Connection (Temptation Series Standalones Book 2)

by K. M. Golland

  Will slowly drags his knuckle down my arm, and my treacherous eyelids threaten to flutter.

  “I think you are,” he murmurs.

  The heat from his touch sends chills across my skin, so I blink and swipe his hand away.

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  A smug smile lights his eyes. “Prove it then.”

  I want to punch him, but that’ll only prove, once again, that I can’t punch. Argh!

  Stretching up on my tippy toes, I yank his head close to mine then hover my lips over his ear before whispering, “I like sex, very much.” I nudge his cheek with the tip of my nose. “But just because I won’t let you fuck me here in my hallway”—I shove him, my voice now harsh—“doesn’t make me a prude.”

  Sasha paws my leg, so I lower to my knee to pat her while looking up at him through my lashes. “I respect myself enough not to go out with someone who only wants inside my pants.”

  He reaches down and tilts my chin up. “You think that’s all I want?”

  Again, I swipe his hand away. “It’s all any guy wants.”

  The drive back to school is quiet until I break the silence when we both climb out of his truck and shut our doors.

  “Thanks for driving me home to get changed.”

  His eyes don’t find mine. “No sweat.”

  “I mean, you didn’t have to do that, but you did, so thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “Like I said, no big deal.” He presses his lips together, reaches into the back tray of his truck, lifts out his toolbox, and walks away.

  “Okay then,” I murmur. I guess I deserved that. Shit!

  Pivoting to walk in the opposite direction back to my classroom, regret washes over me, and for some stupid reason, I feel bad for turning him down. Well, maybe not for turning him down, but more so for calling him rude, lewd, and crude. It was overkill. And despite him being those things at times, telling him so was perhaps a bit harsh, given he was doing me a favour in the first place.

  Damn it!

  Turning back around, I’m about to jog over to him and apologise, when the bell rings, and he raises his hand to acknowledge a guy climbing out of a truck with an excavator loaded on the back. Tap That Plumbing is printed along the rusty white panels. They slap each other’s back, and I can’t deny I’m impressed Will owns and runs his own business. The man might be a player and a bit of a joker, but he’s clearly hardworking and successful, and I’m glad that’s paid off for him.

  Deciding to just let it go because I’ve no time to linger and wait for him to finish with the other guy, I rush to my classroom just in time for fifth period.

  “Nice to see you changed your shoes,” Oliver says as I follow the children inside.

  I don’t say anything, instead give him a half-smile. I already feel like an idiot for wearing them in the first place.

  “Why’d you wear them?” Oliver probes.

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “Seems odd.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve never worn anything like that to school before.”

  “Sure I have.”

  It’s a lie; I haven’t.

  Oliver shakes his head, a suspicious but playful grin on his face as he claps his hands and announces, “Bums on the mat, eyes on me,” to the class.

  The kids all sit cross-legged, except for Hannah and Jacey, who stand by my side and continuously inform me Jet went out of bounds not one but three times.

  “Take a seat, girls,” I say, dismissing their tattling. If I had a dollar for every time one of my kids dobbed another in, I’d be a very wealthy teacher.

  “Okay, everyone. Who’s ready to make some music?” I ask, eyes wide.

  They all cheer, which doesn’t surprise me. Behind Sport and Art, Music is their favourite subject.

  “Good! Now, Mr Murphy isn’t here today, so I’m going to take you to the music room and teach you instead while Mr Bunt marks your math tests.”

  “You can’t teach Music, Ms Hanson,” Jet so accurately points out.

  “Sure I can.”

  I can’t, but the alternative is cancelling, or Oliver doing it. Oliver doesn’t have a musical bone in his body, and I know how much the kids like music, so I don’t have the heart to cancel.

  “I might not be very good, Jet, but I’m sure we’ll be fine and have some fun.”

