Tombstones (Beekman Hills Book 4)

by K. C. Enders

  Chloe ushers us all into the house, the scent of home cooking in the air. “Jack, you know you’re family, and you’re welcome in our home. You can’t stay in a hotel for the entire month. What are you going to do there, all alone?”

  “Actually, I can, and you don’t wanna know, darlin’.” I chuckle. “Now, tell me what smells so good before I die a starving man.”

  Jake runs ahead, into the kitchen, and pulls out his chair, plopping down onto the seat. “Mom made roast and potatoes and gravy. And chocolate cake and ice cream, if you eat all your dinner. Uncle Jack, you get to sit by me, so Mommy and Daddy can hold hands while they eat.” His little face wrinkles up in disgust at the idea.

  Tripp pulls a couple of beers from the fridge, handing me one and drinking deep from the other. We tuck into the meal that Chloe made, warming us from the inside out, filling our stomachs, and welcoming us home. Conversation is light and decidedly normal during dinner with Jake telling us all about going to school, his friends, and the best teacher in the world, and Chloe sharing her thoughts on a group of moms she refers to as Teacup Terrorists, trying to run playdates with an iron fist.

  The evening drifts easily, and with full bellies, we all get a little sleepy. Well, Jake and I do. He’s on my lap, head tucked into my chest, eyes getting heavy.

  “Chloe, you want me to put him to bed?” I offer.

  “Not tired.” Jake yawns. “School … lunch with me …” he mumbles bits and pieces as he finally gives in, and his body goes limp with sleep.

  “I’ll tuck him in if you have lunch with him tomorrow,” Tripp says softly, rounding the table to take his son from my arms.

  Jake doesn’t move a muscle in the transfer, and again, I marvel at how Tripp slides seamlessly out of operator mode and right into dad mode.

  I push back my chair and gather the dessert plates, helping Chloe load up the dishwasher. “Thank you. This was perfect.”

  “Not perfect enough to stay with us though?” she challenges.

  “Jesus, Chloe.” I huff out a laugh. “Give me a break. I’ve had him nonstop for the past six months. You all need to reconnect, and I need to do the bachelor thing.” I close the dishwasher and drain the last of my beer. “But tell me about lunch. How do I do this shit? I have no clue.”

  Chloe gives me all the details on where to go, when to be there, and what to bring. She stops just shy of telling me to make good choices and use my manners or I might get sent to the principal’s office as Tripp stalks silently into the room.

  With his son tucked away for the night, the air between him and his wife changes, charged with electricity, and without a doubt, it is time for me to leave. Tripp tosses me my truck keys and promises to take care of returning the rental car in the morning, practically shoving me out the door.

  This is why I need to give them some space. They need to complete the fall into normalcy. My friends are incredibly welcoming, inviting me into their home and their lives, but I refuse to be that guy. They need alone time, and I find what I’m after—a clean hotel, a bottle of Don Julio 1942 tequila, and room service.

  And, though I’m sure as shit not looking for Mrs. Right, I can at least venture out and maybe enjoy the company of Miss Right Now.

  Chapter 3

  Kate

  I SHOULDN’T HAVE FAVORITES in class. Not supposed to give one kiddo more chances than any other to get his poop in a group. Normally, I’m pretty fair, but Jake Triplett has burrowed his little self into my heart in a way that I couldn’t fight, and now, the little shit is acting six different kinds of crazy. Bouncing around the room, talking a mile a minute, generally disrupting the entire class. And it doesn’t matter how much patience I have with these littles; I can’t lose control of twenty five-year-olds and expect to walk out of here alive today. Mob mentality applies.

  “Jake, please take your seat. It will make my heart sad if I have to ask you to move your pin, friend,” I sternly tell him. Well, as sternly as I can because, no matter what I tell myself, this little guy is my damn favorite.

  “But, Miss Beard, my uncle Jack is a soldier and he’s a hero like my dad and he’s here,” Jake shares as loudly as he dares, completely ignoring the warning tone in my voice. “He was at my house last night and had dinner with me and my mom and my dad, and he telled me about the big desert and did you know they don’t get play time? He doesn’t get to play in the sand at all even though he’s there all the time with my dad. And-and-and they don’t even like going to the beach anymore; isn’t that weird? And—”

  I can’t. I just can’t.

