by Petrova, Em
He strode up the bricked path to the entry, rubbing the back of his neck. Standing in the vestibule between the outside world and the interior safety of the school, he jabbed his finger on the Call button and waited for a reply.
“Fuck-a-doodle-do,” he muttered, lifting his face to the camera above the door for a visual ID by the keeper of the intercom. At least they’d called him while he was in uniform. Crisp black pants, a starched white button-down shirt. The red and yellow department emblem on the breast of his lightweight fleece screamed official. That ought to allow him entry pretty fast.
“Yes?” A slightly mechanical voice floated free of the mesh-covered speaker.
“You called me about my son, Trip...uh, Kit. I’m Crispin Bayfield.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Bayfield. Come right in.” The buzz of the lock being released bellowed like a klaxon in the small, enclosed space.
Cris jerked the door open, stepped inside, and waited until the door sealed shut again. No sense allowing someone to sneak in behind him. After confirming the click by pressing against the glass to make sure the lock had caught, he strode the length of the hallway to where his son waited.
He caught sight of Trip seated under the windows in the office, slouched forward, head in hands, tugging the curls behind his ears. The boy’s springy, hard-to-tame hair was a paler version of Cris’s dark brown. The color was the product of his blond mom and Cris’s mixed-race heritage. Thank goodness his hair color was the only thing the kid had inherited from his mom. That, and the artistic streak that worried the crap out of him. His son’s café-au-lait skin and silvery green eyes were gifts from Cris’s side of the failed experiment in love.
When he tapped the glass over Trip’s head, the boy jerked upright. It was almost comical to see the kid’s head swivel Exorcist-style until he was looking over his shoulder. Trip quickly faced front, squaring his shoulders and straightening his spine in a perfect imitation of a steel rod.
Cris stepped into the office and spared a narrowed-eye glance at his teenage son. The boy’s posture might be military in appearance, but his eyes remained downcast. That and his pursed lips were sure indications the kid was pissed off.
Directing his attention to the woman seated behind the counter, he consulted the nameplate on the desk. “Ms. Malloy, I’m Crispin Bayfield.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bayfield. If you’ll have a seat, Ms. Willis will be right with you.”
“I’d like to know what this is about right now.” His voice held the hard edge he typically reserved for pointing out to probies the errors of their ways.
Trip gasped behind him. “Jesus Christ, Dad! Show some restraint.”
Cris shot a quelling glare at his son, who ducked his head. Like that might get his outburst unnoticed.
Ms. Malloy rested her forearm on the desk and fixed him with a stare. “I couldn’t say.”
“Couldn’t or won’t?” he queried, keeping his voice gruff. He was used to getting answers immediately.
The woman avoided the question. “Please take a seat, Mr. Bayfield. It will only be a minute.” The phone on her desk rang, and she dismissed Cris with a nod as she reached to answer it.
Plan B it was. Cris dropped onto a chair in the long row, leaving one empty between him and Trip. Laying his arm along the back of the vacant seat, he twisted to the side and leaned forward. “Want to tell me what I can expect?”
At first, he thought Trip would ignore him. That was the way their relationship seemed to be heading lately—Cris talking, Trip playing deaf-mute. It hadn’t always been like this. They used to talk freely. Until about six months ago, they’d been buddies. But conversations between them had dwindled when Cris had tried to redirect the boy’s interest in art. Since they’d relocated to Granite Pointe, their communication had become Cris asking questions and Trip grunting an answer. He really missed the easy relationship they’d had and feared his typically happy-go-lucky kid would continue on the slope toward delinquency.
Without turning his head, Trip gave him a side-eye and opened his mouth. Before a single word could emerge, the door to Cris’s right banged open, and a short, stocky man scuttled through. A strident and haranguing woman chased after him, calling his name.
“Mary, leave him be. He needs time to cool off,” another gentler voice pleaded for calm.
The man fled through the front exit, and the woman scurried after him. Movement by the breakroom door drew Cris’s gaze away from the odd couple.
