by Lori Wilde
The one thing she was not worried about, however, was Rhett. She hadn’t heard a peep out of him since he’d come to her house to see Julie. She’d contacted Ms. Bean and learned that the caseworker hadn’t heard from either him or his lawyer. Hopeful that Rhett had been scared away by the thought of fatherhood, Tara relaxed enough to start daydreaming about her future with Julie.
Once inside the classroom, she went over the roster and took attendance. Underprivileged pregnant girls made up the bulk of the low-cost parenting classes offered by the hospital. Mothers, sisters, or friends accompanied the majority of the unwed teens, although there were three eager baby daddies in attendance.
And one married couple.
She’d taught the two-day course many times and knew the material by heart. It was a no-brainer. She turned to the whiteboard to write down the outline for the course, even though she’d already distributed handouts. It was important to keep the salient information front and center.
The door creaked open.
Cowboy boots scraped against the tile floor.
A murmur ran through the class.
She turned to see what was causing the commotion and came eye-to-eye with Rhett Lockhart. Looking hot as liquid sin. Strutting into the classroom as if he owned it.
Her stomach quivered. Seriously? He was showing up now? Taking her parenting class? Of all the parenting classes in all the world, he had to walk into hers?
But that wasn’t the worst thing.
The worst thing was how her silly pulse accelerated and her mouth went dry and she was strangely happy to see him. What was that about?
“OMG,” one starstruck mother exclaimed, fanning herself with her hand. “You’re Rhett Lockhart!”
Rhett doffed his Stetson, gave the woman an aw-shucks grin. “I am, ma’am.”
“How come you’re not riding tonight?” asked one of the baby daddies.
“Got something more important to do,” Rhett drawled and winked at Tara.
She felt herself blush furiously. What the frigging hell was wrong with her? Mentally, she shook herself.
“Parenting class is more important than kicking Claudio Limon’s ass?” another father-to-be asked.
“You’re gonna be a daddy?” said the starstruck mom. “That is so awesome.”
“Mr. Lockhart,” Tara said. “You’re not on my roster.”
“Just registered.” Rhett winked. He strolled to the front of the room, handed her his registration form, and plunked down in the front row. He locked eyes with her and stared at her as if she was wearing a G-string and pasties instead of scrubs and a lab jacket.
His sultry smile caused sweat to pool between her breasts. Holy flipping cow. She was losing her marbles.
“Sptt.” The starstruck mom had gotten out of her seat and crept over to Rhett, notebook and pen extended. “May I have your autograph?”
“Me too!” said one of the baby daddies.
And the next thing Tara knew the entire class was gathered around him collecting his signature and pumping him with questions about his chances of winning the PBR World Championship.
“Let’s get back on topic,” Tara said.
No one paid her a lick of attention.
She cleared her throat, clapped her hands. “Class, please take your seats.”
But Rhett was in the middle of a story about the worst wreck of his career on the back of a beast named Bushwhacker. It was a story she’d heard many times before when the Lockharts and Alzates got together. He’d ended up with a compound fracture of his right leg that knocked him out of that season.
Tara rolled her eyes, even as her pulse skipped. She’d heard about his injury secondhand. Had no idea it had been so serious. He could have been killed. “There’s time for tall tales during the break. Please return to your seats.”
No one moved.
Tara marched over and squeezed between the fans gathered around him, positioning herself squarely in his line of vision. “Mr. Lockhart, may I see you in the corridor?”
“You can call me Rhett, sweet—” He caught himself just before he called her sweet cheeks. “Er . . . Teach.”
She didn’t comment. Simply pointed at the door, pivoted on her heel, and left the room. Crossing her arms over her chest, she waited for him to stroll outside looking pleased as punch with himself. She bit down on her bottom lip and counted to ten, reining in her irritation.
The corridor, which smelled like powdered eggs and oatmeal since the cafeteria was at the end of the hall, lay empty.
“Am I in trouble?” he asked, insouciantly slouching against the wall.
