Tombstones (Beekman Hills Book 4)

by K. C. Enders

A chorus of, “Thank you,” jumbles into a mix of, “friend,” and, “Uncle Jack.”

  I’ve seen soldiers who don’t follow direct orders half as well as these little kids do with nothing more than a kind voice and some gentle prodding. How much of that can be attributed to the woman who’s got them for the majority of their waking hours each day? Hell, after just a handful of minutes with her, I’m ready to fall in line and do whatever she wants.

  I steal a glance at the delicate hand propped on her left hip—right where I almost can’t miss it. I mean, I can’t miss it. Relief floods me when I see that her hand is completely unadorned. No rings. None glinting on the hand in the air, reaching to turn on a lamp resting on the edge of her desk. That’s a damn good sign for me. Surely, she felt that surge when we shook hands earlier. For fuck’s sake, I didn’t want to let go.

  She saunters across the room, blonde waves bouncing, to turn off the overhead light, casting the room in a soft glow, and with a collective sigh, the kids settle in for story time.

  I’m not going to lie. The purple purse story doesn’t really hold anyone’s interest. Before long, heads are nodding, eyes are closing, and there’s complete and utter silence. I close the book and set it on the bookshelf next to me with the purse and silently push myself up out of the chair. There, in the shadows, is a stunning beauty, lit by a desk lamp and the glow of her laptop.

  “Is this normal, or did I bore them to death?” I whisper.

  “This is a golden miracle, and we don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” she says softly, her accent weaving its way around the words. “I love each and every one of them, but peace is peace, and I need it today. Thank you.”

  She looks around the room, taking stock of the lax, snoozing bodies strewed across the floor. Gracefully standing, she motions for me to follow her, and we slip out into the hall, the door barely cracked behind us.

  “Seriously, thank you. Some days are rougher than others, and if I’m being honest, I think they all need the break. Being five is hard work.” She smiles, really smiles for the first time since I met her, and it’s breathtaking.

  “Shit, I’m sorry. Was it me, do you think? Jake’s got a tendency to get himself worked up, and he takes the rest of the room along for the ride.”

  Her hand darts out, landing on my arm, her intent to soothe my worry away. But with her movement comes a waft of perfume, and the effect is the absolute opposite of what is good for either of us in this moment. Soft and buttery like whipped cream, fresh but not overly sweet, her scent is nothing short of heady and intoxicating in the very best way.

  “Not at all, and please watch your words,” she says, pinning me with a stern teacher look. “I think it has more to do with the phase of the moon or the fact that Christmas break is looming around the corner.”

  I place my hand on top of hers, holding it in place. “Miss Beard, thank you for all that you do for Jake. People don’t usually get how hard it is on those left behind by deployments. You’ve made a huge impression on him.”

  Her smile takes on a hint of shyness.

  “I’d like to thank you properly. Can I buy you a drink? Take you out to dinner?”

  “That’s sweet of you, but no.” She’s still relaxed, not pulling away.

  “Just no?” I lean in, testing her commitment to that response.

  “Yes. A simple no. Perhaps a no, thank you would be more polite.” She gives my forearm a little squeeze and pulls her hand away.

  “May I ask why?” Without conscious thought, I widen my stance and fold my arms across my chest, slipping into my standard pose when a soldier gives me a bullshit answer that I don’t like.

  “You may.”

  Sighing, I drop my chin to my chest before meeting her eye again. “Why did you refuse an offer for a lovely dinner out?”

  “Professionalism. Do they have that in the Navy?”

  “Army, Special Forces. SEALs just fucking write books. I actually do work,” I respond automatically, busting on my Naval counterparts.

  Given the same situation, guys from the other services all do the same thing, but when shit goes down, there is nothing but mad respect.

  Her head snaps back, eyes blinking wildly, making her lashes flutter. “Same difference, and I asked you to watch your language,” she scoffs, glaring. “I just don’t think it’s right to see my students’ people socially. It would raise questions of impropriety, but thank you anyway.”