  “Jake.” I lower my voice and raise my brows, cutting him off before he has a chance to really kick it into high gear. “I’m sorry, but you need to move your pin and take your seat.”

  The shock that registers across his sweet little-boy features about breaks my heart. It’s like a personal affront that I asked him to move his little Jake-looking clothespin off the green dot and onto the yellow one. Any other kid, and I’d have probably already had him on orange and well on his way to the dreaded red dot, followed by a note home to his parents. But I adore this kid, and he is normally so damn sweet and minds so well.

  “But, Miss Beard—”

  “Jake, move your pin, please, and have a seat,” I repeat.

  My heart fissures as his little face falls, tears gathering in the corner of his big brown eyes as he does the walk of shame to the pin board.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” He sniffs. With all the solemnity that this very dire situation deserves, Jake moves his pin to yellow.

  Head bent and shoulders slumped, he walks back to his seat and gets to work. I feel like I’ve sent him off to his doom. With his tongue out and curled around his upper lip, pencil clutched in his chubby little hand, brows pulled tight in concentration, he traces his letters, practicing the skill, though he’s probably one of my most advanced students.

  Before long, Jake’s wiggling in his seat, checking the clock over the door, sneaking surreptitious glances at me. I shake my head and jot a quick note to myself to check in with his mama and make sure there’s nothing else going on in his little world that has him so out of sorts.

  ***

  AFTER HANDING MY CLASS off to the lunchroom monitor, I hightail it to the teachers’ lounge and grab my lunch from the fridge. Thank God my roommate, Gracyn, went food shopping this week. She’s an amazing friend but a real shitty cook; she could barely tell you what the inside of a grocery store looks like. She did good this time though.

  I pull the big roast beef on rye out of my paisley-printed lunch bag and peel back the wrapping. Crisp lettuce and tangy onion give each bite a perfect crunch, and the flavors positively burst in my mouth. Slathered with cheesy Parmesan mayo and bright red tomato, this sandwich is nothing short of heaven. I wash down each bite with a hit of water, focused on getting the food in my belly as fast as I can.

  “The hell, Kate? Where’s the fire?” my fellow kindergarten teacher Annie asks. She plops down at the table next to me and empties her own bag of goodies.

  Teaching the youth of America to properly form their letters is hard work; we tend to take our food quite seriously.

  Speaking around another mouthful, I answer, “Something’s up with Jake, and I don’t want him to get in trouble in the lunchroom. He’s a frickin’ spaz today, and Martha’ll send him to the office if I’m not there.”

  Martha is the elementary school equivalent of a SWAT team. She runs a tight ship, and nobody messes with that.

  Chew, swallow, gulp of water, and another huge bite. My sandwich is almost done, and I pray that I have a mint in my bag for later because this onion is seriously strong.

  “You’ve got it bad for that little boy, don’t you? What happened to not having a favorite this year?” Annie teases.

  Shrugging, I shove the last bite in my mouth and chew furiously before responding, “What can I do? His daddy’s gone a lot, and he just needs a little extra patience right now. I’ll talk to his mama, but
he just … I don’t know.”

  “Doesn’t hurt that he’s cute as a button either.”

  “Who? Jake or his daddy? Have you met Mr. Triplett?” I ask, chucking my trash in the can.

  “I haven’t, but I bet the apple didn’t fall far from that tree. And who knows, maybe that uncle Jake’s always talking about is single,” Annie tosses over her shoulder as I leave the oasis and fast-walk down the hall to my kiddos.

  It’s not unusual for me to pop in and check on my class, but I startle Martha, laying a hand on her back as she’s gunning for my class table.

  “Little Mr. Triplett needs a write-up to the office, Miss Beard. In fact, I was just about to take him down there and get things back in order here,” she huffs at me.

  “Yeah, Jake’s had a rough morning, but let’s give him a hot minute and just see if he can pull himself out of whatever this is. What’s he been doing?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder toward the table reserved for my kids.

