by Fiona Lowe
She straightened up, her shoulders squaring. “This was just a clash of personalities. One personality in particular. I was well regarded by everyone else so getting a reference from other people in the department won’t be a problem. Tomorrow, I start the serious job hunt.”
He hoped for her sake she was correct about the chances of positive recommendations. “It’s all good then.”
“You’re right.”
“Always,” he quipped, surprised she’d concede something like that.
She swung her head to look at him, her gray eyes rolling. He grinned, suddenly feeling an easy camaraderie with her.
“Let me quantify that,” she said with dimples flashing. “I meant you were right about it being easier telling you about losing my job than telling my parents.” She interlaced her fingers like a child playing the steeple game and then she turned them over before pressing them into her lap. “They...they wouldn’t understand.”
He thought about how very supportive his family was of him and how he’d had to run from their understanding because it had suffocated him. “Sometimes we have to sort things out on our own.”
She sighed, leaning back on the couch. “Amen to that.”
He badly wanted to put his arm around her, draw her close and bury his face in her hair but he didn’t trust himself not to go any further—not to kiss her. And he didn’t trust himself not to pull away from her again.
Silently, they both stared into the fire.
Chapter Nine
Scott glanced at his daughter, Lily, who was struggling to connect two building blocks before returning his gaze back to the preschool teacher. “She’ll get there in the end.”
“Of course she will.” Nancy van Lanen smiled reassuringly. “Lily’s not the first child with Down syndrome to attend our preschool, Scott, and she won’t be the last. How’s her health?”
The dark days of worry and the long nights of fear were thankfully over. “Since her heart surgery three years ago, she’s been fantastic.”
“That’s great. Anything else I should know? Problems with hearing, eyesight, potty training?”
Scott pulled out a copy of Lily’s medical history. “She’s seeing a speech therapist and I practice with her at home. It would be great if you could remind her to keep her tongue inside her mouth. She’s getting a lot better at that but winter’s coming and I don’t want her to get an ulcerated tongue.”
Nancy nodded and made some notes before standing up and walking around to Lily. “Would you like to come and do some drawing, Lily? Meet the other children?”
Lily looked at Scott, her almond-shaped, up-slanting eyes automatically checking that this was an okay thing to do. They’d been a team of two for so long.
Scott smiled at her encouragingly, trying hard to hide the anxiety that never really left him and was especially strong when Lily met a new group of kids. “That sounds like fun, Lily.”
“I draw houth,” Lily said, taking Nancy’s extended hand.
Scott watched them both disappear through the door into the preschool room, hearing the noise of kids busy at work and play. The door shut behind them and silence barreled into him. He knew this was his cue to leave but he couldn’t quite manage it. Instead, he sneaked a peek into the room, watching Nancy settle Lily next to a little girl at a round table filled with crayons, scissors, colored paper and glue.
His heart cramped. Would the other children welcome Lily? Would they taunt her? Would she cope with preschool?
Would he?
Telling himself he was doing the right thing, he forced his legs to start moving and he left the squat but brightly painted building and turned in the direction of home. By now, he should be an expert at leaving Lily, but it never got easier and whenever she started a new program or therapy, he felt cast adrift for an hour or so. The idea of returning to an empty house wasn’t enticing. Neither was the pile of dirty laundry that waited or the detritus of the breakfast dishes. He needed to do something different so he detoured to the Whitetail market and the coffee cart.
As he entered the store and joined the line, he immediately recognized the blonde woman in front of him. To be more precise, he recognized the back of her. The way her hair fell in a perfectly smooth bob that finished just above her collar line. The way her cropped jacket fitted her like a glove and tantalizingly brushed her hips when she moved saying, hold me here and hold me now.
He closed his hand against an itch to touch her as he took in how her black trousers curved over her cute behind. The soft material fell to the tops of her high-heeled black ankle boots and he immediately blocked the thought of what that footwear brought to mind.
Melissa.
Melissa of the calculating blue eyes. With one flick of her gaze, she assessed people and he reckoned she usually found them wanting. She’d clearly assessed him on Saturday night and he should have found it insulting but instead, he’d found it incredibly erotic.
For his own sanity, he probably should avoid her. Hell, she’d already told him firmly that she wasn’t interested in dating him and he sure wasn’t interested in dating anyone. His life was complicated enough and it was going to take a very special woman for him to drop his guard and invite her into his and Lily’s life. Melissa Bergeron, with her judging gaze, didn’t come close.
He remembered her indignant protest at his abbreviating of her name and he couldn’t resist tapping her on the shoulder. “Hey, Missy.”
She spun around, surprise and chagrin bright in her blue eyes. “Scottie.”
He smiled. “That’s what my family calls me. You on the other hand didn’t call.” He hadn’t been surprised. “Given up on the idea of music lessons already?”
She brandished her phone at him as if it was a sword. “You’re on my to-do list.”
Yes, please.
He told his body to heel.
“And here I am in person, giving you the chance to cross something off your list.”
