Sunshine In The Morning (Spring-Summer Romance Book 1)

by Alex Greenville

  “Mr. Kai, I was hoping to catch you before your first class.”

  Aarin turned his gaze toward the college dean. Augustus Bloom was exactly what you’d expect to find working college admin. Slim, dressed crisp, his thinning hair brushed long over his exposed skull, he gave the impression he spent every waking hour considering his next supervisory duty.

  His black brogans contrasting sharply with a pair of khaki pants, he stopped short in front of the desk and cleared his throat. “It’s about the curriculum change. We were talking …”

  Aarin stiffened, aware his rigid response had caught the dean’s eye.

  “We feel it’s a needed change, but the structure of it should be approved by the board.”

  “Approved?”

  He’d worked long and hard to acquire permission to work on the curriculum. To have to fight for that all over again smacked of arrogance.

  “Yes, this is such a drastic change that we’d feel better if a trained group looked over your suggestions. We’re sure that you mean well, but cannot let such an important change be placed solely in the hands of students.”

  Aarin inhaled, willing his anger to weaken. “It isn’t placed ‘solely in the hands of students,’” he replied. “It’s in my hands, and I am pleased with our progress.”

  Giving another cough, the dean tugged at the neck of his sweater vest. “Yes, well, and that’s the other thing … No offense meant,” Augustus said, “but we must take into account the image you’re displaying. We don’t want anyone to think us unproficient at accomplishing our duties.”

  A flash of heat swamped Aarin’s cheeks, and, temporarily overcome, he ground his teeth together. That anyone would question his competence upset him beyond words. Swallowing his anger, he did his best to compose himself. He’d convinced them before; he could do so again. They really didn’t have any idea what the effort entailed, and they’d never understood his disability.

  Not the first time. He’d fought to be understood as a teen in a twenty-something world. On the ice, he’d felt equal for the first time. But after injuring his hand, the frustration he’d suffered before had returned.

  “While I appreciate your concern, I have done my best to prevent any talk,” he said. “I did, after all, bring the idea to you and describe it in detail. If you prefer, I can keep you apprised of our progress. I will also submit the changes to the board if you’d like. But …”

  Aarin left the place beyond the desk, closing the distance between them. Turning his hand over, he extended it well into the dean’s view. “I cannot fix what is broken. Someone must write things down. You were made aware of this when I was hired, and that has not changed. Or do I need to contact my union representative?”

  The dean took a quick breath. “No, no. And no offense was meant. Of course, you need someone.”

  They stood face to face a moment longer, then the dean gave a nod. “Very well. I will relay the message and trust you to work out the details.” He circled around and shuffled up the aisle. The metal door shut hard on his exit.

  Aarin exhaled, his shoulder slumping under the weight of the dean’s words. With his good hand, he massaged the back of his neck and slid down into his chair. He loved his job, enjoyed teaching, but hated spending any time tolerating the adults. It was people like Augustus Bloom who made him rethink his life. What if his hand hadn’t been injured, then where would he be? Not here. Not doing this.

  Leaning back in the seat, it creaked with his weight, and his gaze moved to the ceiling. Maybe he wouldn’t be alone either. He’d had a girlfriend when it happened, but she’d withdrawn, repelled, he supposed, by the extent of the damage. He stretched out the offending limb, turning his palm upward, and pictured her face. Horror, revulsion, she’d wanted the perfect guy, the sports superstar who could carry her places. She’d never really cared for the thoughtful side of him. She’d not listened when he talked, not offered him any compassion. Not that he’d been craving it or so shallow he’d break up over that. But she’d acted like his hand injury was contagious.

  Her face changed to that of another girl, one younger with dark hair and a studious expression, one who’d massaged his fingers as if it were no big deal, stepped in to help him when he struggled. Why couldn’t he find someone like that? Someone who made him feel better, like Lydia did, who he enjoyed talking to? Why did he have to remain locked inside his own head, unable to express his frustrations about it all?

