by C J Burright
As if they’d choreographed it, the girls dropped their recorders at the same time, grinning like imps.
“So we have our Washington dog whistlers. Next president?”
“Adams!” Zachary bounced up and down beside Tatum, waving his kazoo.
“Adams created the United States Marine Band, America’s oldest band.” Garret crouched beside the boy with the bongo. “What’s your name again?”
“Sammy.” He came very close to an eye roll, not that Garret would’ve turned him in.
“And since percussion is the oldest instrument, you’re Adams’ drum. Can you handle that?”
Sammy thumped the drum a few times, looking defiant.
“So Washington.” Garret pointed at the recorder girls, and got a triple eardrum shattering squeak. “And Adams.” It only took a look for Sammy to pound the drum in an uneven beat.
“Next president?”
“Jefferson!” several kids sang out.
“Jefferson fun fact— He kept pet mockingbirds.” He stopped beside a Shirley Temple-like redheaded girl holding an Irish whistle.
She smiled. “I’m Riley.”
He smiled back. “Riley, I want you to blow on the whistle, and while you’re blowing, cover the first two holes with your first and second fingers.” He helped her with the finger arrangement. The note was clear and high, smoother than the recorders. The girl had promise. “Good, now take your second finger off while blowing. And we’ve got our Jefferson mockingbird.”
“Washington recorders.” He didn’t even have to point this time. Hearty squeaks ricocheted off the walls. “Adams drum.” A crooked rhythm set in. “Jefferson mockingbird.” The whistle rang loud and clear.
He didn’t bother looking at Adara. He’d felt her stare weighing on him since mentioning Washington. She might not be his fan—yet—but as a teacher, she’d appreciate unique teaching methods, not that he expected her to admit it.
By recess, they’d made it through Tyler’s Texas triangle. Close to a quarter of the musical presidents wasn’t bad. As the kids stashed their instruments and rushed off to recess, he meandered to Adara’s desk.
“Since it’s Friday and we’re supposed to compile a weekly report for Principal Austin, what time do you want to meet?” He planted his hands on her desk and leaned toward her. “Dinner tonight?”
She jerked a stray paper edge from beneath his palm. “Not even.”
“After school?”
“I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.” Setting her pen down, she gave him her icy stare.
He freed his smile. “Great. Then it’s Saturday.”
“Can’t.” She folded her arms. “I’m finalizing my cut-the-music program presentation for the board meeting on Wednesday.”
Ouch. Keeping his smile on full force, he nabbed her pen and a sticky note. “That’s okay. I’m free Sunday.”
She sighed heavily. “Fine, but I can only do it at six”—she paused—“a.m.”
“No problem.” Cheeky girl. He scribbled his number for the week on the sticky note and carefully folded it into a tiny boat. Thank you, London, for forcing me into girly crafts in between violin lessons. “Your place?”
“Not happening.”
“Perfect. My place.” He set the origami boat and pen on her desk.
If they hadn’t been in her classroom, he had no doubt she’d have rolled her eyes. “Twelfth Street coffee shop. I’ll meet you there.”
“Can’t wait.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled out of the classroom. He didn’t have to look to know she watched him go. Her glare was hot on his back, but he couldn’t hold back his smile. An extra day to erode Adara’s walls.
Score.
Chapter Twelve
Warm and cozy in her flannel sheep pajamas, Adara sat on her bed, laptop resting on her thighs, the perfectionist in her demanding a final review of the budget proposal she’d already memorized. The moon peeked through her window, silhouetting her room in silver. Computer work in the dark killed her eyes, but since they already felt like sandpaper, a little longer wouldn’t hurt. She swigged another mouthful of raspberry-infused water.
An incoming email pinged in the screen corner.
For future encounters. GAA.
She studied the message until it faded and vanished altogether, her jaw clenched. Garret knew the cryptic message would intrigue her, the jerk. Grumbling at her weakness, she opened it. Only a glowing blue link was included. Blast. She couldn’t just not open it, but if it led her to some computer-killing virus, at least she’d have a valid reason to destroy him.
