching degrees, we fell into each other’s drunken arms. The next morning, he went back to Iowa and I was satisfied . . . until I ran into Gunner the next day, but we don’t need to get into those details.

  So yes, I had sex with two men in a weekend. Sue me! It happens. Women are allowed to have sex with whomever they want . . .

  Anyway, flash forward, I was pregnant, didn’t know who the father was, both men had gone off to their own lives and I had my friends: Emory and Dottie. I decided I was going to make being a single mom work, and I have.

  At least I had, until my son Dylan started asking why he doesn’t have a dad after some little punks at school teased him. After soaking up a lot of tears, I decided to try to find out. So I had a choice: contact Bobby—sweet, kind Bobby—and see if he was the father, or drive up to Forest Heights, look Gunner in the eyes again, and try not to get hard nipples when he spoke to me. I went with the lesser of two evils.

  Talk about a phone call. Bobby was startled to say the least, but complied with a DNA test, and to his relief, he was not the father.

  Which meant one thing . . .

  “You look good, Lindsay.”

  Of course, I look good. I just got my hair done and I don’t have an eight-year-old clawing at me for snacks. Shedding that extra weight for a weekend puts a mother in a different light.

  “He said you look good, Lindsay,” Emory says, bumping me in the boob with her elbow.

  “I heard him,” I say, bumping her back.

  “Then say thank you.”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Thank you, Gunner.”

  He chuckles and the sound is so arousing that I already feel my legs starting to part.

  Damn it.

  “I was wondering if I would see you here, Emory, but Lindsay . . .” He gives me a smooth once-over, “I wasn’t expecting you. Pleasant surprise.”

  Not for me.

  This is actually a nightmare for two reasons.

  Reason number one, whenever Gunner and I are in the same vicinity, there’s a magnetic pull that is somehow attached to my clothes and rips them off inside of an hour of seeing him. Guaranteed.

  Reason number two, I swore to myself next time I stumbled across Gunner, I would tell him about Dylan.

  Reason number two is what’s giving me a terrible case of indigestion right now.

  “Maybe you two should catch up,” Emory says, nudging me.

  “No, that’s okay. I’m sure Gunner is busy with Romeo. Don’t want to bother their little bro night. Anywho, it was nice seeing you both.” I bow my head for God knows what reason and then grab Emory by the arm. “Let’s go try that thing we were talking about.”

  “What thing?” Emory asks, not being the friend I need right now. Why can’t she read my mind?

  Abort.

  ABORT!

  “You know, the thing?” I widen my eyes at her. “The thing at the thing with the thing.” I pat my stomach. “Yum. Yum.”

  “Are you two high?” Romeo says, motioning between us as he steps into our circle as well. “I heard some teachers were grabbing edibles, but I never pegged a third-grade teacher and a librarian to get their Mile High on.”

  “We’re not high.” I shake my head. God, do I wish I was though. “Just really want that thing.”

  “What’s the thing?” Emory says, feet planted firmly. When the hell did she get so strong?

  Leaning in with a smirk, Gunner says, “I don’t think there’s a thing, she’s just trying to avoid me.”

  Huffing with annoyance, Emory turns toward me, hands on her hips and asks, “Are you avoiding Gunner?”

  I look between the two of them, sweat starting to prickle the back of my neck. Swallowing hard, I say, “Maybe.”

  “Why?”

  I glance at h
im, his playful eyes waiting on an answer as well while Romeo leans in with a teasing grin, ears patiently tuned in.

  “Uh . . .” I draw a blank. I can’t tell him the truth. Not sure an open bar at a teacher’s conference is the place to inform someone they are a dad.

  “Ugh,” Emory groans. “She’s just afraid she’ll get naked with you again, I’m sure. Happens every time you’re together.” With an extreme amount of power, Emory shoves me right into Gunner’s arms and says, “Just go upstairs and do it already.” Grabbing Romeo by the arm, she asks, “Want to play some cards? I brought a deck with me.”

  “Hell yeah. Cards and drinks with Mrs. Gentry, I think I just won the lottery. As long as we can take pictures and send them to Knox.”

  “Wasn’t that obvious?”

  Together, they walk off, leaving me with Gunner who’s chuckling and gripping my arms to keep me upright. Setting me straight, he lets me go and says, “Afraid we’re going to have sex, huh? Never been afraid of that before, Linds.”

  Why, God, why did you have to make this man so freaking sexy? Okay, yeah, his face is stunning, but his voice. Just one sentence and my nipples are hard, ready to be freed from my bra.

  “Trying to have standards, you know,” I say, straightening my shirt, which only tugs on the V-neck of my top, displaying more cleavage than necessary. And because Gunner is the type of man who appreciates the woman he’s interested in, his eyes fall to my breasts momentarily, only to bounce back up to my eyes, clear desire in his pupils.

  Hell, there’s more than interest there.

  There’s promise.

  Promise of long, drawn out orgasms.

  Promise of a night I know I can tack onto the list of the best I’ve ever had.

  Promise of satisfaction, followed by a delicious walk of shame.

  “I’m not having sex with you,” I blurt out.

  He smirks and takes my hand in his. “We’ll see about that.”