  Talking to her had been the easiest thing. Surely there was another such person out there somewhere, and, maybe, eventually, their paths would cross.

  Aarin released a breath and sat forward, reaching for his briefcase at his feet. “The day must begin,” he said to himself. Moping around wouldn’t help, nor get his classwork done.

  But as he began, taking out stacks of students’ papers and selecting a pen from the cup straight ahead, he couldn’t help but look forward to Friday. At least, for a few weeks, a month or so, he had this time with Lydia. It was always so fulfilling to see knowledge light up someone’s face, but especially hers.

  “Hey, I’m so glad you could meet me here.”

  Lydia smiled back at Karen, who slipped into a library chair, the flimsy pink plastic stretching with even her small amount of weight. “No problem.” Lydia adjusted her grip on several folders beneath her palm.

  “I have this psych class …” Karen blew out a breath. “Already, it’s killing me.”

  “Professor Monroe?”

  “Yeah. Have you had him?”

  “Heard stories. Friend of a friend said he was ‘brutal’. I believe that’s the word.”

  Karen sagged in her chair. “I’ll say. I am definitely not cut out to be a psychologist.” She held herself supine for a moment, then popped upright. “I am thinking about writing a book, however.” She leaned forward over the table and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think it’ll be about a sexy teacher who falls in love with his student.”

  Karen’s words, although meant in jest, smacked Lydia in the face, and she blinked. Karen didn’t appear to notice.

  “I will, of course, model the student after myself. The teacher …” Karen’s smile widened and a spark lit in her eyes.

  “Do you … think that’s so wrong?” Lydia asked.

  Karen sat upright again. “A student-teacher relationship?”

  Lydia nodded.

  “I don’t know,” Karen replied. “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s certainly happened before. I guess it depends on a lot of factors … ages, marital status. Schools are really defensive about their image, you know.”

  “Sure.”

  Karen twisted around, unzipping her book bag from where it hung on the seat, and pulled out a notepad, a pen hooked on its seam, and a slender handbook. She stared down at it, silently. “On the other hand …” she continued. “You can’t help your heart. If you fall for someone and the only issue is his profession, that’s not enough to throw the relationship away. But people will talk, and you’ve got to know that.” A knowing look crept over Karen’s face, settling between her eyes. “Heard you were helping Mr. Kai rewrite curriculum.”

  She sounded neither judgmental nor nosy with that remark, but Lydia figured she probably did want to know. She couldn’t deny it, had realized the fact she and Mr. Kai were working together would come out soon enough. She hadn’t chosen how to answer yet.

  “The books they want him to use were printed in nineteen forty-two,” she said.

  Karen’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow.”

  “Exactly, but he said the college won’t do anything about it. Anyhow …” She waved one hand outward and flipped open her folder. “He doesn’t seem to need much help. He’s certainly very capable.” She hoped, with that remark, to play it off. She really didn’t want to reveal how … private it’d been either.

  Karen’s gaze rested on her for several more seconds, then she exhaled. “He’s amazing,” she said. “I’d help him do just about anything, and I envy you.”
>
  Envy? Though she pretended to do her assignment after that, Lydia couldn’t remove the word from her mind, nor the embarrassment it caused. The fact she was embarrassed by Karen’s opinion gave her perspective. Mr. Kai had never implied there was anything to this past working on the books. He’d seemed happy for the company, but made no move in her direction, nor said anything out-of-place.

  She was being a silly, empty-headed female. That was all.

  Somewhat comforted, she bowed her head further toward her page. Entering his class later, she was more confident still. He made no particular look in her direction, as class unfolded, speaking only of their current assignment. He did seem harried, but perhaps, it’d been a particularly taxing day.

  The next day and most of Friday were taken up with classes, laundry, and catching up on her sleep. She’d forgotten about her and Aarin’s plans until he called. Not having looked at the number in advance, she startled at his voice.