“You are not a freshman, and this is not high school.”
“Um, okay.” He shot her that grin of his, which had coaxed many a young woman out of her panties, including Rhona White.
Tara was not falling for it, no matter how her body simmered in a completely inappropriate way. She took a step back.
“Why did you call me out in the hall?”
Tara planted her fists on her hips. “Why are you here?”
“To take a parenting class.” The words were innocent enough, but his tone held a smart-aleck note.
“I haven’t heard a peep out of you in two weeks. I assumed you’d decided not to take the class.”
“Assumed?” He lifted his eyebrow. The stitches were gone, the wound healing. “As in: Ass. U. Me.”
“Why didn’t you call? Or at least text?”
“I had a lot of thinking to do.”
“And you’ve decided you want to file for custody?” She held her breath, her heart tripping over itself in a crazed sprint.
He raised both palms. “Whoa, whoa. Not yet. That’s a Grand Canyon of a step. I’m just here to take the parenting class. It won’t hurt to take a class.”
“And then?”
He shrugged, a quick uplift and downdraft of his shoulders. Looked confused. “I dunno.”
She pressed her palms together in front of her throat. She didn’t like the way he was yanking her emotions around, giving her first hope, then despair, then hope again. “Please don’t ruin the class for the rest of the students. I know you’re not taking this seriously, but—”
His eyes narrowed. “Who says I’m not taking this seriously?”
“For one, you show up late. For another you waste my time grandstanding over your rodeo exploits.” She drew her arms more tightly around her. Whenever she looked at him she felt a bit light-headed and giddy. Dammit. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about what Aria had told her about how good Rhett was in bed and how well-endowed he was?
“I was not grandstanding. People are interested.”
“Because you created a diversion.” She would not look at his crotch. No, no, not going to do it.
“They need a diversion. Their lives are about to change forever. They’re about to become shackled. Chained for the next eighteen years.”
“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” She dropped her gaze to his belt buckle . . . and then lower. His tight jeans cupped his man parts in a thoroughly appealing way. Argh! Quickly, she zoomed her gaze back to his face.
“I’m just trying to provide some levity in a time of upheaval.” He lowered his lashes, his voice, and her resistance.
“Reality needs to be faced, not avoided at all costs,” she said.
“That’s your opinion.”
“And the only one that counts since I’m running the class.”
“Whatever you say, Teach.” His dark eyes were firecrackers of mischief, sparkly and hot.
God, the man was infuriating. Even more infuriating, she couldn’t stop staring at his lips, which were healing up nicely from his brawl. They were wide and angular and . . .
Jesus, Tara, stop it.
She sank her hands on her hips. Dug in. Set her boundaries. “Not everyone considers having a baby a bad thing. You’re projecting your fears onto your classmates.”
“Can we begin again?” He inclined his head. A rakish move designed to
showcase his shaggy curls and give him an endearing look.
“Begin again? From where? Childhood?”
“Yes. I think you’ve made your mind up that I’m—”
“A shallow, irresponsible jackhole with a short attention span and poor follow-through?”
“Judgmental much?”
Adrenaline shot through her. Part anger and part some kind of weird sexual attraction that she didn’t want to think about too much. “We’re done here.”
“You do know you’re cute when you’re mad. Your cheeks get all red and you get an adorable little frown line right between your eyebrows—”
She had a petulant urge to stick out her tongue at him. But they weren’t kids on the Silver Feather anymore. Tossing her head, she took the high road, stepped into the classroom, and shut the door firmly behind her.
It didn’t deter him. He followed. Took his seat in the front row.
Had she really thought he might leave? But why would he? He was enjoying needling her too much. You’re just giving him fodder. Stop feeding his need for attention and he’ll get bored and drift off.
That was the idea anyway.
She went to the front of the class and reintroduced herself. Asked them to go around the room and tell a bit about themselves.