  My lips pull up on just one side in a smirk that has never failed me. I lean in, crowding her space just a little—not enough to scare her off because, let’s face it, the last thing I want to do is give her any reason to refuse me. “I’m not related to Jake. He’s my best friend’s kid, and while I think of them as family, we’re not a blood relation.”

  “And yet, my student calls you Uncle Jack, thus the need to maintain distance. So, no, but thank you.” She gives my in-charge stance right back, feet planted, arms folded, attitude in full swing.

  I like it. Fuck that, I like it a lot that she’s a little cocksure and sassy. Color me intrigued.

  “True. But I can assure you, I have sufficient security clearance to keep this on the down low if that’s what you need …” I taper off, waiting.

  And waiting.

  Nothing.

  This chick has her shit locked down tight, making me the first to break. “Christ, will you at least tell me your name, or do I have to keep calling you Miss Beard?”

  The attitude on this one, seriously fucking hot.

  She screws up her mouth so that her plump peach lips are twisted up, the right side of them getting downright abused by her pearly white teeth. “Doesn’t matter if y’all are actually related, the answer is still no. And you keep pushin’, we’re gonna ramp that no right on up to a hell naw, ya hear? And my name is Katelyn Hays Beard. I’ll allow Kate, should we happen to run into each other outside of school, but within these walls and with Jake, I expect you to respect my professional relationship with your nephew and his family, referring to me as Miss Beard. There’s more to family than just blood.”

  Yeah. Her Southern roots are showing big-time, and I definitely like ruffling those feathers.

  “Right. I hear you. Thank you for your time today, ma’am.” I nod and saunter down the kindergarten hallway like I own the fucking place.

  Chapter 5

  Kate

  THERE IS NOTHING I need more than dinner and a handful of drinks to help wash away a week from hell with twenty five-year-olds and a full moon. At least I hope that’s what I’m getting up to tonight.

  This is the third, maybe fourth time I’ve gone out with this guy, and while he’s not the worst I’ve found on Tinder, he’s sure not winning any awards either. In fact, Dr. Barnes, as he refers to himself, is kind of an asshole. He’s got potential to be a lovable one at times, but still. I mean, for the love of God, he’s a chiropractor; he can’t even hook me up with antibiotics when the sweet little angels in my class lovingly share their damn germs. It’s time for him to up his game, but I probably need to cut him loose. After dinner because, to be completely honest, a teacher’s salary doesn’t go very far, and I really do need a night out to counterbalance this week.

  “Yes, I made a reservation,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the hostess stand. “My time is valuable. You think I have all the time in the world to stand around, waiting for you to find me a table? I’m a doctor, for God’s sake.”

  “I’m so sorry, Dr. Barnes. Perhaps you can have a drink at the bar while we get your table ready for you?” The poor girl is beyond flustered and falling all over herself to make Matt happy.

  Yeah, I refuse to refer to him as a doctor. Maybe I would if he wasn’t such an asshole. But he is, so there’s that.

  I lean on the bar and signal the bartender. “Two shots of Patrón and a margarita. Rocks and salt, please,” I order quickly, hoping I can get some liquid calm before the not-a-doctor loses his shit.

  As the bartender sets the full shot glass
es in front of me, a most delicious smell drifts around me. I check over my shoulder for the source of the clean, spicy scent with a hint of citrus and leather, but no one stands out to me. Downing the shots, one after the other, I slide a wad of cash across the bar and scoot to my left, making room for Matt.

  He’s fine. At the very least, not visually offensive.

  “Can you believe how they treat medical professionals here? Honestly, if I ran my practice like this, I wouldn’t have any patients,” Matt huffs indignantly. “Did you get a drink, KB? That bartender take care of you?” He’s talking to me but looking anywhere but at me.

  “I did. What do you need?” I turn and smile at the bartender, hoping he comes right over.

  Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe dinner and drinks aren’t worth the time I have to spend with this guy.

  “Yeah, I’m gonna need an appletini,” Matt calls over my head, doing the douchey bro nod at the sweet man pouring drinks tonight. “And that’s on the house since I have to wait for my reservation.”