  Music when you’re not the music teacher is not fun at all. In fact, I’m fairly sure sand in your undies or a rose thorn in your foot is a whole lot more fun than the hell I’m currently in.

  The instrument rotation now has Jet on the drum kit. Yay! Five kids are continuously strumming the same chords on the guitars. Another five are bashing the xylophones like a Mole in the Hole game, and the rest are shaking maracas, tambourines, and seeing who can blow the loudest and longest on the recorders. If I wanted to torture my worst enemy, this is how I’d do it. I’d lock them in this very room. Now. Preferably without me. Why in God’s name did I think this was a good idea?

  “Okay, okay!” I shout over the racket. “Hands in the air!” The kids all raise their hands. “Let’s try to keep in time. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.”

  The ear-splintering noise resumes, and I’m almost ready to pull out my hair, when I notice Will leaning on the doorframe, ankles and arms crossed, an amused grin on his face.

  I raise my eyebrows at him in acknowledgement then weave through the kids until I’m at the door. “Hi. Is everything okay?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  “Oh. Is it that bad?”

  He nods. “What are they trying to do, kill each other?”

  “No.” I wrinkle my nose. “Well, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

  Offended, because I studied very long and hard to know what I’m doing, I cross my arms and glare at him. “Of course I know what I’m doing.”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “You think you can do better?”

  “At music? Sure.”

  Waving my hand toward the class, I gesture he enter the room. “Then be my guest.”

  Will pushes off from the doorframe, makes his way over to the drum kit, whispers something in Jet’s ear, then takes his place, lowering himself onto the stool. Jet steps back, covers his ears with his hands, and nods.

  A loud thumping soon fills the room, slow, like a distant roll of thunder, followed by a faster tapping on the snare. Some of the kids stop playing their instruments and snap their heads in Will’s direction, but it’s not until he unleashes like a madman that everyone in the room freezes like statues, eyes wide, mouths agape.

  Including me.

  Now, I don’t know a lot about music, but I do know Will is an exceptional drummer. The way he moves across each drum, the tempo changing, sticks twirling in his hands. It’s impressive, mesmerising even… until he stops, and we all give him a round of applause.

  “That was so cool!” Evan says, and it takes me by surprise. He’s not normally one to say much, let alone to someone he doesn’t know.

  “Do you want to try?” Will offers.

  Evan nods, so Will stands up and moves out of the way so Evan can sit down.

  I grab a seat and notice the rest of the kids have all abandoned their instruments and are now completely focussed on Will. It makes me smile, but at the same time, I’m aggravated he was right.

  “Okay, buddy,” he says to Evan. “You comfortable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now place your foot on that pedal and press it down.”

  Evan does what he’s told, and the bass drum thuds, loud. The sound startles him, and he cowers a little but then smiles when Will encourages him to do it again, this time while counting to four.

  “Can I try?” Jet blurts.

  “You can, little dude. Come, step into my office.”

  Jet gives him a weird
look. “It’s not an office.”

  I laugh.

  Will gives Jet the same weird look. “Yes, it is!”

  I laugh again.

  “No, it’s not. It’s not an office.”

  “It is. It’s my office.”

  Jet shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

  Will places the drumsticks down. “Do you want a go or not?”

  “I do.”

  “Then say it’s my office.”

  “It’s my office.”

  Closing his eyes for a second, a smiles creeps onto Will’s face. “No, not your office, my office.”

  “It’s your office.”

  “Aay!” He holds up his hand for a high-five. “Now we’re on the same page.”

  I shake my head, facepalm, and laugh some more.

  “Right. Now we’ve got that sorted, take this stick, but don’t hold it too tight, you want it nice and loose.” Will hands Jet the stick. “Stand in front of the floor tom, which is this drum here.”

  Jet takes his position and starts smacking the drum.

  “Whoa! Dude! You can’t just smack the crap out of it.”

  I clear my throat, and Will looks in my direction. “Language,” I mouth, eyebrow raised.