And whoa! The petite blond with the musical voice was stunning. From her simple pageboy haircut to the fresh clean look of her face, Cris found himself instantly drawn to the woman. Her pretty, plump lips formed words as she rolled her chocolate-colored eyes. Cris couldn’t help his smile as he roughly translated her silent words to son of a bitch. It didn’t matter that the expression was a little shocking coming from those sweet lips.
A becoming shade of pink flooded her cheeks when she discovered his eyes on her. Malloy nodded when the woman turned her questioning glance over the counter. Yeah, that’s right. He was here for her. Suddenly, being called to the principal’s office didn’t seem like such a bad thing. Maybe Trip agreed. It could explain why he kept getting into trouble. Cris stood as she pulled on the bottom of her rust-red sweater and swept her hand down her hip.
She made her way to his side. “Mr. Bayfield? I’m Sarah Willis. If you’ll come with me, please? Kit, I’d like to speak to your dad privately first.”
Her hips swayed gently as she moved away from him toward an office with a wall of windows. Cris gave himself a mental shake. He was here because his kid had caused a ruckus, not because this attractive woman had any interest in him.
Dammit.
Chapter Two
Okay then. Crispin Bayfield wasn’t anything like she’d pictured. By the way Kit had flinched when told his dad was coming, Sarah’s mind had drawn a portrait of an abusive country bumpkin with mallets for hands. The kind of man who could shove his hand up a pig’s ass and come out with a ham sandwich. Kit’s insistence that his dad wouldn’t hurt him had helped dispel the image, but she certainly hadn’t pictured the gorgeous, light-skinned black man, made even sexier by the firefighter’s uniform he wore.
The first thing she’d noticed, though, was his killer smile. His white teeth flashed when he’d read her lips outside the teacher’s lounge. Once she got past his mouth, she took in the unruly dark curls and silver-green eyes, just like his son’s. Broad through the shoulders, lean waist, and narrow hips. As she walked into her office, knowing he followed, she halfway hoped his eyes were on her butt. Heat rose in her cheeks, the urge to fan her face powerful as she sat behind her desk and pulled Kit’s file toward her.
Settle down, Sarah. This man was a parent. Not just any parent, but one whose kid was seated in the office for acting out.
Drawing on her ingrained sense of professionalism shouldn’t be this hard. She picked up her blue marker and played with the cap as she gestured to the chair in front of her desk. “Would you sit there?”
Nodding, he eased his long frame onto the chair, back jammed up against the straight-slatted back. His bearing was military and crisp, his face stoic. “Tell me what’s going on, Ms. Willis. What has Trip done now?” His low, baritone voice was smooth as honey.
Confusion rose as the heat in her face cooled. She consulted the file, running her finger over the page. “Trip?”
He leaned forward and tapped the folder. “You won’t find it there. I’m a junior and he’s the third. Triple—Trip for short.”
“Ah! I see.” Making eye contact with him felt a little like being on a picnic on a perfect fall day. Easy and right. The reappearance of his sexy grin turned on the sun in her office. Pay attention to the task at hand, Sarah Willis. “Kit’s here because he used profanity with his art teacher and disrupted her class by arguing with her.”
Mr. Bayfield raised his eyebrows. “That’s it?”
“He’s also violated the dress code policy. We don’
t allow students to wear graphic T-shirts. Kit’s Hooters Tour shirt crosses the line the school board has established.”
Even narrowed, his pale green eyes were mesmerizing. He shifted forward, leaning his arms on the edge of her desk. “These seem like minor offenses. Kids swear all the time.”
“But not at teachers.” Did he think these issues were trivial, not worth his time? “This is the third instance since he enrolled that he’s been sent to me. Following the rules and discipline are very important, as I’m sure you understand.” Most military types did. Sarah didn’t think he was any different. “We simply can’t have teachers being sworn at or harangued in the midst of class.”
He spread his hands. “You won’t get an argument from me. I’ll apologize for his appearance. I had an early meeting and left the house before he did this morning. He’d have never gotten out the door with ripped jeans. Or with my shirt.” The wattage on his grin grew. “But, unlike what you’re thinking, the Hooters Tour was an awesome benefit concert for a raptor center in Georgia. Save the owls, you know.”