  Hot damn.

  That is most definitely not one of my kindergartners.

  Making a show of fanning myself, I tease, “Miss Martha, you sure you don’t just want to go over there and flirt with that fine specimen of man sitting next to Jake?” Because, holy fuck, is he ever?

  Martha pauses and looks at the tall man folded awkwardly into the bench-and-table combo that perfectly fits our smallest students. “Miss Beard,” she says exasperatedly, “I’m old enough to be his mother.” She flutters her hand at her throat, clutching at the neck of the candy-cane-printed turtleneck that complements her black sweater vest, which has presents and bows appliqued festively down the front.

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t look.” I hit her with a wink and lean in conspiratorially. “You calling dibs on him? Or can I go see what’s got Jake all riled up?”

  “Dear Lord, you’re just terrible,” she mutters. “But, since you’re here, I’ll let you deal with your class issues. I see a potential situation that needs to be handled with that long-term substitute’s class.” And, with that, Martha scurries off, leaving me to my musings.

  The man sitting smack-dab in the middle of the bench is obviously a source of great interest to my kids. Jake alternates between sitting so close to the man that a piece of tissue paper would feel squished and standing, holding court with his tall, muscly friend. Probably his dad. He did mention that his father was home earlier. He’s got all the telltale patience of a father visiting his excited kiddo at school. Helping each child open whatever container or snack bag they hand him. Chatting with each of them in turn.

  Chloe Triplett is a very lucky woman if that man is warming her bed at night—when he’s in town anyway. His broad shoulders test the tensile strength of the fabric of his plaid shirt, molding almost poetically around a muscular back, tapering in that perfect V to a well-formed ass.

  God, forgive me for lusting after my student’s father, please and thank you, I pray silently.

  Closely cropped dark brown hair fades into maybe two-day scruff that peppers a strong jawline. Plump lips hitch up when the question of the moment is interrupted by Amelia telling him he’s got pretty eyes.

  His shoulders shake ever so slightly as he rumbles out a, “Thank you, and so do you.”

  Be still my heart.

  I take a deep breath as I approach the table, pushing aside any and all of those lustful thoughts that might still be floating around me like fireflies on a hot summer night. “Jake, can you have a seat, please?” I rest a hand on his shoulder, giving him a little clue about which direction he needs to make his body go.

  “Hey, sorry. Hope I’m not causing any trouble.” The man turns and thrusts his hand in my direction, trying to stand.

  Bless his heart for trying to have manners, but that table has a hold on him, and I’m not quite sure it’s ever going to let him go. I wouldn’t.

  “Not at all. Actually, I’m thrilled to meet you, Mr. Triplett. Jake has been talking about you nonstop. Thank you for your service.” I smile and nod my head before slipping my hand into his, and no matter how wrong it is, my heart does an extra little dance when our hands connect. All the good ones are taken.

  “That’s not my dad,” Jake says, screwing up his face at me like I’m an idiot. “That’s my uncle Jack, Miss Beard. Uncle Jack, didn’t I tell you she was pretty? I did, right?”

  Electricity jumps along my spine as a smile spreads across this man’s beautifully tanned face. Blue eyes flecked with green and gold stay trained on my muddy browns, not breaking eye contact, even as his smile wrinkles and creases the skin at the corners of his eyes.

  “You did, my man. You absolutely did. I’m at a disadvantage here, Miss Beard. I seem to be trapped and can’t stand to properly introduce myself.” He’s still got my hand firmly clasped in his, deep golden-brown skin wrapped solidly around my winter-paled hand. “Wyatt Jackson. Uncle Jack to this guy.” He nods toward Jake. “It is an absolute pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  If I were a less jaded woman, I’d swoon. But I’m not, and this slick soldier is too smooth, too good-looking, and probably just like all the other assholes out there. I need to shake this off and get myself together. Somehow, it was safer to lust after Jake’s very happily married dad. His apparently single and possibly interested uncle is dangerously enticing.

  I smile politely and pull my hand from his warm grip, his palm rough and callused, his hold strong. “Thank you for visiting with us today, Mr. Jackson. Jake speaks very highly of you,” I tell him.