  “Lydia?”

  A smile rose on her face, unexpected. “Mr. Kai.” Her pencil fell loose in her hand.

  “I know we’re supposed to work on curriculum tonight,” he said, “but I thought it more appropriate we should meet on campus. I’ve secured us a conference room in the Harold Dooley Center. I’ll bring something to eat … if … if you’re still coming.”

  The phone at her ear, she straightened, leaning back in her seat. Why would he doubt it? She’d promised to help. “Of course, I am.”

  “Good. I’ll be in room two.”

  They disconnected, and with a more relaxed frame of mind, she tightened her grip on her pencil and bent back to her homework. At six forty-five, she made her way from the girls’ dorm across campus. A moderate number of students walked the passageways for evening classes. There was also a good crowd inside the Center. She paused, scanning the faces for anyone familiar, then aimed toward the conference rooms in the rear.

  At room two, she paused, her gaze focusing through the glass onto Mr. Kai. He was seated, the books spread across the table, his head bowed over a paper pressed beneath his crippled hand. Concerned, she entered, and his head lifted toward hers.

  She pulled the door closed behind her. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded toward the vertical blinds spanning the wall. “Can you close those? No need to create any talk.”

  She obeyed, then turned on one heel to face him. She made her way around the table, taking a seat at his side. Unthinking, she reached for his hand, carefully straightening his fingers.

  His eyes closed, he sighed. “Thank you. Now if I could get rid of this headache.”

  Releasing his hand, she reclined. “Turn off your head and don’t think for a moment. Picture something peaceful and happy instead.”

  He didn’t speak, but gradually, contentment formed on his face, the lines on his brow fading away. He opened his eyes again and exhaled long. “You are a godsend.” He reached on his good side and raised a paper bag to the table. “Dinner.”

  Lydia inhaled. “That smells wonderful.”

  Mr. Kai smiled wide. “I confess that I splurged and had something special delivered.” He set the bag between them, tapping it in her direction. “Go ahead. Take a peek.”

  Uncertain, she stood and reached into the bag, pulling out two lidded foil trays and a third smaller one. Popping the lid on the first tray, she glanced in his direction. “This is … too much, but thank you.”

  “Shrimp scampi from one of my favorite places, LaSalle’s. The other is tossed salad, and the dessert …” He paused. “Their molten chocolate cake.”

  “Wow.” Lydia reseated herself. “You really didn’t have to.”

  He shrugged. “I figured you were tired of things involving ramen and besides …” He paused. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

  His tone softened, and her heart skipped a beat. Praise from him meant so much, more, probably, than it should.

  He furthered it, just then, raising his crippled hand. “I shouldn’t say this, but your personal attention has made me almost feel normal again.”

  The fact he didn’t usually feel that way bothered her. “The class loves you,” she replied.

  His gaze intensified. “And that’s great. It makes teaching so much easier, but it isn’t the same as having someone …” He seemed to rethink his words, falling silent. “In any case, we should eat before the food turns cold and then get to work.”

  She wondered what he’d meant to say, but wasn’t about to ask. Instead, she dug plastic forks out of the bag, extending him one. He took it, their fingers brushing. Both of them halted in place.

  Aarin smiled and reversed. “Hope I can do this and not spill it on myself. Nothing worse than having your professor drool.”

  Lydia laughed lightly. “There are napkins,” she replied. “I won’t tell.”

  Aarin lost track of time while working with Lydia, the hours filled with lively conversation. She was so bright, always asking questions and overflowing with good ideas. He’d definitely made the right choice picking her, although he wondered how the dynamic would have changed had the other two students participated.

  He sat back, checking the time on his phone, and stretched, exhaling. “I guess we should tie things up. We can meet again on Tuesday if you like.”

  She nodded. “Sounds good.”