“Oh.” She should have read the entire shirt instead of stopping at the word hooters. Interesting the shirt belonged to this man, not the son. An errant thought flitted through her mind that she’d like to wear his shirt straight up with nothing else. Especially if Crispin Bayfield was near. “Still, the shirt could be taken wrong and therefore be offensive.”
“Hang on.” He rose from his seat and in three long strides was at the door. Kit jerked upright when Bayfield pulled open the door. His tone was no-nonsense when he spoke. “Trip, do you have another shirt to change into?”
“No, sir.”
Bayfield’s shoulders tightened visibly. “Turn that one inside out.”
Without a word, the boy stood, yanking the shirt over his head. With lurching movements, he twisted the shirt until seams showed, then jerked it into place, shrugging to settle it on his shoulders. He stood at attention, waiting for his father’s next comment. Sarah held her breath.
Bayfield nodded curtly. “We’ll discuss ripped jeans and why you should stay out of my closet later. Sit back down. I don’t believe Ms. Willis and I are ready for you yet.”
“Yes, sir.” Kit sank onto the chair behind him, but his posture remained erect, stiff.
Closing the door, Bayfield left his hand on the knob for an instant. Sarah was pretty sure he was trying to compose himself in the way his broad back shifted, stretching his jacket across his shoulders, before he turned to face her. His return trip to her desk was slower, more cat-like. Good Lord, the man had an elegant walk. He eyed her as he approached, his gaze unusually warm.
He reclaimed the chair in front of her, offering a charming smile. Lord, she could be in trouble if he kept that look on his face. “Again, my apologies for the shirt. It’s mine, and I only wear it when I’m working in my yard. Trip must have claimed it from the laundry basket over the weekend.”
Sarah nodded, keeping her face expressionless, although she really wanted to smile her thanks to him. She’d stilled her fingers on the pen, but she reverted to playing with the cap again. “Thank you for addressing that issue. As for the other items, they are a bit more serious. Our third-strike rule requires Kit be given a three-day in-school suspension. He’ll report to my office each morning at least ten minutes before the first bell, and he’ll be escorted to the alternative class education room.”
“And what? He just sits there all day, twiddling his thumbs? What about learning?”
“Not at all. He’ll continue to receive all his lessons, but interaction with other students is restricted. Even lunch will be served in the ACE room. An instructor heavily supervises students in that environment. They are escorted to and from the lavatory and lunchroom then back to the classroom.”
The determined expression on Bayfield’s face eased as his smile grew wider. “Can you make it five days instead of three?”
Taken aback, Sarah drew her brows together. “I’ve never had a parent ask for more punishment for their child.”
“Ms. Willis, Trip violated the rules. I want him to understand the consequences of his actions.” He looked away, scrubbing his knuckles along his smooth-shaven jaw. “One way to make him conform is to match the punishment to the crime.”
Sarah sat forward in her chair. “Mr. Bayfield, I’d hardly call swearing at a teacher a crime.”
Resting one ankle over a knee, he gazed at her, his eyes glittering in the mid-afternoon sun that streamed through the window behind her desk. If she ever painted his portrait, she’d have a difficult time mixing the colors correctly to achieve the shade.
“Whether it’s criminal or just plain stupid, it’s still wrong. Which class did this happen in? Which teacher?” he demanded.
There was no mistaking the man’s attempt to become interrogator instead of acquiescent parent. This was the sort of confrontation she despised. Glancing at Kit’s file, she clutched her pen and lowered her hand to her lap. Click, pop. “In Ms. Beatrice’s art class.”
“Art? He loves that class. It’s the only one he’ll talk about without me having to drag the words from his mouth with a crowbar.”
“He dropped the F-bomb and called her a stupid— Well, let’s just say he used a very unflattering word to describe her.”
“Like bitch?”
“Much worse. He used the Cee-U-Next-Tuesday word.” Heat flooded up her neck, taking up residence in her cheeks.