  I want to disappear. Usually not offensive just became full asshole.

  What self-respecting man drinks appletinis?

  None. The answer is not a damn one.

  Matt’s froufrou girlie drink is placed in front of him with a look that might be classified as heated interest from the bartender.

  I catch his eye and give him a quick shake of my head, mouthing, Don’t waste your time.

  Lifting the full glass to his lips, Matt takes a delicate sip and loudly smacks his lips. A move that does not go unnoticed by the bartender despite my warning. Perhaps they’re better suited for each other than Matt and I are.

  “So I had a new patient today. Fucking hot as shit. Tight body, locked in on clean eating. She was totally a CrossFitter; I could tell. She had these rock-hard thighs and this ass. She’s going to need me for a long time coming.” He snickers, mumbling, “Come,” under his breath like he’s saying a naughty word—like the twelve-year-old boy he really is at heart.

  Sweet baby Jesus in a manger, this date is going downhill in a hurry. There is not a damn thing I can think of to say. Matt’s practically panting over some other chick while he’s out with me. When is this shit going to end? I need to find a nice man. One with ethics and morals. One who knows how to treat the woman he’s out on a date with. One who refrains from looking for or lusting after his next conquest. Doesn’t have to be a forever thing. I just need to know that the apparent unicorn exists.

  The front door opens, ushering in a gusty breeze from outside, and that spicy, citrusy scent swirls around me once again. The owner must be somewhere close by. I search the surrounding area, and just as I lock eyes with my favorite student’s not-a-real-uncle, Matt’s commentary on his better business practices rumbles across the room.

  “So, really, I mean, it’s only malpractice if they complain, am I right?” Matt’s booming, slightly grating voice carries across the sudden lull of conversation in the bar area.

  There is no escape. None.

  “Dr. Barnes, your table is ready. Would you care to follow me, please?” The hostess smiles politely, indicating the way to the dining room.

  Matt rises from the barstool he commandeered for himself, leaving me to stand in three-inch heels. “About time. We’ve been waiting well over ten minutes.”

  The more he talks, the more I realize I’m not just not interested; I’m downright embarrassed to be associated with him. Resigned to just get through tonight’s dinner and call it quits.

  Again.

  I can’t seem to catch a break with the whole dating thing since I showed up early to meet my ex, Chance, for dinner and found him pressed up—from hips to lips—kissing on the prettiest boy I had ever seen. Needless to say, I moved out the next day, and the rest has been one dating disaster after another. The only good thing that came out of that day was meeting my roommate, Gracyn George, and her best friend, Lis Rittenhouse. Thank God those girls were all about making friends with a poor, displaced girl from the South.

  We’re seated at a table by the window, and Matt immediately launches into ordering for both of us. Not a damn thing that I want to eat since the self-proclaimed fitness guru has decided that kale and brussels sprouts are the food of the hour.

  I excuse myself as quickly and politely as I can manage, seeking the relative silence of the women’s restroom. It strikes me out of nowhere that this is becoming my thing. My date starts going south, and I take off for the sanctity of the restroom—the one place I know the guy won’t follow me. I wash my hands, check social media, and waste as much time as I think I can get away with. Maybe our super-healthy, flavorless food will be at the table, waiting, by the time I get back. Doing a quick calculation of how much time I think I can handle spending with Matt Barnes—full-naming him is a fantastic middle ground for me, not too familiar, not at all professional—I push through the restroom door and stop dead in my tracks.

  Wyatt Jackson. Standing just like he did outside my classroom earlier today when he was trying his damnedest to look intimidating. Feet shoulder-width apart, arms folded across his broad chest, biceps straining against the confines of his flannel shirt. Waiting. I inhale deeply, readying myself to be just as indignant as I can when the spicy, citrus scent from earlier stops my brain mid-thought. Of course it was him—the source of the scent that calmed me, caught my attention, and yet eluded me in the bar.

  “That’s the kind of guy you go for?” A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

  “What?”