  He pulls an “oh shit” face and rephrases. “You can’t just bash it.”

  “But you did,” Jet complains.

  “No, I didn’t. What I did, apart from it being pure class, was time my hits like a champion. If you want to be a good drummer, you gotta know how to count.”

  “I know how to count.”

  “Then we’re off to a good start. Can you count to four, two times?”

  Jet rolls his eyes. “Yes. Derrr. I’m in grade 3.”

  “Jet,” I warn. “Don’t be rude.”

  “Sorry, Ms Hanson. Sorry, Mr Will.”

  “It’s Master Will,” Dylan says, correcting Jet.

  Will winks at Dylan then scruffs Jet’s hair. “All good, my man. Now, I want you and…” He looks at me for help with Evan’s name.

  “Evan,” I say.

  “I want you and Evan to count to four, two times while playing your drum. The trick is to keep in time. The rest of you,” he says, looking out at the kids sitting on the floor before him, “I want you to pat your legs with both hands and do the same. You, too, Ms Hanson.”

  “Oh!” I point to my chest and smile at the kids, excited that I get to join in, then ready my hands to pat my lap.

  “Like this.” Will taps the cymbal, counts to four, then repeats himself. “Are you all ready?”

  We chant, “Yes,” and Will begins to count again.

  “One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.”

  The kids follow but at different speeds, some counting slow, others racing through it.

  Will’s eyes grow wide, and he raises his hands to his head, showcasing his enormous biceps. “Let’s try that again.”

  My eyes slide over the rise and fall of his skin, and they flex.

  “Ms Hanson,” Will says, voice amused.

  “Yes?” I snap my attention back to his face, my heart rate accelerating.

  “I need you.”

  “W-What?”

  “To be my assistant.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I stand up. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Come stand next to me.”

  Walking around the kids, I step up to his side, and he grabs my hand. My first instinct is to wrench it free, unsure of his intentions, especially in front of the kids. But I don’t want to cause a scene, so I leave my hand in his, even when he places it on his chest, over his heart.

  “A drumbeat is a feeling,” he says to the class. “A heartbeat.” A smug smile tugs at Will’s lips as his eyes zero in on mine, his fingertips tapping my hand. “Go-gong. Go-gong.”

  I narrow my gaze, a smile tugging on my lips too.

  “One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four,” he says.

  The kids tap the beat perfectly, and I giggle.

  “You totally just stole that line from Dirty Dancing,” I murmur.

  He flicks his eyebrows then leans in and whispers, “Patrick Swayze knew his shit.”

  Throwing my head back, I crack up laughing, which is when Oliver enters the room, a scowl on his face.

  “What do we have here?”

  I slip my hand out from underneath Will’s and step back. “Will was just kindly showing us his knowledge of percussion.”

  “Percussion?”

  “Yes.” For some stupid reason, I feel as if I owe Oliver an explanation. “How a drumbeat is like a heartbeat.”

  Oliver hitches one brow at Will.

  “I’m a drummer, Mr B-unt.”

  A rash of red climbs Oliver’s neck until it flames his face. “Wow! A plumber and a drummer.” He plasters on a smile for the kids. “Aren’t you lucky to learn from such a professional.”

  Will tosses Oliver a drumstick. “Would you like to learn too?”

  Oliver tosses it back. “No, thanks.”

  Will shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

  “I’ll leave you to it.” He goes to leave but stops at the door. “Oh, and, Ms Hanson, don’t forget about the chocolate fundraiser we have to hand out to the kids before they go home. You might want to finish up ‘learning’ percussion a bit earlier.”

  I slap my hand to my head. “Yes! I did forget about that. Right, quickly and quietly, everyone, please put your instruments back where you got them from and form a line at the door.”

  The kids move about the room, packing up while Will places the drumsticks back on top of the snare.

  “Thank you, again,” I say.

  “Again, no sweat.”

  I sigh. “You were right.”