“I guess I can.” She didn’t sound thrilled at the idea.
“You two having your usual?” John Ackerman called out cheerfully.
“Yes.”
They spoke at the same time, their words rolling over each other and he instantly heard the harmonies of bass and soprano. He wondered if she sang.
You don’t need reluctant students or snarky ones with attitude.
I need the income. “So what times work best for you?”
She scrunched up her nose in thought. “I open the shop at ten during the week, nine on Saturdays and noon on Sundays. I close at six so that probably won’t work out with your schedule. Never mind. It was probably a dumb idea anyway.”
“What about now?” he asked, thinking about his bank balance.
She blinked at him. “Now?”
“Sure. We can do a half-hour lesson and be done by nine-thirty, giving you plenty of time to get to the store and be open by ten.”
They accepted their coffees and walked over to the cream and sugar counter. Melissa still hadn’t said a word.
He sighed, suddenly realizing he may have let his need for paying students override his ability to read people. “Just tell me now if you were blowing smoke about the lessons and we’ll drop the subject.”
She quickly stirred sugar into her coffee and met his gaze head-on, hair swinging. “I don’t blow smoke, Scott. In fact, ask anyone in town and they’ll tell you I’m known for saying what I think. What’s your address?”
Crap. He’d forgotten all about the mess in his house that he’d walked out on. Not that his piano was in the kitchen or the laundry room, but still, he didn’t want Melissa or any other adult in Whitetail to see his domestic situation under less than pristine conditions. Usually the house was under control—his personal statement that as a single father he was more than capable—but th
is morning’s stress of Lily’s first day at a new preschool had sent all his routines out the window. And there was something about Melissa that made him even more protective about Lily than usual.
“How about we use the grand at the town hall?”
A horrified expression crossed her face. “We can’t do that.”
“Of course we can. All pianos need to be played and that one’s crying out for some love and attention.”
She sucked in her lips as if she was steeling herself for something.
Interesting. Did the confident Ms. Bergeron actually have some insecurities?
“I’m not very good,” she finally blurted out.
It was an honesty he hadn’t expected from her and it tangled uncomfortably with his ideas of the woman he thought she was. “With lessons and practice, you’ll get so much better.”
She jammed the lid onto her coffee. “It’s kind of public and people will hear my mistakes.”
He found himself giving her a reassuring smile. “We’ll close the windows and the doors making it relatively soundproof and totally private.”
Her bright blue eyes suddenly darkened and for an infinitesimal moment, he caught an unexpected but unmistakable flare of heat.
His blood swooped to his groin. He slugged down some coffee fast, trying to shock his body back to order. The last thing he’d ever expected was that Melissa Bergeron would be attracted to him.
He suddenly started to hum.
* * *
Amy paced back and forth across her bedroom, pressing her cell hard against her ear, waiting for the person on the other end of the line to pick up.
She’d woken up on this beautiful sunny morning, determined that today was the day she was going to get a job. Telling Ben last night that she’d been let go from M.M. Enterprises had been remarkably freeing and his empathy unexpected.
You didn’t tell him the whole story.
I told him enough.
“David Randall.” The disembodied voice of the man she’d been calling rumbled down the line.
“Hey, David, it’s Amy Sagar. How are things?”
“Amy?” She heard the surprise in his voice and she tried not to let it unnerve her. Sure, she hadn’t spoken to the man in two years but they’d worked together in her early years. “Things are fine.” He sounded busy. Distracted.
“Great.” Keep going. “I’m thinking of making a change and leaving M.M. I was wondering—” she crossed her fingers, “—if there were any openings over at Lewsons?”
There was a long silence and her breakfast doughnut lurched in her stomach. “David?”
“Amy, I heard you were let go.”
The doughnut reached the back of her throat. Please don’t say you’ve heard anything more. “It was just a reshuffle,” she said, hoping she sounded both firm and resigned without any traces of panic. “We both know this sort of thing happens all the time in our business.”
His sigh reverberated down the line. “Sorry, Amy, there’s nothing for you here. Good luck,” he said in a tone that suggested she was going to need it.
The sound of a disconnected call beeped in her ear.
She blinked rapidly as she struck a line through David’s name on her list and then she blew her nose.
Did you really think the first cold call would get you a job?
David is hardly a cold call, and yes.
She huffed out a breath and checked the next number on her list. Lucy Makanski. Perhaps she’d have better luck with a woman.
* * *
Ben had spent the morning in Whitetail with Al, watching him service Red. He’d thought he’d hate it or at the very least find it frustrating knowing someone else had their hands all over his bike but it hadn’t been like that at all. Al loved an engine as much as Ben did and they’d discussed how innovative the Harley-Davidson Panhead engine had been for its time.
While Al fitted the new oiler kit, Ben had answered a few customer calls on the garage’s phone and, with his shoulder giving him less pain, he’d been able to write messages using his right hand. He’d even given some advice on a car battery problem.
“So how long’s this shoulder going to be giving you grief, son?” Al asked as he wiped his greasy hands on a rag.
