by RC Boldt
What the hell was with her friends and these mysterious looks all of a sudden?
“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish smile. “But this is a good thing, because maybe now Zach will get the nerve to—”
“It’s time for us to head out, isn’t it?” Raine’s words were rushed as she stood, pushing in her chair.
Tate rose, smoothing her chin-length blonde hair. “Yeah, I forgot that I still have some things to print off so I’ll walk with you.”
Laney’s brows furrowed. Why did she feel like she was missing something here?
“Um, o-kay,” she said slowly. “Bye, guys.” She watched as her friends nearly sprinted for the door, leaving her in the silence of her classroom to wonder how the hell she was going to get through this.
The idea of teaching kindergarten suddenly became appealing to her—even though there was a plethora of germs, snotty noses, damp shoelaces to tie, and whining.
She wasn’t entirely sure dealing with Zach would be the better option.
CHAPTER THREE
ZACH RAN HIS HANDS OVER his short, blond hair and gave a sigh. Surveying the lesson plans he had been using, tweaking them here and there along the way, he couldn’t help but worry about how this whole collaboration thing was going to work with Laney.
“Okay, let’s get this over with.” Laney rushed into his classroom, the sour look on her face at odds with the cheery, blue dress with orange polka dots she wore. He really shouldn’t find the dress appealing since those were colors of her alma mater, The University of Florida, and he had gone to an opposing school, The University of Central Florida. But, said dress was on Laney Kavanaugh. That, in itself, changed everything.
Setting her planner, lesson plan binder, and curriculum guide down on the table with a thunk, she slid into the chair across from him, tossing her long, brown hair back over her shoulders. She fixed her hazel eyes on his, lips pursed, a despondent expression on her face.
Opening up her binder to the first lesson plan for the school year, she forged right in. “I usually start them off with a recap of the branches of government,” she began, looking over her plans. “Maybe we can give them examples to help them grasp the concept. For example, we give them titles like teacher, principal, custodian, cafeteria worker, or whatnot and they have to place them in the correct category. We can divide the students into small groups, assign them a scenario such as ‘What if the cafeteria workers want to add something new to their lunch menu? Who do they have to go through to authorize the change?’.”
Laney glanced up, catching him watching her. God, she’s so hot when she goes all ‘smart teacher’ mode on me.
Her gaze narrowed on him suspiciously. “What? Did I speak too fast for your tiny brain to handle? Or maybe I should get some crayons to explain it to you?”
And, just like that, the moment was gone.
* * *
He tossed her a dirty look before gesturing to her lesson plan binder. “If I’m going to go along with this and change my first lesson of the year to align with yours, then I should get to take the lead on the next one.”
“Isn’t it easier to just go over my plans and modify yours to correspond?”
Zach stared at her incredulously. “So I’ll be the one who has to do all the work? Um, let me think about this for a moment.” He paused for a millisecond. “No.” His lips were pressed thin with irritation. Lips that were normally full. The kind of lips you immediately knew would feel soft against your own.
Wait, what? No. No. No. Her brain needed to stop being a damn traitor.
“Well, that would make the most sense, Mayson.” She threw her pen down on the table in exasperation.
“To you, maybe,” he said sarcastically, his voice getting louder. “Because you’re not the one modifying all of your lesson plans!”
Laney threw her hands up in the air. “Fine! We can alternate.” She inhaled deeply, as if trying to calm herself. In a gentler tone, she offered a suggestion. “Why don’t we make copies of our lesson plans for each other, and then we can go over them and make notes on where we could correlate something with the other person’s subject matter?”
Zach stared at her a long moment—so long that she began to think he was going to fight her on this, too—before finally nodding. “I’m cool with that.”
“Great.” She exhaled loudly, tossing her hair back over her shoulder as she stood from the table. “All right, I’ll go make those copies. Then, I’ll stick them in your box—”
“That’s what she said.”
His response made her eyes go squinty.
“In your mailbox in the teachers’ workroom,” Laney replied through gritted teeth. Without another word, she gathered up her items in her arms and walked to the door of his classroom.
She needed to get out of there before she stabbed him with her pen. In the jugular.
“Later, sunshine,” he called out, just as she reached the doorway.
“Later, douchecanoe,” she mumbled under her breath.
His laughter trailing after her as she returned to her own classroom indicated that maybe she hadn’t mumbled that quietly enough.
Oops.
Not.
* * *
Laney had been feeling quite accomplished at avoiding Zach and having their contact consist of emails and notes left in their mailboxes in the workroom. She should have known this feeling would be short-lived.
“Why, there’s Little Miss Elusive! Have you been hiding from me, darlin’?”
Was it possible to have convulsions by merely hearing that voice? She was nearly certain one was coming on.
“I would say I was quite successful up until this point, wouldn’t you?”
Wide-eyed with faux innocence, Zach gasped. “But … but why ever would you want to avoid someone as sweet as moi?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not even remotely French. Don’t go there.”
“You’re being diff-i-cult.” He said the last word in a sing-song voice.