The link led her to a playlist containing all the songs of their Name That Tune contest, and her mouth twitched. Did he really have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than harass her from afar? Unintentionally, she pictured him with his violin, the stars in his hair, the supple roll of his muscles as he wielded the bow. Her breath came faster. If she hadn’t hurt her ankle that night, if she’d stayed with him, she might have done something stupid—maybe touched his jaw to feel the scrape of stubble or tangled her fingers in that overlong hair that looked so soft, maybe kissed the smile right off him.
The computer screen went black, and she sat in the dark, her pulse too loud. ‘Google me, if you dare.’ His challenge from the planetarium tapped at her brain, a woodpecker that wouldn’t leave. Watching him use music to teach her kids American presidents had done unmentionable things to her heart. She couldn’t afford to go wimp in only a week. She needed reinforcement.
She rested her fingers on the keyboard, waiting for the next move. She had no idea how much or what the Internet would reveal about him, if it would fuel her fascination or dilute it, but she had to start somewhere. If she could find something negative, something unlikeable, she could cling to it whenever his presence crippled her resolve. She blew out a breath.
“I’m doing this. My first venture into Internet stalking.” She tapped a key. The screen lit up and she squinted, readjusting to its brightness. A few clicks, and Garret Ambrose popped up. He had his own webpage, Facebook, Twitter and YouTube channel, but she skipped all those. It wasn’t like she’d find anything adverse on his personal promotional sites. She clicked a random link farther down the page, Belgian Beauty Unedited, some foreign site listing Garret’s name. What she needed was juicy gossip, if there was any. Not that she expected to find much. It wasn’t like he was…a…celebrity…
She whistled, long and low. He hadn’t been lying about Belgium, and he’d left out the love in Switzerland, France and the Netherlands. She ticked the website photo tab. Candid pictures splashed the screen, all of him, everywhere, eating at a restaurant, walking, grocery shopping, even a distant hotel room balcony invasion of privacy. There were also photos of him with a woman…a beautiful woman. And selfies with Garret in the background. Lots and lots of selfies taken by this woman, the owner of the site.
Her stomach knotted tight and she snapped the laptop shut, cloaking herself in darkness and moonlight again. Perfect. She’d cement that image in her mind, bring it out whenever he smiled her way. He had a beautiful fan-girlfriend-lover-whatever tucked away in Belgium. It was exactly what she needed.
She set the laptop aside and slid beneath the covers. Mission accomplished.
If only she felt like celebrating.
Hours later, a ruthless knock at the front door pulled Adara out of sleep. She blinked at the light streaming past the curtains. Morning. Sun. She’d slept the whole night. Weird. Even weirder, her mouth felt cotton dry and her head pounded, as if she’d slammed shots last night instead of bottled water.
The knocking started up again, and she stumbled out of bed and thumped into the hallway without her crutches. Whoever had woken her up should prepare to die. She grabbed an umbrella from the wall hooks, brandishing it like a weapon, pointy-end first. Without looking through the peephole, she flung open the door.
Garret stood on the porch, a coffee cup in his hand, the steam curling in the misty air. “Since y
ou didn’t show for our meeting, I assumed your doctor gave you bad news.” His gaze drifted down to her still-there boot. “Diagnosed a permanent limp? I feel terrible.”
She dropped the umbrella, and it clattered to the tile, the echo throbbing in her head. Offering her best zombie groan, she shuffled away, not bothering to shut the door. Garret’s footsteps trailed her and she didn’t have the energy to care. She’d slept twice as much as she usually did and only wanted to curl beneath the covers and stay there. Getting sick right now would be the worst timing ever, especially with the upcoming budget presentation.
“Are you going back to bed?” he asked.
The husky hitch in his voice shot straight to her gut, and an image of climbing into bed with Garret wormed through her haze. Nope, not going there. She pivoted.