“The doctor said I couldn’t ride for a few weeks.”
Al’s face took on a thoughtful look. “If you’ve got nothing better to do, I could use a helping hand around here, eh?”
“It would literally be one hand.” The request surprised and delighted him. “Doing what exactly?”
“Answering the phone for a start. Polishing the Rolls-Royce for the next wedding.”
Excitement jittered along Ben’s veins. “You have a Rolls-Royce?”
“Vintage 1934.” Al grinned. “She was a wreck when I found her and it took me a couple of years to restore her to her former glory but she’s a sight to behold now, eh?”
Ben was slowly learning that the “eh?” Al tacked on to the end of most sentences didn’t always mean he was asking a question. “I bet it was a labor of love. I know restoring Red was.”
Al scratched his beard thoughtfully. “She got me through some tough times for sure after Alice...my wife died.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Ben offered up, never quite knowing what to say when someone mentioned their loss.
“It was five years ago now. You slowly get used to being on your own but when you’ve lived with someone for thirty-eight years, you’ll always miss them. So,” he gave himself a shake, “you up for some light duties?”
Spending time in Al’s workshop or with Al was no hardship. “I think I am.”
Al grinned. “Good. You can start by going to the coffee cart.”
* * *
Three hours later, Al dropped Ben home. He’d been to the market and had a cloth bag over his good shoulder filled with ingredients for tonight’s dinner. He walked directly to the kitchen.
Amy was sitting at the huge wooden table surrounded by the remains of what looked like bright orange macaroni, chocolate brownies and one lone bag of potato chips. Her spiral curls lacked bounce and looked suspiciously like bed hair, her T-shirt, which read, I Love Cookies screamed pajama top and she was back wearing those awful sweatpants.
Shit. “Job hunting not going so well?”
Her head shot up, eyes flashing. “This is lunch.”
The stubbornness in her eyes did something crazy to his libido, sending throbbing desire for her pulsing into every crevice of his body. She looked like a train wreck and yet he wanted her so badly that he ached all over. Hating that he couldn’t stop feeling like this, he took it out on her. “God, Amy, how can you eat this crap?”
Her mouth developed a tart line. “One bite at a time.”
The image of nibbling and gently biting her exploded in his head and he quickly dug into his cloth bag. “Here.” He tossed a rosy-red apple at her as if it was a cricket ball.
Her hand shot up and she caught it remarkably easily, hinting at some hidden athletic ability. She took a large, crunching bite. “Thanks, Mom. Happy now?”
At least that’s what he thought she’d mumbled around the fruit. She looked like a sulky, petulant teenager and with that pouty, ruby bottom lip, incredibly sexy.
He wanted to pull her into him and kiss her senseless. Explore all the soft, smooth skin and bury his face in her breasts. But he didn’t. Instead, he had a plan that would help them both. She needed to get outdoors. He needed to do something physical to wear himself out and nuke this unwanted attraction.
“You’re welcome, honey,” he said, matching her mocking tone. “Now be a good girl and go put on some shorts and your hiking boots.”
Her gray eyes went as round as her face but they still held some wariness and skepticism. “Why?”
<
br /> “Because, Amy,” he said, setting aside all teasing, “it’s a beautiful day and we’re going for a walk.”
“I don’t want to. I’m going to watch a movie.”
Sit in the dark on a beautiful day. He recognized the signs of depression because he’d been there. “I’m not giving you a choice. If I could ride Red, I’d take you out so you could feel the rush of the wind and the exhilarating power of tearing up a road, but I can’t so it’s a walk. You need the endorphins of exercise. You need the sunshine on your skin and you need the tranquility of the lake.” And I need to exhaust myself.
“You’d take me out on your motorcycle?” She sounded slightly incredulous and a little bit awestruck.
He grinned at her, ridiculously pleased because right up to this point, she’d seemed less than impressed by the fact he rode a bike. A vintage bike. It was usually a point of interest for most women. “The moment my arm’s strong enough, I’ll take you out.”
Just before you leave town, right?
One hour before.
* * *
Sweat poured into Amy’s eyes and her hair stuck to her face as she puffed and panted, trying to keep up with Ben. “Slow down.”
“No.” He strode just ahead of her at a speed reminiscent of power walking rather than a gentle stroll. “You keep up.”
Bastard. Only he wasn’t a bastard at all. She was sure in his mind he was being kind and supportive despite the fact he was treating this hike like boot camp. Once again, he’d surprised her with his kindness. Not that he’d ever been really horrible to her but she wasn’t used to men other than her dad being especially nice to her. Given the fallout of her ill-fated liaison with Jonathon that had turned into blackmail, she was particularly wary.
She’d had a shitty morning, drawing blanks on almost every contact she had. Not one person had wanted to even meet with her to discuss job possibilities. Part of her thought Jonathon must have made good with his threat to tell all, except she knew that if he had, not one person would have accepted her calls. Everyone on her list had spoken to her but all they’d offered up was, “Good luck.”