by Beth Andrews
“At the kitchen table. While I’m making dinner.”
“Okay. So, the first thing you can do is review the daily homework schedule with Max. I’ll write one up and send it home with him when there are assignments due. Have him read it to you, then go over it again together. Next, make sure the table is clear of any clutter, then have him list the items he’ll need to do his assignments and have him get them out. Pencil, worksheet, spelling list, et cetera. Just don’t let him bring anything to the table that is not necessary to accomplishing his homework. No rubber bands, not an apple left over from lunch, or the baseball card he brought in for show-and-tell.
“And if you could keep track of how well Max does with each assignment—was it difficult for him? Did he get frustrated or angry? How long did it take him to complete the assignment? That’ll give me a better idea of what areas we need to tweak. Oh,” she added excitedly, “I came across this book online I thought could help.” She dug through her papers, found the printout of the website page. “Using Art to Teach Reading Comprehension Strategies.”
He didn’t even look at the paper. He was too busy staring at her face. “You love it,” he murmured.
“I’m not sure. I haven’t actually seen it yet, let alone used it.”
“Not the book. Teaching.”
“Believe me, most teachers love what they do or they wouldn’t do it.”
“Not even for summers off?”
“It may be why some people choose to go into this profession, but for most of us it’s not that. Don’t get me wrong, summer vacation is a nice perk, but the way I see it, all those three months do is help counterbalance the other issues teachers have to deal with the remaining nine months.”
“What issues?” he asked, sounding sincere. Interested.
“Upper administration and their never-ending political wars. Budget cuts, long days and a salary that’s lower than that of other workers with college degrees. We’re also on the front lines when it—”
“Now who’s been doing internet research?” he asked, his mouth twitching as if he was fighting a grin.
“Just because it’s online doesn’t mean it’s not true. I think. Anyway, we’re also on the front lines when it comes to parents. Parents who are uninvolved to the point of neglect, those who are too involved—coming in the room every day, pushing their kids to be number one. Parents who believe their little darlings are perfect and blame their child’s bad behavior on everything and everyone but the child.”
“Like I did.”
“No and yes. When Max misbehaved you didn’t go to the principal and tell him I was picking on your kid and demand his recess privileges be restored. You backed me up and, as an educator, I appreciate that. But, you were also the first one who accused me of not doing enough to help him learn.”
“I was wrong.”
“I believe I made that clear when it happened.”
“I was wrong,” he repeated gruffly, leaning across the table to cover her hand with his. She froze, her breath locking in her chest. “I’m sorry.”
His hand was warm, the pads of his fingers rough as he brushed them back and forth against her knuckles. She jumped to her feet and gathered her papers. “That...it’s okay. Do you have any other questions for me about Max?” she asked, keeping her gaze on the table.
“I think I’m good. I’m just...”
She looked up. “You’re just what?”
Eddie drummed his fingers on the table. “I’m worried about making all these allowances for Max. Giving him extra time to finish his math quiz. Letting him stand while he does his work, going over the directions three times to make sure he gets them.... What if he starts to think that’s how it’s supposed to be? Him getting special treatment? That’s not real life.”
“He’s seven. He shouldn’t have to face real life yet.” But she understood his worries. “Think of it this way—kids who are advanced get certain concessions an average student doesn’t. They’re part of enrichment groups, get to leave class for reading and math, have extra spelling words added to their list. What we’re trying to do with kids at this age is figure out how best they learn so they can use these tips and tricks throughout the remainder of their schooling and their lives.”
He blew out a heavy breath. “Yeah. Okay.” He stood, picked up his paperwork, flicked the corner of the folder with his thumb. Flick. Flick. Flick. “I appreciate this.” He tipped his head toward the table. “You taking the time to meet with me.”
“I’m happy to do it. Do you mind meeting here every week? I like to pick Cass up from daycare as early as possible on Fridays.” With Eddie having to get Max home to wait for his mom, Harper had suggested he come over instead of meeting at the school.
“I could come to the school before four if that helps.”
“It’s just...easier for me if we do it here.”
Though her daughter wasn’t the only reason she wanted to continue meeting at her home. She didn’t want too many people to know exactly how many allowances she was giving Max and, in effect, Eddie.
He shrugged, which she was taking as a yes—mostly because she needed it to be a yes.
“Great. If you have any questions or concerns before next Friday, you can send a note in with Max or call me during school hours—”
“Or I could tell you when I come in.”
She shut her eyes briefly. “Right. Of course.”
He was the classroom helper for a few more weeks. Seemed as if just when she finally rid her thoughts of him, he showed up, live and in person, and the torment started all over again.
“I’d better get going,” he said. “I’m sure you have plans.”
Was he asking if she had plans? And if he was asking and she didn’t have plans, did that mean he was going to ask her to make plans with him?
“Actually,” she said as they walked through the house, “Sadie invited us over for dinner but I declined. Sometimes it’s nice to stay at home. Catch up on a few things.”
There. That should make it clear she wasn’t some lonely widow, jumping at any chance to leave the house.
