by Kent, Alison
She waved him inside, wondering what he wanted. She preferred to discuss her students’ progress during official parent-teacher conferences. “She told me she’d be at her grandparents’ this weekend because you were working.”
He pushed off the frame, seeming to gain six inches of height as he did, though at least some of that was due to the biker boots he wore. Black leather, silver buckles, tough stitching. “I dropped her off earlier, and I’ll pick her up Sunday morning. Shop’s closed the rest of the long weekend, so she gets two days with my folks and two days with me. And yeah. I’ll be at Bliss till the clock tolls the end of Valentine’s Day.”
That would be Saturday night, yet instead of working, here he was. “Of course. All those last-minute shoppers.” She pictured him again in chef’s whites, though there was nothing wrong with the oxford and the blue jeans and the black leather he had on now. “All that chocolate temptation.”
A dimple cut deep into his scruffy cheek. “Mmm, not so much.”
“Familiarity breeding contempt?”
His laugh was a visceral, vital sound that echoed. “Gotta watch my figure—”
Because having every woman in the room watching it for you isn’t enough?
“—what with having a six-year-old keeping me on my toes.”
“Now, that I can relate to,” she said, a blush heating her cheeks. She was so very glad he couldn’t read her mind.
She returned to removing the artwork from above the cubbies, conscious of his gaze on her as she reached to pluck the staples and tacks. December’s theme had been snowmen and sleds. Last year, for January, she’d used fireworks because she couldn’t deal with clocks depicting the passage of time.
February was easy, with flowers and chubby little cupids and all things Valentine’s Day, but two weeks spent looking at candy hearts was enough. She wanted her class to come back from the weekend to find portraits of past presidents, not just the pink and red of fabricated love.
“Looks like you’re doing a good job. Keeping up with the kids, I mean. Not . . . your figure.”
“Thanks. I think,” she said, and looked over.
He scrunched up one side of his face. “That didn’t come out right. You’re figure’s just fine.”
“Thanks,” she repeated, this time holding the caveat. “You were really good with them, you know.”
He crossed his arms, leaned a shoulder against the end of the cubbies. “If I can’t manage one hour of one day reading a book and answering questions, I should be shot. You’re the pro, doing it all day long every day.”
“I enjoy it,” she said, because it was true. “Seeing their young minds working through problems, reaching conclusions. Using the skills they’re learning. Though this is kindergarten, so I’m not sure they’ve got it in them yet to save the world. Still, when you think about it, our future really is in their hands.” Then she shrugged because it seemed a silly thing to say.
He considered her for a moment. “You have any of your own? Kids?”
If she had a nickel for every time she’d been asked that question . . . She turned to him, pressing the hearts and cupids she held to her chest. “No. I don’t. But that seems to be the leap most people make.”
“It’s an easy one, considering.”
Because her chosen career meant she wanted children of her own? “I love what I do. But I also love leaving it here at the end of the day. That’s why I’m still here now. So I can enjoy the four days I have off.”
He nodded, and thankfully, changed the subject. “What’re you doing with the break?”
“A whole lot of nothing,” she said, slipping the construction paper cutouts into a huge manila envelope.
“You want to take a tour of my shop?”
An extra-chubby cupid slipped free and floated to the floor. “Your shop?”
All he did was nod.
“I don’t understand—”
“You’ve been asking Addy about me,” he said, a dark brow arching above eyes that were an even deeper green without the morning light from the room’s windows to brighten them. “You asked her if I help her with her homework.”
Hmm.
“You asked her if I talk to her about the stories we read.”
Uh-oh.
“You asked her if she rides with me. And if she has a helmet.”
“I ask all my students about their parents,” she said, vowing never to ask Adrianne Drake anything again.
“Do you?” Those words in that voice . . . they heated the air, a flame licking at the oxygen between them.
“Of course,” she said, waving off his query as she bent to retrieve the art. “It helps give me a sense of how involved they are in the education process.” Lame, Brooklyn. Really, really lame.
He scuffed the toe of one boot against the floor. “And my not showing up before now makes you think I’m not involved?”
Fine. Okay. She turned to face her sins head-on. “You’re right. I’ve been curious. Adrianne’s situation isn’t particularly unique, but it is . . . interesting.”
He worked the words around in his mouth as if he found them unpleasant, then said, “Because I have sole custody? Or because of my history?”
Brooklyn nodded, but rather than press either point, she moved to less volatile ground. “And the fact that you’re a chocolatier.”
That seemed to settle well enough. “Then the timing is perfect for you to see me in my element, what with Saturday being—”
“Valentine’s Day. I know,” she said, realizing the holiday probably brought him a tidy little profit. “And with your business consisting primarily of online orders, which I know from your parents, not your daughter”—though also from gossip and from googling you—“you’re no doubt up to your eyeballs packing boxes for last-minute shipping.”
“I’m actually up to my eyeballs making the product to go in the boxes.” He shoved his fists in his jeans’ pockets, his shoulders hunched as if he were exhausted already. “I’ve had a couple of middle school kids helping me out after school with the surge. Addy’s pediatrician’s son, Grady. One of his friends, Jo.”