Looking equally befuddled, fascinated and all kinds of morning-air sexy, he lurked in the foyer, coffee still in hand. He wore jogging pants, a hoodie and the same neon-green running shoes he’d worn on Friday. Did he go running first and wants to rub it in? Jerk. She lurched forward and swiped the coffee from his fingers. Without a word, she limped away.
“Cute pajamas.”
She spun and marched back to him as well as she could with a boot on, stopping only when her toes brushed his tennis shoes, all the better to threaten his personal space. “My pajamas are none of your business.” She took a swig of the coffee and moaned before she thought better of it. Peppermint mocha. Delicious.
His gaze dropped to her mouth and stayed there.
So not the reaction she was going for. She gripped the cup with both hands to deny the urge to lean into him, lay her head on his chest and let him pet her head—which wasn’t happening with a guy who kept a beautiful bimbo flame on the side. “I understand now why you’re friends with Ian.” She took another sip and her eyes slipped closed briefly, but she resisted another moan. “And don’t bring me coffee ever again.”
He stuffed his hands in his hoodie pockets. “Who said I brought the coffee for you?”
She shrugged and took another drink.
“What is this new revelation you’ve had concerning my friendship with Ian?”
She hadn’t planned to tell him anything, but he’d woken her up. She hadn’t had time to put on any masks. “Two words. Belgian Beauty.”
His forehead wrinkled. “Still lost.”
“Google it.”
One corner of his mouth curled up. “You looked me up?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t trust Austin’s background check.” She took another sip, keeping her glare on him. “‘Hottest Violinist Ever.’ Belgian Beauty’s words, not mine. How much did you pay her?”
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, his dark eyes twinkling. “Compliments are free, darling.”
“Not your darling.”
“Ben-zonna, you’re adorably irascible in the morning.”
“Go away.” She gave his chest a weak push, ignoring—completely—the firm muscles there, and she lumbered off while she still had enough energy to drag herself back to bed. “Close the door on your way out.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you adequately explain what your secret insight is into my long-term Ian bromance, why you stood me up and why you stole my coffee.”
“Ungh. It’s way too early to think about Ian.” She threw her head back and continued down the hall in her uneven zombie shuffle. “Not that there’s any good time to waste brain cells on that dirtbag.”
The door thudded shut behind her and she was absolutely not disappointed that he’d left—no fight, no argument. Nope. The fact that he didn’t deny knowledge of foreign fan sites or any connection to beautiful Belgian women was exactly what she’d hoped for. She swallowed the lump in her throat.
Making it to her bedroom, she sluffed to her bed, set the coffee on the end table and crawled under the covers with a sigh.
“Still waiting for your answer.”
She squeaked and sat up at Garret’s voice so close. He lingered in her bedroom doorway, scanning the room as if taking in every little detail and committing it to memory. “I thought you’d left.”
“You must’ve missed it when I said I’m not going anywhere.” He traced the blank space on her wall where the family collages once hung, his finger following the line of slightly darker paint marking where each frame used to be. “I dragged myself out of my warm, cozy bed at dawn and shivered in the cold, alone, waiting for you. You must have forgotten the coffee shop on Twelfth isn’t open on Sundays.”
Adara summoned enough energy to smirk.
He turned away from the erased memorial and strolled toward her, his expression almost menacing. “And here I find you lazing about in your warm”—he stepped closer—“cozy”—another step closer—“bed.” He leaned over her, bringing a hint of his citrusy cologne. “Without me.”
Her heart jumped into a presto beat. She pulled her comforter up to her chin, the best shield available. “Don’t you have somewhere to go? Someone else to torment?”
“Church is at nine, so yes.” He sat on the edge of the bed and his eyes sparkled, the same way Tatum’s did when she plotted mischief. “And you’re the only one I want to torment.”
“You go to church?” She wasn’t especially shocked. In Graywood, church was another opportunity for small-town socializing, potluck after the service. The whole town went. Almost.
He cocked his head. “You don’t?”