Even if the few things she needed to catch up on were laundry, dishes and reruns of Friends.
“I’d rather stay home,” he said, “but Maddie—my sister—badgered me into going out to eat with her.”
Guess he hadn’t been fishing about her plans, hadn’t been trying to see if he’d have an opening to ask her to spend the evening with him.
If she was disappointed, no one had to know but her.
9
FOR THE FIRST time since he could remember, Eddie hoped a woman would keep talking.
He must be losing his freaking mind.
But when Harper stopped chatting with him about Max or her job or asking him once again if he had any other questions, he’d have no reason to stay. When they reached her door—in a matter of mere seconds—he would have to leave.
He didn’t want to. He still had half an hour until he needed to be at Maddie’s. He could go early or, since Maddie lived across the street from their parents, he could stop there, see how his mom was doing with her college courses, have a beer with his dad.
He had places he could go. People he could see, people he cared about, who he enjoyed being with.
He didn’t want to leave.
Not yet. Not when the tension riding his shoulders since Lena knocked on his door was finally fading. His stomach no longer felt twisted and tied in knots, the tightness in his chest had eased.
Part of it, he knew, was relief from hearing Max was doing better. No, a D wasn’t anything to cheer about but the tutoring—the individual attention—was helping. And the tips and techniques Harper had taught Eddie gave him a sense of control. A sense that he could help his son.
The other part was Harper.
He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since Sunday. Had wondered if he’d gone too far that day. Or if he hadn’t gone far enough.
They turned the corner and her arm brushed
his. She moved away. And then, there they were. At the door.
She reached for the handle and sent him a polite version of a don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-in-the-ass-on-the-way-out smile. “I’ll see you Tuesday then.”
Four days until he’d have a reason to be near her. And then, they’d be surrounded by eighteen kids.
There was only one thing to do, one way to delay the inevitable.
“You didn’t ask about Max’s mom getting him.”
“The last time I asked you a personal question regarding your son and your ex-wife, you told me it was none of my business.”
“That didn’t seem to bother you.” It sure as hell hadn’t stopped her from giving her opinion.
“I’m changing my ways,” she assured him as she opened the door.
For some reason, that annoyed him. He didn’t want her to change.
Except maybe out of that Shady Grove Elementary polo, those ugly khakis. He wanted her in those jeans from the other day. Or maybe a dress, one that swirled around her legs, hugged her ample curves.
He wanted her in his bed, under his body. He’d only now realized how much.
He stepped into the doorway then faced her again. Rain hit the roof in a steady beat. A strong breeze blew it across the porch, wetting the back of his jeans. He remained rooted to the spot.
“Lena loved the butterfly Max made,” he said, as if daring her not to pick up the conversational gauntlet.
Her grip on the handle loosened. “I’m so glad. He had fun making it and I think he picked up a few vocabulary words, so it was a win-win situation.”
Leave it to a teacher to make everything, even an art project, educational.
“Did Max say anything? About seeing Lena?”
“Yes.”
He waited. She sent him an innocent look, an expectant one.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well what?”
“What did he say?” Eddie ground the words out from between clenched teeth.
She leaned her head against the door, her hair sliding off her shoulder. “A few things.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Care to be more specific?”
“Not really.” She straightened. “If you want to know how your son feels about his mother, or anything else for that matter, I suggest you ask him. That’s what I did. It’s really not that hard. You just say, ‘Hey, Max. Your mom’s coming. Are you excited?’ The nice part about it is you can use other words for excited—nervous, scared, angry. Your pick.”
“I did ask him,” he admitted.
“And you can’t—” She frowned. “Wait? What? You did?”
“Yeah.” He’d wanted to know what his kid was thinking. Feeling. Before, he’d wait, let Max come to him, but with Lena’s visit approaching, Eddie had felt as if they were running out of time. “I asked if he was looking forward to seeing her. He shrugged. I told him it was okay if he was nervous or if he wants to come home after dinner and skip the movie. He nodded.”
Her lips quirked, elongating that perfect heart-shape. “Wow. That must be so frustrating, talking to someone who doesn’t talk back. If you get stuck on deciphering all those shrugs and nods and head shakes, let me know. I think I can help translate.”
He couldn’t help but grin.
She stepped closer, bringing the door with her so that it pressed against her back. “Max told me he was excited to see his mom, but the closer it came to today, the more nervous he seemed. I didn’t think it was humanly possible but he got quieter and quieter as the day went on, more withdrawn.”
“When they walked away,” Eddie said slowly, “hand in hand, Max glanced back at me. He looked so little...lost and scared...I wanted to grab him and race away, drive like a bat out of hell somewhere secluded. Safe. Where no one could ever take him away from me.”
Not even his mother.
“Does your ex-wife want custody of Max?” Harper asked.
“She’s always been happy sharing custody. Seeing Max a few times a year used to be enough for her.”
“Used to be?”
“She’s changed.” He understood the reasons behind it and he found himself wanting to share those reasons with Harper. Wanted to tell her about Lena’s illness, to share his worries, to get Harper’s take on it all.