“I thought there were laws against child labor.” She teased him, a change of mood while she did her best to ignore the gap beneath the buttons of his shirt. The way he was standing gave her a glimpse of the bare skin above his belt. And it was so, so hard not to stare at his very tight abs, the dusting of hair there, and what looked like tattooed red, green, and gold scales . . .
He shrugged, the motion widening the gap. A lizard? A dragon? A snake? And what were the words clinging to the spikes along its back? She would need to get closer to see, and, well, that wasn’t going to happen, was it?
“I figure it’s no worse than hiring them to mow my lawn,” he said. “If I had a lawn. Addy and I live in a loft in the textile district, though with the way she likes to talk, you probably know that.”
Actually, she didn’t, but the old cotton warehouses near the Guadalupe River, now trendy living spaces, were the sort of place she could picture him: the freight elevators, the original brick, the crank casement windows. The warehouses were funky and fun. Not staid and suburban. Not dull and boring. Probably not a cat to be found.
“Anyway, I’ve got a full-time employee working the front counter, and a temp helping her out this week. The rest is all me.”
“You do everything by hand?”
“The artisan pieces?” He nodded. “It’s a quality-control thing. And my reputation.”
“A true craftsman.”
He twisted his hips just so, and she heard something pop. “With the bad back to show for it.”
Ouch. “That must take a lot of hours.”
“Six days a week. Ten-hour days. Thousands of chocolates weekly.”
“Impressive,” she said, thinking about the physical toll such exacting work must take. And that on top of his being a single dad. Maybe he didn’t have a woman in his life because
he didn’t have time.
“So? You want to take a look around before I get back to work? Set your mind at ease and all?” That grin, again. The dimple. The scruff. The glorious temptation. “Wouldn’t want you thinking I sit Addy on a stool at the kitchen counter in the mornings and spread her toast with cocoa butter.”
“I’ve actually seen your shop. Several times.” She’d just never seen him while there.
“The open-to-the-public part, sure. Not where the magic happens.”
The way he said the words . . . She swallowed, cleared her throat to ask, “When—” but was interrupted.
“Now? Before I dig in for the next fifty-six hours?” He gestured toward the storybook still sitting on the chair. “Gotta make up the time lost to Opie and his quest for chocolate.”
So he’d come to school to read to her class when he needed to be working? And now he wanted to spend more of his valuable time on her? “We don’t have to do this today. Not when you’re so busy. Really. I’m not worried about Adrianne. Another time will be fine. We can wait—”
A sharp shake of his head, and, “Let’s not.”
She heard her breath catch, heard herself saying “Okay” before she could think through his invitation. Or his insistence that they do this now. Or about anything other than the tone of his voice, the push in his words. The sense of urgency coiling inside of her. “Let me get my keys—”
“Leave your car. We’ll take my bike.”
She glanced down at her gray wool pants, her deep cherry sweater, her black ballet flats. Then she glanced at his jeans, his jacket, his thick leather boots. The tease of his tattoo. A snake would be too clichéd. She liked the idea of a dragon. “I’m not sure I’m dressed for your bike,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Not to mention I don’t have a helmet.”
“I brought an extra.”
Because he’d expected her to come with him? To say yes? To jump? He was making this too easy. Her agreeing. Going along. Giving in. She wasn’t sure she should do any of those things. But she wasn’t quite ready to buy a litter box or a scratching post, either.
“Okay.” Leaving her room decorations undone, she grabbed her purse and her keys and her peacoat, locking her sanity into her classroom along with the cutouts of Cupid and his stupid red hearts.
Then she walked with Callum Bennett Drake down the empty hallway and out the front door to his Harley, proving to herself—and to anyone else wondering—that she wasn’t dull and boring at all.
TWO
Callum had always loved women who were good sports, who could deal with getting messy, who didn’t flinch from a challenge. Turned out Brooklyn Harvey was all of those things and more. That, he hadn’t expected. Addy’s ramblings made her teacher sound like an old maid. He’d half imagined he’d find her in orthopedic shoes and a cat-hair cardigan.
Since day one of the school year he’d listened to his daughter go on about Ms. Harvey: how her teacher’s glasses were just like her grandmother’s, how their hair was the exact same color and their eyes, too, how they both baked the bestest sugar cookies in the world. How she would never disobey Ms. Harvey or Grammy; she didn’t want to sit in their time-out chairs.
Oh, had little Miss Adrianne Drake been wrong. Maybe not about the cookies or time-out, but the rest . . . her teacher wasn’t old, though it was his leaping logic that had twisted that conclusion out of his daughter’s words. Unmarried, yes. That he knew from an overheard no significant other comment his mother had made. Why she was single was anyone’s guess, but he wouldn’t deny being glad. Or deny his being glad was a problem.
Her hair was naturally blond like his daughter’s, not highlighted like his mother’s. And, yes, the shape of their glasses was similar, but Brooklyn’s accentuated bright blue eyes with lashes even longer than Addy’s. His little girl had inherited hers from her mother. Thankfully she hadn’t ended up with anything more. Or anything worse.