Not since Joey’s funeral, information she had no need to share, especially with a man who wriggled through her defenses effortlessly—a man who had a beauty waiting for him in Belgium. “Better hurry. You wouldn’t want to miss the music.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you explain why you stood me up.” He planted a hand beside her drawn-up feet and leaned closer, his voice low. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
“Forgot to set my alarm.” She held his gaze. If she didn’t, he’d sense her weakness and increase his attack. Music mentors weren’t that different from third-graders.
“So you merely overslept? You didn’t intend to ditch me?” He dropped his chin, shadowing his features.
“Yes.”
He studied her with those dark, knowing eyes. “You had fun last week. Admit it.”
“My fun meter is also none of your business. Besides, I discovered…things about you.”
“It’s not fair to judge me on things you refuse to share. How am I supposed to prepare a defense?”
“That’s your problem.”
“Adara”—he said her name like a caress, and she hid a shiver at the hot spark in her belly—“at least give me the courtesy of disclosing the crimes I’m being charged with.”
The niggling need to hear his explanation combatted rationality. This was a chance to get rid of him, to barricade him from her life. She could withstand the weeks between now and when he left, but if she didn’t hear the truth, she might wonder—and wondering would keep her mind on him. She had to kill her growing respect for him, the best anti-aphrodisiac ever. And if he had a beau on the side, that would do the trick.
“Fine. If you insist.” She pushed the blankets off and nabbed her laptop. The screen beeped to life, and she navigated to the telling website. “Belgian Beauty Unedited. Very educational.” She handed the computer to him.
He settled farther back on the bed and set the laptop on his knees. In all of three seconds, his jaw bunched and his shoulders tensed. Foreign words underscored his breath, and while she didn’t understand the language, she had a feeling none of them were nice. It was probably a good thing he was headed to church.
“Look familiar?” She kept her tone innocent.
Groaning, he set the laptop aside and collapsed backward on the bed, making the mattress shudder. “I thought I’d escaped Bella.” He gazed up at the ceiling, as if praying for aid. “I thought she’d given up her obsession.”
Obsession. She couldn’t really blame the girl. Garret was crush material, and she had a feel
ing it wouldn’t take much to turn that crush into a demolition. Another reason to keep her distance. “Former flame?”
“Not really.” His smile was sickly.
She waited for more, but he simply stared at the ceiling. “Fan?”
“Oh yeah.”
It was refreshing to see him being the one who didn’t want to share his secrets for once, and it made her want them. She rested her chin on her knee, all the better to stare him into submission. “Stalker?”
He turned his head and met her gaze, all humor long gone. “She’s a small part of the reason I came home. Not the deciding factor, but she helped finalize the decision. An ocean-wide barrier seemed like a good idea, at least until things settled down.”
A chill crept down her neck. “What happened?”
He rolled to his side and faced her, propping his head one hand. “We went out. Once. It wasn’t even dinner, just a late interview lunch for her blog, which used to be called Isabella Unlimited. It wasn’t my best judgment call.” He grimaced. “Or giving her my cell number. I try very hard not to hurt other people, but nice isn’t strong enough for someone who doesn’t have ‘no’ in her vocabulary. I was hopeful the protection order had gotten through to her.”
“Dang. What’d she do to earn a protective order?”
He tightened his mouth and sat up. “It’s in the past, unimportant.”
Adara straightened, all the better to watch him squirm. “Did she leave your cat in a pot on the stove? Bug your violin?”
“Not funny.” He grabbed the coffee from the end table and took a sip.
“You shouldn’t drink this now.” She stole the coffee back. “I think I’m getting a cold.” And she wasn’t about to let this subject go. “Did she send you creepy letters demanding private concerts by candlelight?”
“She’s an unbalanced individual in desperate need of help. I hope she finds it.” He twisted to face her so suddenly that she jerked. “I never took you for the jealous type.” A slow smile stretched his mouth, brimming with triumph. “From you, I think I like it.”