  Probably, he wouldn’t have made such an effort to connect with her. She was very easy to talk to and, as he’d noticed already, nice to look at, as well. On thinking of that though, he’d discovered his thoughts of her were more than skin deep. The bond they’d formed the night she’d stayed at his house seemed to have strengthened, instead of fading, their gazes connecting more than once, the distance between them shrinking.

  He pulled himself out of his chair. He should break things off. “Just need to somehow get all these books to my car …” He’d brought them in on his own, but it hadn’t been easy, the major problem being opening doors.

  “I’ll help.”

  Their gazes crossed yet again, and Aarin wished he was a few years younger, not her professor, and not a washed-up hockey star. She was incredibly pretty, yes, but she was kind as well; and that kindness, he’d discovered, he’d needed more of lately. He hadn’t noticed how low he’d been until contrasting his good mood when he was with her to how he felt at home by himself, and he liked the improvement.

  “Here, give me those,” she said, taking a stack from in front of him. “Lead the way.”

  He obeyed with a smile, holding the door as she exited. They made their way out of the now deserted Center into an even more deserted parking lot. Crossing the pavement, he directed her toward his car. He unlocked it with a press of the key fob, but fumbled with the handle to the back seat. Lydia bobbled, the books sliding precariously to the right. Determined to prevent their fall, he hooked his fingers beneath the handle and tugged the door open. She leaned forward, depositing the books on the seat, and a slew of his mail fell out.

  “Oh …” She bent to pick it up, but her gaze halted on one particular envelope. The flap open, the missive inside lay exposed. “An award?” She turned it toward the street lamp. “They’re giving you an award? The W.G. Grant Humanitarian Award. That’s … super and huge and …” Her brow wrinkled, her eyes finding his. “You don’t look happy about it.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not completely deserved. A couple old hockey buddies nominated me. I have a face the voting group remembers and gave a substantial amount to several organizations a number of years ago. The paper did a write-up at the time. ‘Former hockey great, Aarin Kai, helps children in need.’”

  Lydia’s grip on the envelope tightened. “You’re not a ‘former’ anything. You have to stop wearing that hat.”

  That she’d picked up on what bothered him the most about it was exactly like her. He was tired of feeling like yesterday’s news. Not that he needed attention all the time, but it was the idea he was too broken now to be of any use that he’d thought he’d put behind him.

 
; “You’re right,” he replied. “Still …” Still, he’d embraced his uselessness and didn’t know how to change. That was at the heart of his problems lately. Plenty of people with disabilities far worse than his survived every day with some measure of joy. Why then was he struggling so much? He could only put it down to defending himself again in front of Augustus Bloom.

  “You are going to the ceremony, aren’t you?” Lydia waved the envelope in his face.

  He honestly hadn’t considered it. For one thing, he’d be going alone and couldn’t stand the thought of tolerating the ribbing he’d get about that. For another, he’d have to dress up and though he was not opposed to that, navigating a bowtie with one hand was intimidating.

  “Probably not,” he replied. “I have too much going …”

  “But you have to.” She interrupted him. “You should take someone … a date.” Her hand found purchase on her hip. “Don’t tell me Mr. Kai can’t get a date when every girl on campus …” Her words trailed away.

  Aarin coughed once. He couldn’t, of course, know what she was thinking right then, not entirely, but saw she was embarrassed over the remark. “Lydia …” He stopped himself. He’d never called her by her first name, not out loud, though he’d done so in his head.

  That same fact seemed to affect her, too. He sought to relieve it, steering the conversation. “I don’t ‘date’, haven’t dated in a very long time. What the students think of me has no bearing on that.” He probably shouldn’t talk to her about his personal life, or lack thereof, but didn’t know how else to explain without being straightforward. He reached for the mail in her grasp and tossed it back inside the car, shutting the door firmly afterward. He spun his gaze in the direction of the dorms. “Will you be okay walking back?”

  She blinked, as if awakening, and inhaled. “You want someone who doesn’t care about the past, isn’t intimidated by what you think you can or cannot do, and is willing to pick up the slack.”