Neither of his parents had mentioned how young Brooklyn was, how sharp. How hot in her sexy librarian frames . . . not that they’d ever say that. They were careful not to say anything that might cause him to lose focus. No matter how many times he’d told them he was done with club life. No matter the success of his business demanding he stay put. His mother, at least, still believed he was ruled by bad choices. Which was pretty funny considering she’d made almost all of his for him while he was growing up.
With his history? He couldn’t blame them. He was hardly a poster child for doing the right thing. But now he had Addy. She was his and she was everything. He was done screwing up, or doing anything that didn’t have her best interests at heart. He couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t lose her.
He would not lose her.
Crushing the thought, he signaled for a left turn, then leaned into it, the rumble of the bike an echo of the take-no-prisoners mood brought on by his thoughts. Brooklyn leaned, too, as if she’d been riding with him for years. Having her wrapped around him made the trip go by faster than he liked. He kept to the speed limit, enjoying the flex of her fingers as she held him tight.
She’d bound her hair at her nape beneath the helmet, but still she pressed her shielded face to his back as they rode. Her breasts, too. Her thighs. It had been a long time since he’d ridden with a woman behind him. Even longer since the woman was one who felt as good as Brooklyn did.
He wasn’t sure he was ready to give a name to the reason he’d gone back to the school after dropping Addy off at his folks’. He picked her up most days; it was their thing, their time. Dad and daughter and a quick ride to either Bliss or his parents’ home. He hated foisting her off on her grandparents, and only did so when he had no choice.
Most workdays he kept her with him after school. Perk of being the boss. She had a desk of her own in the storeroom, and liked it better than sitting on a stool in the corner of the kitchen with her hair in a net while he worked, though she did that, too, telling him about her day, asking him about the candy, reminding him how boring his life would be without her. For the most part she was happy to entertain herself. And she let him know via intercom when she wasn’t.
She had books to read, and plenty of crayons and colored pencils, and yeah, she had a tablet PC and since four years old had known how to find what she wanted to watch on Netflix, how to play memory games with Disney princesses, or paint pictures with a touch of a finger. He wasn’t so proud about all of that, letting technology babysit.
But he hadn’t come to Hope Springs expecting his mother and his father to raise his little girl, even though he’d be in dire straits without them. Addy’s interesting situation—wasn’t that how Brooklyn had put it?—was his to deal with. Being a single father was hardly where he’d expected to find himself at thirty-four, but he wouldn’t change it for the world. It was a good life, this business of being a dad. And being a chocolatier wasn’t too shabby.
For the most part, his folks had forgiven him his past, and sooner or later he’d make his own peace with the things he’d done. Work kept him busy, and family took up the rest of his time. He hadn’t thought much about not having a woman in his life until today, and he’d done so pretty much at the moment he’d walked into his daughter’s classroom and seen Brooklyn Harvey sitting on the front of her desk, her legs crossed, all those curious wide eyes turned her way as she used giant Lego bricks to demonstrate fractions of wholes.
Who knew he had a thing for teachers? Or for this particular one anyway. He wanted to say he’d gone back this afternoon intending to thank her for having him . . . but that was a lie, and he knew it. He’d gone back because he wanted to see her again, to talk to her without an audience. To try and figure out why she’d looked at him as if she wanted to get him out of his clothes.
And why, after leaving, he’d been unable to erase the idea of her doing so out of his mind. That one’s simple, hotshot. All work and no play has made you a very dull boy.
He eased the bike to a stop behind the store
and killed the engine, waiting for Brooklyn to climb down before kicking the stand into place. The small shopping center backed up to a private through street, across which were the rear entrances and employee parking lots for the Hope Springs Courant, the post office, and the Dollar General. Bliss sat between Butters Bakery and an empty space he’d heard had been leased for a coffee shop.
The location was great for him, and for the others; the stores on the adjoining blocks drove foot traffic past their front doors. Then again, traffic was less a concern for him than it would be for an espresso bar. He did more than ten times the online business he did with his storefront. And last he knew, Peggy Butters didn’t ship, though with his own success in doing so, he’d made his pitch to convince her there was a mint to be made.
“Why did you sign up for story hour today when this is such a busy time for you?” It was the first thing Brooklyn said after pulling off the helmet and shaking out her hair.
“Because I make candy and it seemed appropriate?” The truth was his mother had filled out the form. He’d learned of the obligation when Brooklyn had e-mailed to confirm with a list of instructions. Not that he would’ve backed out; Addy was too excited. He just wished his mother had asked him whether or not he could make time to go.
“Appropriate, maybe,” she said, following him to the back door. “But not exactly business smart.”
“Yeah, well. What can I say?” He stopped flipping through the keys on his ring and held up his pinkie. “Addy loves Valentine’s Day. And Addy’s got me right here.”
The smile that played across Brooklyn’s face caught him like a sucker punch, and it hit him again how much trouble he was courting here, inviting her out of his daughter’s life and into his when he and Addy were settled and happy and he’d sworn he was done with upheavals. Brooklyn being more than Addy’s teacher would be a big one.
“I’ve really enjoyed teaching her,” she was saying, smoothing a hand over her helmet-mussed hair. “She’ll be one of my fondest memories from my last year in Hope Springs.”