Seriously? It was as if it were his life’s ambition to annoy the shit out of her. Laney laid her head down on her desk and softly thudded it against the wood. “Why me, why me, why me?” she mumbled repeatedly. She felt a hand on her shoulder and it instantly gave her shivers. Odd.
Raising her eyes slowly, gaze wary, she saw Zach standing beside her with a worried expression upon his face. It was so foreign to have him be anything but irritating or mean to her, she felt thrown off kilter. Like, waaaay off kilter.
“Laney, we can do this. I promise.” He spoke softly, his expression genuine. Without him wearing the usual sneer or sarcastic smirk, she could actually focus on how his eyes were a beautiful shade of gray. They reminded her of the stormy rain clouds coming in over the Atlantic right at dusk.
And had he ever actually spoken to her in that gentle tone of voice?
“Yo, Laney! I need your help with something, please, gorgeous.” Lawson wandered in the room, redirecting her attention from the moment—or whatever it was—that she and Zach were having.
“Oh, hey, man,” he greeted Zach. Walking up to her, Lawson leaned against her bookshelf, stroking his short, neatly trimmed blond beard. “I borrowed this book from you last year and it worked out well with the lesson I did. Can I borrow it again? It’s called, Miss Rumphius.” He tilted his head to the side, smiling imploringly, his blonde curl slightly shifting upon his head.
“Of course you can, handsome.” She winked, and gestured in the direction of the main bookshelf nearby. “It should be on the top shelf, there.”
Laney sighed as she continued to watch Lawson thumbing through the books. Lawson was such a cutie. Goofy sense of humor, yes, but definitely cute. Why did all of her guy friends have to be so freaking attractive when there was no chemistry between them? Someone upstairs must have a really sick sense of humor.
And he had such beautiful hair for a guy. I should probably ask him what conditioner he uses, because God knows I could use so—
A throat being cleared loudly snapped her out of her musings. She turned to look at Zach, whose eyes were narrowed on her with a brow raised.
So she did what any mature woman would do.
She stuck her tongue out at him.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WAS THE DESIGNATED DINNER night Laney’s mother had enforced, having them all gather at her childhood home for a home cooked meal. Laney loved her mother’s cooking, especially since she prepared Italian dishes which was her heritage.
Laney and her brother, Foster, inherited much from their father, their lighter skin and light brown hair contrasting with their mother’s trademark Italian features of a darker complexion and hair. Laney hated that she didn’t resemble her mother more than she did. The only attribute she’d inherited from her mother was her full hips and breasts. While the latter might be great in attracting men, there were many women who would agree that ample hips weren’t always a cherished attribute.
Their mother kept an old photograph of the four of them on display upon one of the bookshelves in the living room. The same photograph Laney always discreetly placed face down every time she visited her childhood home. Her mother wanted them to let go of the past and have a memory of their father even though he had left them, resulting in their mother going above and beyond to pick up any slack she could for his absence in their lives. Laney couldn’t understand how her mother and Foster could just shrug that off.
Foster had stepped up to the plate, even as a young boy, and had been a tremendous help. Laney remembered times when their mother had been exhausted from working her two—sometimes three—jobs and had fallen asleep on the couch. Foster would help her with her homework, and other times tell her funny stories to cheer her up when kids made fun of her for being “the chunky girl”.
God, just recalling how overweight she had been, basically eating her emotions back then, made her cringe. She’d been easy prey—overweight and in all gifted classes. Hence her brother’s nickname for her: Laney McBrainey. So, of course, when high school freshman Laney got attention from Rob McManus, a senior and her school’s über jock whose family was so rich they had a houseful of staff and a butler, she threw all caution to the wind. Believed him when he had said he wanted her to be his date the homecoming dance. Be his girl. Hell, she’d swallowed the lies, hook, line, and sinker. Even that list she’d created early on got shoved aside.
What a colossal mistake that had been, because it had all been on a dare from his fellow football players and Carla, the head cheerleader from an equally as rich family. And guess who Rob chose as his homecoming date? Carla, of course. Carla’s condescending remark remained a distinct memory. “Oh, honey. Don’t you get it? Our people stick together. We don’t mess around with ‘the help’ … let alone with Lardy Laney.”
Carla was a such a sweetheart. Not.
After that embarrassing fiasco, she’d delved into the world of nutrition and fitness, measuring her portions and calculating the necessary calories. She’d begun exercising and soon found that she felt better, and gained more confidence from the overall change. And the entire time she had been working on herself, her brother had stood right by her side, cheering her on. Telling her how proud he was of her, how she might even give the Navy SEALs a run for their money someday.
“Laney McBrainy, get over here and hug me.”
Foster had just come in the door of their mother’s little house down on North Fletcher Avenue in Fernandina Beach. Laney had been living with her brother in his house until recently. Shortly after Raine had gotten engaged to Mac, she had asked Laney if she would be interested in taking over the lease on her small beach house nearby Mac’s home. Having her brother for a roommate had its perks but also its downfalls. One major downfall was his revolving door of women. She was grateful to not have any more awkward morning encounters with women who overstayed their welcome or thought they would be the one who would make her former Navy SEAL brother give up his man-whore ways.