Bayfield’s lips flattened into a straight seam, and he looked away. “Damn her.” The words exploded from his lips.
“Whoa! Mr. Bayfield, it won’t help matters for you to swear about the teacher. She wasn’t wrong in—”
His hand shot into the air. “Sorry. Not Ms. Beatrice. I’m cursing Trip’s mother. Sailors have daintier mouths than she does. That particular word is one of her favorites.”
“Is your ex-wife... Does she see Kit often?”
“She was never my wife, thank God.”
That was interesting. She’d assumed the different last name was due to a second marriage.
Bayfield continued, “And to answer your question, no, she doesn’t see him often. But he’s been with her enough to be exposed to some pretty blue language.”
Obviously. “Often times, the things a child learns at a young age stick with him. But he can overcome that with a little guidance.”
“Are you suggesting I’m not doing my job as a parent?” A hard, cold edge slashed across his tone.
Pop, click...pop. The tiny sound of the pen somehow magnified the intensity of his stare. “Not at all, Mr. Bayfield. It’s just...” Aw, hell. “Kit strikes me as a bright student, and although he’s only been here a short time, I believe he is well liked. He has a tendency to act out in certain situations, like when he has a difference of opinion or wants someone to consider his point of view.”
“I’ve raised him to think for himself. I didn’t want him to have the same kind of experience in uniform thinking I had.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the straight back of the chair. “But I also don’t want him getting into any more trouble. So what do we do?”
Sarah bit her tongue to keep from asking about Bayfield’s upbringing. She’d guess military or maybe in the diplomatic corp. Instead, she addressed his last question. “We have several extracurricular clubs he could get involved in that might help with his unique abilities. Debate, for example. Or photography. Or perhaps he’d prefer to join one of our athletic teams.”
He tipped his head to the side and laid a big grin on her, lightening up a world she hadn’t realized was gloomy. “Debate, huh? An organized opportunity for Trip to argue. Yeah, that’s the ticket.”
His low chuckle filled the air around her, sucking breath from her lungs.
“Well, if debate isn’t for him, then maybe something more creative, like drama or music. The fall play for our theater department is coming up. Although the cast is already set, I know Mrs. Sherman is still looking for production help,
building sets, painting. Things like that.”
“I like debate better than anything artistic. But they are all certainly options worth considering. It will have to wait until he’s ungrounded. Which might take six weeks or so.”
Hmm, back to the question of punishment. “Mr. Bayfield, I’d never think to tell you how to raise your child.”
“But you’re going to do it anyway, right?”
She gave him a tight smile. “In the relative scheme of things, this instance of disobedience is minor. He didn’t start a fight or bully another student. He simply stated his opinion in a more robust manner than we consider acceptable.”
“Next you’ll be telling me he’s just precocious or describe his outburst as effervescent.”
Yeah, she probably would. She always preferred to see the positive in every situation, even disciplinary ones. Shaking her head, she continued. “He’ll serve his three-day suspension, and he’s required to write an essay and a letter of apology to Ms. Beatrice.” Rolling her chair backward, she rose, smoothing her skirt over her hips. His eyes tracked the movement, leaving her mouth dry. She cleared her throat and continued. “Kit’s suspension will begin tomorrow morning. You’ll need to read and sign these forms and send them back tomorrow.”
He stood across the desk from her and extended his hand. Passing him the sheaf of pages, her fingertips brushed his. A warm glow traveled at the speed of light along her nerve endings to lodge low in her belly. Jerking her hand away, she twisted her fingers in the hem of her sweater and tugged it down.
“You sure you won’t consider five days?”
“I believe three will be sufficient, Mr. Bayfield. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you have any other questions about the disciplinary process.”
“Will do. Thanks, and I can assure you, this will be the last time you’ll see my son here for a behavioral reason.”
“Let’s hope so.”
As he left her office, she caught herself regretting that the disciplinary policy required just emails home instead of parental meetings on the first offense. She’d have met this dazzling man sooner.