  “I got turned down for that asshole who thinks it’s perfectly fine to throw a tantrum for a table and talk to his date about the hot woman he met today that he apparently gets to have his hands all over. What does that say about you, Miss Beard?” His smirk grows as he talks.

  The hallway seemingly narrows. Or maybe that’s just my reaction to being in a confined space with him.

  “You teach those kids about respect and honor—yeah, Jake tells me all about class and his favorite teacher every time he’s got the opportunity, so I am well aware of what you’re instilling in those kids—but you don’t have it in yourself to demand the same of the people you date?”

  Hot and flustered, I’m not sure what to say. Maybe I should try to push my way through and put some space between us, so I can think. I mean, I just met this man for the first time today, and he’s getting all in my business?

  “I think you’re worth more than you’re billing yourself.”

  He straightens his already-rigid spine, and I can’t help but notice the striking form he presents. Confidence rolls off of him, swirling around me, filling the air, but he’s not cocky. It’s just the unspoken assurance that he’s a bigger badass than anyone else in the room.

  “Mr. Jackson—”

  “If you insist on formalities, it’s Captain.” His head tilts down ever so slightly as his brows rise up the same amount.

  We’re just posturing, dancing around each other.

  I purse my lips and pull deep at my teacher voice, the voice of calmly rational sternness, but before I can address him further, he relaxes his shoulders and continues, “I’d prefer if we could drop it though. Jack works a whole lot better for me, Kate. And, if I’m completely honest here, I think you should let me take you out. Show you how a gentleman acts on a date. Bet he doesn’t open doors or get your chair for you.” He nods his head toward the dining room, and a knowing smile spreads across his face.

  I’m dumbstruck. He exudes masculinity and control, not sacrificing even an ounce of respect in the course of it though.

  “Why? Why do you want to take me out so badly?” I ask hesitantly, not sure that I can handle his response.

  “Because you’ve got the hardest job in the world—hell of a lot harder than mine. You give all you have to those kids, and I think you don’t have an inkling of the impact you have on their little lives. Because you exude a confidence that screams sexy and self-assured, but you lower yourself to letting a schmuck like that
think he’s worthy of your company. It doesn’t make sense, and I want to puzzle it apart, figure out why.” Uncrossing his arms, he slides his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. And waits.

  My brain whirls and swirls. Thoughts bouncing around, not really sticking on any one thing. My breath catches in my lungs as I search for anything intelligent to say. Anything at all.

  And all I can seem to come up with is, “Okay.”

  He nods once, controlled and almost curt, but even that small movement grabs my attention. “Excellent. Give me your number, and I’ll call to work out the details—day, time, your address.”

  I snap out of the trance I somehow slipped into in the haze of his self-assurance. “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  “No? No what? Not going to allow me to take you out? Or—”

  “I’ll meet you out, somewhere public.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I push on, “I just met you. It would be foolish of me—actually stupid—to give you my address at this point.” I wave my hand toward the restaurant’s dining room, realizing I’ve probably been gone way longer than is polite. “He doesn’t even have my address yet, and we’ve gone out several times. Not all my choices are bad ones. You could be a murderer or something.”

  He huffs out a laugh and says, “Smart girl. I feel a little better, knowing you’re not relying on that douche to get you home safely. Not sure he can hold his liquor. Fucking appletini? What is he, trying out for a remake of Scrubs or something?”

  “Right? Who drinks those?”

  The remaining tension drains out of his body, his stance much more relaxed now. I dig through my bag, looking for a pen and a scrap of paper. Normally, I have Post-it Notes, a full set of colored pens, and highlighters of all shades in my purse, but I opted to leave my Mary Poppins bag at home tonight, and there is nothing in my clutch to jot my number on.

  “Just text yourself from mine.”

  This would be a fantastic time to let my sass shine, but I’m coming up short, so I just text my name.

  He slightly shakes his head and lets out a determined breath. “I know it’s presumptuous, but will you … will you let me know that you’ve gotten home safe tonight? After dinner?”