  “’Bout what?”

  “You did do better.” Clapping my hands, I address the kids. “Form two lines and head back to class. I’ll be right behind you.”

  They begin filing out through the door, which is when I turn to Will, who begins to leave as well.

  “Will?”

  He stops. “Yeah.”

  “Listen, about earlier, I just want to apologise for calling you rude, lewd, and—”

  “Crude?”

  My cheeks heat. “Yeah. I didn’t mean it.”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, you did.”

  “Well, fine, I did. But I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  I sigh, relieved. “Oh, good.”

  “Because I know I’m not those things.”

  Placing my hands on my hips, I cock an eyebrow. “Well, you are… a bit.”

  “Elizabeth”— he touches my cheek—“I’m not who you think I am.”

  “And who do I think you are?”

  “Apparently, someone who just wants inside your pants.”

  “So you don’t want that?”

  “Of course I do.”

  I scoff. “I rest my case.”

  Pivoting, I go to leave, when he grabs my hand and pulls me to him, his eyes searching mine, his voice low and… sincere. “I’m not going to apologise for wanting to bury myself deep between your legs.” He glances at my lips, and said legs nearly buckle. “But I want inside your head first, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll want inside my head… and pants too.”

  Chapter Nine

  Will left me standing in the music room, heart thumping in my chest, an unfamiliar melody dancing all over my body. It didn’t make sense—the weak knees and heart palpitations. We’re the complete opposite, and we have nothing in common. He’s a dirty, burly tradie, and I’m a clean, well-educated teacher. He speaks before thinking, and I speak after carefully considering each and every word to leave my mouth.

  And… and he has no manners. Manners are important. They show maturity and decorum, qualities every adult should possess. We’re chalk and cheese, summer and winter, Elsa and Anna. So, yeah, feeling this… this giddy just doesn’t make any sense.

  Now a few days later, I’m staring out of the classroom window at Wil
l and his apprentice, Jeremy, as they set up a safety area with construction tape. He informed all staff this morning that they’ll be driving the excavator within the taped-off area and to warn the children to stay well away. Other than that, we haven’t spoken since the music room, but I’ve been very much aware of his presence around the schoolyard. He’s hard to miss—fluorescent-yellow and orange high-vis vest flashing on my peripheral vision every time I glance out the window.

  Just now, for instance, Sally was heading to—I assume—the library with a stack of books when two slipped from her grasp. Before she could squat and retrieve them, Will jogged over and picked them up for her. It was rather lovely, until they conversed longer than I thought necessary. And then it didn’t seem so lovely anymore, Sally blushing and blinking profusely. At one point, I thought she had something stuck in her eye.

  She didn’t, beside her eyeballs, which I felt like poking out. Which is just weird, because I’m not jealous. I can’t be—one has to form an emotional connection to experience jealousy, and I haven’t done that… I don’t think.

  Will hammers in a star picket then animatedly drums a beat on top of it. I smile; it’s something I’ve noticed he does a lot, tapping fence tops, walls, and nothing but air several times a day. At first, I thought it was childish and stupid, but the silly tapping has kinda grown on me. I’ve also noticed he lifts his baseball cap and runs his hand through his hair a lot, as if in contemplation, or perhaps because his head is sweaty.

  “Lib!”

  “What?” I snap my vision to Oliver, and he ducks his head to see what, or rather who, I’m looking at through the window.

  His eyes narrow. “The bell just rang.”

  I take note of the clock and let out a noise that’s supposed to be a laugh but isn’t. “Oh, really? I must’ve been in a world of my own.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “For what, lunch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Um—”

  Carly and Sal poke their heads through the doorway. “You ready?” Carly asks.

  “Um, yep.” I look at Oliver. “We’re just heading down the street to the café.”

  “I might join you, if that’s okay?”

  Carly vehemently shakes her head.

  “Sure,” I say. I mean, what choice do I have?