When it was Rhett’s turn, Tara cringed, and braced herself for whatever cocky thing he might say. Fearful he’d spill some childhood incident about her that she’d prefer to keep quiet. But he was humble, courteous, and didn’t mention a word about his relationship to Tara.
She breathed easier. At least he had some sense of decorum.
He met her eyes, nodded, and winked, ruining the humbleness. She felt her ears turn hot with embarrassment. Really, what did she expect? A tiger couldn’t completely change its stripes.
“Welcome to the class.” Tara gazed out at the expectant faces. “I’m happy to see so many of you eager to become better parents. You’ll find the topics to be discussed over the next two days in your syllabus. We’ll also go over the unexpected things that no one tells you about parenthood.”
Rhett studied her with an expectant expression in his brown eyes.
Unnerved, Tara averted her gaze and started the course with the basics of infant care—safety, nutrition, hygiene.
Rhett took copious notes. His long legs stretched out in front of him. When he wasn’t jotting something down, his full attention was on her. Whenever she made a point, he nodded. When she asked questions to test if they were learning what she’d covered, he was the first one with his hand up.
Head tilted, ears tuned, he was serious about this.
Or at least pretending to be.
“Now that we’ve gone over the basics of hygiene, let’s each take a turn diapering Little Manny.” Tara loaded a sticky concoction of flour paste and chocolate syrup into a cloth diaper and put it on the infant medical mannequin.
“Eww!” said one of the girls.
“It’s only fake poop, Pumpkin,” commented her mother, who’d been the one starstruck with Rhett. “Wait until you have to change the real thing.”
“Eww! Eww!”
“You made your bed,” her mother said. “Now lie in it.”
Pumpkin blew a raspberry at Mom.
“I can’t wait for you to get a dose of your own medicine,” Mom told her daughter. “Payback is a you-know-what.”
“How come we’re learning how to put on cloth diapers?” Pumpkin complained. “I’m using disposable.”
“Cloth diapers are more economical,” Tara said. “And better for the environment.”
Pumpkin crossed her arms, hardened her chin. “I am not using cloth diapers. My sister used them, and her entire house smelled like pee.”
Tara let that pass. She took wet wipes from a drawer and sat it on the conference table beside the mannequin. “I want you all to come up and practice diapering Manny here. Who’s first?”
“My baby daddy is scared of changing a diaper,” another teen piped up. She was so pregnant her belly pushed flush against the back of the chair in front of her.
“I ain’t scared of no diapers, Charlene,” said a lavishly inked young man, named Jaime, sitting beside her. He hopped from his chair, swaggered to the front of the room in baggy jeans and a backward baseball cap with “Pit Bull” embroidered on the panel above the strap.
Tara showed Jaime how to use the safety pins, and where to place his fingers so the pins would poke him instead of the baby in case he slipped.
“I don’t wanna get poked,” Jaime complained, which was ironic considering his multiple tats and piercings. “Charlene, we’re getting disposables.”
“You could use Snappis,” Pumpkin’s mom said. “We used them on my other daughter’s baby.”
“Snappis are an option.” Tara picked up the brand of plastic diaper fasteners that were lying on the table arrayed with supplies. “We’re going to practice with those too. We’re covering all the options.”
Jaime was struggling with pinning the cloth diaper. He muttered a few choice curse words.
“Slow down,” Tara soothed. “Take your time. And don’t forget to wipe the baby’s bottom thoroughly. He can get diaper rash if he’s not kept clean.”
Jaime furrowed his brow. Grabbed a handful of wet wipes, smeared the fake baby poop everywhere. “I suck at this.”
“You’re doing fine,” Tara encouraged. “It just takes practice. You’ll be a champ in no time.”
Jaime, however, was not doing fine. He’d managed to poke the safety pin clean through Little Manny’s thigh.
“Undo the safety pin and try again,” Tara guided him.
Jaime’s shoulders slumped. “I’m screwing it all up.”
“You’re not.”
“Yes, he is! He jammed a safety pin through our baby’s thigh!” Charlene wailed.