  “As he does of you.” He winks a golden-greenish blue eye at me “Every time we talk, right, buddy?”

  Jake wiggles out of his seat and bounces in front of me. “Can Uncle Jack come to class? Can I show him my seat and my cubby and all of my pictures? Can I, please?”

  “Chill, bud. You’re bouncing like a bunny,” I tell him through a chuckle. “We’ve got a busy afternoon—”

  “Please, Miss Beard. Please? I promise I’ll be good the rest of the day. I promise,” Jake begs.

  Maybe I could resist his folded hands and the puppy-dog eyes on a normal day, but this is special. Jake’s been talking about his dad and uncle coming home forever, and as rocky as the morning was, the afternoon won’t be any better if I say no to this.

  Pick your battles, Kate.

  “All right, but you need to pinkie promise me that you’re going to calm yourself down.” I hold out my right pinkie to Jake, and he carefully wraps his around mine and places his other hand over his heart.

  “I promise, and soldiers never break their promises, right?” He looks to his uncle and returns the nod of acknowledgment he gets.

  “Without a doubt.” That deep, gravelly voice sends sparks down my spine.

  Chapter 4

  Jack

  JAKE CLUTCHES MY HAND as we walk down the hallway, our free pointer fingers resting tightly against sealed lips. Not a sound aside from the slap of rubber soles against the shiny linoleum—that, and the click of Miss Beard’s heels. Those shiny black heels lead up to legs that could only have been created by God himself on his most inspired day in heaven. And that ass. Is that sway normal for a kindergarten teacher? Thank Christ she’s not teaching middle school; boys would be throwing ’bows, trying to gain just the tiniest bit of her attention. Hell, I’d fucking throw down just for the chance to hold her hand again.

  How many times can I get away with shaking her hand before I solidly enter creep territory?

  “Okay, boys and girls, please put your lunch bags away and take a seat on the floor. You may bring your mat or snuggle buddy if you want,” the hot teacher says. Her voice is like silk, smooth and calming with just a hint of a Southern accent.

  I’m not a linguist, but I learned early on that it pays to pay attention, picking apart accents and speech patterns. The more I can piece together about people when I meet them, the better my life tends to be.

  “Uncle Jack doesn’t have a mat or snuggle buggle,” Jake calls as he darts to his cubby. “But we can share.
I’ll use my coat, and you can use my dino mat.” The kid is dragging half of the coat closet with him.

  “Jake, maybe your uncle would like to sit up front and read to us today?” Teach raises her eyebrow at me.

  Questioning me? Daring me? I’m not sure, but I am sure as fuck getting lost in the way her eyes sparkle at me.

  I stalk to the fluffy pink chair at the front of the classroom, my very best panty-melting smile on my face. Being the teacher’s pet right about now sounds like an excellent way to spend a day. Maybe more than a day while I’m in town. I sure as shit don’t remember any of my teachers filling out a tight skirt like she does.

  “I’d be honored to read today.” I throw her a wink and settle myself into the frilly deep-pink chair. It might be petite and delicate, but at least it’s adult-sized, not like the minuscule chairs dotting the rest of the room.

  Miss Beard approaches me from behind, and I force myself not to react like I’m in the field. Multiple tours in the devil’s sandbox have made me a little jumpy about not having my six covered. Dropping a sparkly purple purse and a book into my lap, she explains what we’re reading today. She stands to my right and leans into the side of the princess chair I’m planted in, her hip jutting dangerously close to the side of my head. I grip the shiny purse in my hand, the plastic groaning under the pressure as I force myself to keep my hands firmly and safely on my lap. The temptation to reach back and trail a finger up the back of her curvy calf, across the back of her knee, and up that thigh is almost overwhelming. But I’m disciplined; I’ve had that shit beaten into me, hazed and burned into my very being.

  A rhythmic snapping draws my attention from inappropriate thoughts, and with that subtle little noise, the kids all find their spots on the floor in a semicircle around me.

  Softly, melodically, Miss Beard praises the group, “Thank you for being such good listeners. Let’s take just a moment to say thank you to Jake’s special guest for taking time to read with us today.”