Raine’s rental was a cute little beach house on stilts, located right on Fernandina Beach, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Laney had known the owner, Ms. Tina, ever since she had worked with her mother at the telephone company before the two women retired. The price of rent per month was extremely reasonable and included all utilities except for cable. For someone on a teacher’s salary, it was a steal.
Laney walked up to her brother and wrapped her arms around him. She held on a moment longer simply because she had missed him. It was odd having a place to herself and not seeing Foster nearly every day. However, when she got a whiff of the scent his shirt reeked of, she was reminded of the main reason she had moved out.
“Ewwww. Dude, you stink!” Laney wrinkled her nose before covering it with her hand. “Could you not change your shirt out of respect for others tonight?”
Foster held up his hands. “Hey, I ran out of time.” Leaning closer to her, he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Someone needed me for another round.”
She winced, drawing away from him. “Gross!” Turning away, she yelled toward the kitchen. “Hey, Ma! Fos smells like skank, again!”
Immediately, their mother’s voice carried over to them from the kitchen. “Foster Bryant Kavanaugh! You go and change your shirt right this minute, young man!”
“Yes, ma’am,” her brother called out. He shot a dirty look toward her.
“Go change, young man,” she mimicked her mother’s words, shooing him in the direction of one of the spare bedrooms that held a handful of clothing items they’d left there over time.
Hearing the front door to the house open, Laney figured it was probably Tate arriving early so they could chat a bit and she could catch up with her mother. She turned her head toward the door … and soon regretted it.
That had been a bad move. Like, a really bad move. Because her utterly immature brother had licked his finger and stuck it in her ear before rushing off to go change his shirt.
“Ewwwwwwwwww! Foster! You jerk!” Laney scrubbed her hand over her ear, nearly squealing at the grossness. “Ma! Fos gave me a wet willy!” She swore Foster had perfected the art of reverting back to being a teenage boy in a millisecond around her. God only knew where his tongue had been earlier, and to think that his saliva was mixed with … Ugh. No. Just, no.
“Am I going to have to separate you two?” her mother called from the kitchen, reprimanding them.
“Glad to see I’m not the only one who feels your wrath,” came a familiar, deep voice from behind her.
Laney turned to see Zach standing before her. He had on dark khakis and a button-down shirt in a deep gray hue, matching his eyes. His sleeves were unbuttoned and neatly cuffed just below his elbows, showing off strong, tanned forearms, sprinkled with light blond hair.
How had she not realized how strong his arms looked? And that his fingers were nice; long and tapered. She wondered how they would feel if they were to hold hands.
Whoa. Where the hell did that come from? Because Laney Kavanaugh most definitely didn’t do the whole ‘let’s hold hands and skip through a poppy field’ thing.
Gag.
“Do I pass muster?” One eyebrow was arched, making her realize she had clearly taken too long in her perusal.
“Eh. You’ll do, I guess,” she nonchalantly tossed over her shoulder, going back to work on setting the table, attempting to shake off the strange moment. Ignoring him, she took plates off the stack and began placing them at each seat.
“I’m going to go and see if your mom needs any help,” Zach told her. “Unless you want help in here?” he offered, gesturing to the table before them.
“Nope. Pretty sure I’ve got this under control.” Her reply was curt, and she still didn’t look up from setting items around the table. Without another word, she heard his footsteps trail off to the kitchen, then her mother’s happy greeting.
“Zachariah! Come here and give Momma K. a kiss!”
“Yes, ma’am,” was his reply, and Laney could hear the smile in his v
oice. “Do you need any help with this?”
“Oh, you sweet boy. Please, if you don’t mind.”
Laney froze as she was about to lay a fork down beside one of the plates. She couldn’t believe what she had just heard.
What. The. Hell?
Her mother never let anyone—aside from herself or Foster—actually help her in the kitchen. It was like some Italian code of conduct for fear someone might infiltrate her secret recipes and share them with others. The woman always kindly refused help anytime anyone offered.
So what the hell was she doing letting Zachariah Mayson help her in the kitchen?
* * *
Zach smiled as he took his place beside Momma K. in her kitchen. He had just washed his hands and put on the apron she had given him, ready to help her assemble the meal. He accepted the knife and cutting board from her, placing the cured meat, guanciale, upon it to begin slicing it.
Secretly, Zach had been coming over to Momma K.’s to get some cooking tips for a few months now. His own mother had never been one to cook—or do anything remotely labor-intensive—so when he’d been welcomed into Momma K.’s home, he instantly took to the older woman and her nurturing ways.
It also didn’t hurt that she happened to be Laney’s mother.
He had worked hard to get Momma K. to get past the fear of him trying to steal any of her recipes to give them to the “mean, old bats down the street”. While they cooked together, he enjoyed hearing her stories more than anything else. Well, not more than the end result of her delicious food, of course. Because, man, that woman could cook.
Being around Momma K., just the two of them in the kitchen, made Zach feel like he was closer to Laney somehow.
“You have that look again,” Momma K. quietly remarked so as to not be heard by the others. She mumbled something in Italian beneath her breath, then shook her head. “One day, she’ll stop fighting it.”