“I don’t deserve no baby!” Jaime’s voice rose to join his girlfriend’s panicky pitch.
“Calm down, calm down.” Tara kept her tone low. She was accustomed to expectant parents having meltdowns. Welcoming a new baby was a stressful event, even for the most well-prepared. And generally, her students were not the least bit ready for parenthood. “Everyone, please take a deep breath. Inhale, two, three, four.”
They obeyed.
“Hold.” She counted to seven aloud. “Now let it out slowly to the count of eight.”
The room breathed a long, slow sigh.
“Good job. Let’s do it again. Deep breath. In, two, three, four.” She glanced at Rhett.
He hadn’t been watching Jaime and Charlene, he’d been studying her. Tingles of awareness lifted the hairs on her arm. There was a gleam in his eyes that unsettled her. As if he’d been imagining what she looked like without any clothes on.
Tara buttoned her lab jacket, a shield to ward off his gaze.
“As a new parent,” she said to the class, “you might often find yourself in a situation where you’re losing control over your emotions. This is normal. It happens to everyone. The key is to not judge yourself for having the emotion. Just become aware that the emotion is running you, and then take a deep breath. Hold it. Then let it go.”
She led the class through several rounds of deep breathing exercises. In the end, the energy shift in the room was palpable as people calmed.
“It’s like Lamaze,” Pumpkin’s mother said.
“Same idea, yes.” Tara nodded. “The breath slows the mind.”
“Did you use these techniques when you had your kids?” Pumpkin’s mother asked.
“I’ve not been fortunate enough to give birth,” Tara said.
“You don’t have no kids?” Jaime, who was still standing at the front of the room with the badly diapered Manny, stared at her. “How come you’re teaching this course?”
Her muscles tensed, defensive and guarded. Her chest was a vise, squeezing tight. Yes, okay, she was sensitive about being childless.
“For one thing,” she said, her tone brooking no argument, “I’m a regis
tered nurse with a specialty in neonatal care. I’ve worked with infants for eight years, and in the NICU for almost two, I’ve—”
“It’s not the same thing as being a parent.” Jaime snorted.
“I’m also a foster mother—”
“Still not the same thing.” Pumpkin’s mother shook her head so vigorously that Tara feared the woman and her daughter would get up and walk out.
The woman’s judgment played into Tara’s insecurities. No, most likely she would never know the joys of giving birth to a child of her own, but that didn’t invalidate her knowledge and experience in pediatrics. It didn’t mean she was less than the women who had given birth.
Don’t take it personally, she reminded herself. But that was easier said than done.
“You can’t teach us what no one tells you about parenthood, because you don’t know a thing about it,” chimed in another mother of one of the teenagers.
“Yeah, why should we listen to anything you have to say about raising children?” asked Charlene.
Things had taken an ugly turn. How had she lost control of the classroom? The group was mumbling mutinous noises, muttering stings and barbs.
Tara took the hit. Struggled to conceal her feelings. Swallowed their opinions along with a lungful of air. Take your own advice. Breathe through the emotions. She closed her eyes.
Inhaled.
A chair scraped across the floor. Someone was leaving.
Tara’s eyes flew open. She put a hand to her mouth, smelled the scent of chocolate syrup and flour paste. Who was the first defector?
Rhett.
He was leading the charge against her? Her stomach turned sour, and she wished she hadn’t had that egg burrito for breakfast.
Rhett was on his feet, standing in the middle of the room. All eyes locked on him as if he were their spokesman.
The fluorescent lighting over her head was too bright. Sweat broke out on her brow. She moved her hand from her mouth to her stomach. Rhett had his faults, but he’d never been the kind of person to kick someone when they were down.
“People, people.” Rhett made a chill-out gesture with his hands. “I don’t believe this.”
“We don’t either,” said Charlene. “Can you imagine someone teaching parenting classes who doesn’t have children of her own? What was the hospital thinking hiring her as an instructor?”