“But isn’t her wanting to see Max more often, to be a bigger part of his life, a change for the better?”
“I’m not sure. I’m afraid,” he said, choosing his words, his confession, carefully, “that she’ll want Max with her all the time.”
It was his great fear, one he’d lived with every moment since she had walked out of their house, out of their marriage, leaving their son behind.
Harper laid her hand on his forearm, her fingers cool. “It doesn’t do anyone any good to worry about things that might not happen.”
He liked how her pale hand looked against his tanned skin. How delicate and feminine it was with her long, slender fingers and pastel pink nails.
As if realizing she was touching him, Harper curled her fingers, her nails scraping his skin lightly as she pulled her hand away.
She stepped back. “I...I’d better get Cass up or she won’t sleep tonight.”
He wanted to touch her. Badly. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”
“Hmm? Oh, right. Yes. See you then.” She slammed the door in his face.
Slapping the folder against his thigh, he walked to his truck, the rain dotting his shirt, wetting his hair. He opened the door and tossed the folder onto the seat. On top of a tinfoil-covered plate.
Harper’s plate.
He tapped his forehead against the truck’s door frame a few times but when he straightened, the plate was still there.
Shit.
Grabbing it, he stormed up the porch steps, pounded on the door.
It opened almost immediately—had she been standing there this whole time?
“Did you forget something?” Harper asked, looking confused, sounding flustered.
“I wanted to give this back to you,” he said, practically shoving the plate into her stomach.
She lifted a corner of the tinfoil, frowned and then ripped it off entirely to stare at the plate. “These are brownies.”
The back of his neck heated. “My mom always said you shouldn’t return a plate empty.”
“So she made me brownies?”
“I made them. Max and I made them,” he corrected.
She stared at him as if he’d admitted they’d added marijuana to the batter.
“You made brownies? For me?”
“For you and Cassidy. Mostly Cass.”
She studied him as if trying to figure him out. “You keep surprising me,” she said softly.
She was so close, he noticed a sprinkling of freckles on her nose. He dropped his gaze to the deep dip in her top lip. His body tightened, his head spun.
It wasn’t an entirely bad feeling.
He just wasn’t sure if it was a good one, either. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had captured his thoughts. Had slipped into his dreams.
He edged closer, gratified and relieved when she didn’t retreat. “You like surprises?” he murmured.
She visibly swallowed, seemed to have trouble finding her voice. “Love them.”
“Good.”
Holding her gaze, keeping his hands to himself, he leaned in and brushed his mouth against hers. Her breath stuttered out, warm and minty across his chin. She held the plate between them and with each inhale he breathed in chocolate and Harper. A nice combination. Tasty. Intoxicating.
Wanting, needing another sample, he settled his mouth on hers.
* * *
HOLY CRAP, EDDIE MONTESANO was kissing her.
Harper’s eyes widened, her fingers clenched the plate. Still, she stood frozen, numb, as Eddie’s mouth moved gently over hers. Gently and expertly.
The man knew how to kiss. His lips were warm. Dry and firm. He took his time, explored her mouth as if
there was nothing he’d rather do, nowhere he’d rather be than on her porch, a plate of brownies digging into his sternum, kissing her.
Kissing. Her.
He stroked his tongue, just the tip, over the cupid’s bow of her top lip.
She jerked back, shoving against him at the same time so that they both stumbled. He reached out to steady her but she slapped his hand away then raised her fingers to her mouth.
“What was that?” But her words came out a croak, muffling her outrage. Her fear. She cleared her throat, forced her hand to her side. “What the hell was that?”
That had been better. Or at least, louder. Much louder.
“Harper.” His voice was low and soothing, as if she was a wild animal in need of calming. “I—”
“You what?” Now she was shrieking. She was literally shrieking at the man and she couldn’t seem to stop. “Tripped and just happened to land on my mouth? Were telling my lips a secret? Thought I was having a heart attack and jumped right into mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?”
“I kissed you. I want to kiss you again.”
She held up the plate, though he hadn’t made a move toward her, had actually crossed to stand at the edge of the porch where he watched her from hooded eyes. Where did he get off, dropping that little bomb on her? And if he kept up with that soothing tone, she was going to hit him.
Her heart beat hard. Fast. Too hard. Too fast. Good Lord, maybe she was having a heart attack.
“No. No,” she repeated, shaking a brownie at him. Crumbs flew, scattered on the porch floor. “You can’t kiss me. You...can...not...kiss...me!”
He nodded, his mouth tight. “Got it.”
“I don’t think you do.” How could he when he was the one who had kissed her in the first place? “What were you thinking? You weren’t thinking,” she continued when he opened his mouth. “That’s obvious. Or maybe this was all part of your plan?”
“Plan?” he asked with that damn scowl of his.
“Oh, it’s all so clear now.” She waved the brownie. A piece flew off, hitting the window. She tossed the rest aside, picked up another one. “You and that whole aw-shucks, bashful act. Telling me I’m pretty, that you...that you dream about my mouth. For God’s sake, you can’t dream about my mouth.”