LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

again, the teacher was a woman, and a lot of things women did made no sense to him.

      He checked the time. Eight minutes until his meeting with Mrs. Kavanagh, Max’s teacher. Not that Eddie was in a hurry to see her again, but he would like to know what was behind this whole parent/teacher thing. Max had assured Eddie he wasn’t in trouble, and Eddie hadn’t received any calls from the principal so far this year about Max’s behavior.

      But the note Mrs. Kavanagh had sent home requesting a meeting had been vague enough that Eddie wondered if he’d gotten the whole story from his son.

      Max had a habit of keeping his thoughts to himself. Especially if he’d done something wrong. And while Eddie agreed it was better, safer, to keep your thoughts in your head, he wished his son would just admit when he’d messed up so Eddie could tackle the problem, fix it and move on.

      He glanced around the room. Shelves filled with row after row of neatly lined-up books took up the entire wall behind the teacher’s desk. A white wooden rocking chair was tucked into the corner in front of a circular rug next to the chalkboard. Artwork, graded papers, a huge calendar and equally large schedule covered the walls, along with bright banners and posters—most sporting a cartoon or picture of a baby animal—encouraging the kids to read, imagine and go for the gold. Assuring them they were a team, books were treasures waiting to be discovered and that with hard work, anything was possible.

      A nice sentiment, that last one. Complete bullshit, but nice.

      He was all for doing one’s best, putting in full effort and sticking with a job until it was done. But believing that if you worked hard enough, long enough, you’d achieve your goals no matter what, was setting these kids up for disappointment.

      And possibly years of therapy.

      Eddie had worked his ass off to save his marriage and look where it got him. Divorced, raising his son on his own and constantly trying to be everything to Max. Hoping he was doing enough. Being enough.

      Worrying that most days he didn’t even come close.

      But he’d keep trying, doing his best to make up for failing at his marriage and not being able to keep Max’s mother in their lives. And not because he was staring at a poster of a kitten at the end of a rope—literally—telling him to Never Give Up.

      He’d do anything for his kid.

      “This is the drawing I told you about,” Max said, shoving a picture in Eddie’s face.

      Eddie leaned back, the hard edge of the metal chair digging into his shoulder blades as he took the paper. He raised his eyebrows. It was good. Damn good.

      His kid never ceased to amaze him.

      “It’s Pops’s pumpkin patch,” Max said. He pointed at the cottage in the background. “See? That’s his house.”

      “It looks just like it.” Right down to the curtains in the windows and brick walkway winding its way from the back door to the garden.

      Green vines tangled around fat, bright orange pumpkins. Beyond the cottage, trees in all their autumn glory of copper, red and auburn covered the rolling hills. And standing to the left, a hoe in one hand, his other hand tucked behind his back, was Big Leo Montesano. Max had perfectly captured Eddie’s grandfather, from the top of the straw hat on Pops’s balding head to the tips of the black rubber boots he wore when gardening.

      “It’s great, bud,” Eddie said.

      Shifting from foot to foot, Max beamed. “Mrs. Hewitt said it was the best one out of the whole second grade.”

      “Mrs. Hewitt?”

      “She’s the art teacher.” Now Max hunched his shoulders. Chewed on his thumbnail. “I forgot I’m not supposed to tell anyone that.”

      “You’re not supposed to tell anyone she’s the art teacher? Is she some sort of spy?”

      Max frowned as if Eddie was the one not making sense. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone she said my picture was the best.”

      Eddie’s heart swelled. Christ, but he loved his kid. Max was tall for his age and stocky, with Eddie’s hazel eyes and dark hair, and Lena’s light coloring and nose. Shy around everyone but family, when he opened up, he was funny and entertaining as hell. Max went full throttle from the time he woke until he hit his bed and slept like the dead, recharging for another nonstop day.

      He was Eddie’s greatest joy. The best thing he’d ever done.

      “We’ll keep it between us.” Eddie mussed Max’s hair, making a mental note to get him to the barber sometime this week. “But I bet she’s right.”

      Max stopped gnawing on his nail long enough to send Eddie a small, proud smile. “She is.”

      Eddie grinned. That was his boy. “How about we make a frame for this and give it to Pops.”

      “Yeah. He’ll love it. He loves all my pictures. But we can’t take it now. Not ’til Mrs. Hewitt says so.”

      “Okay. Maybe you should put it back, then.”

      Max did some sort of galloping walk over to the wide windowsill where the rest of his classmates’ drawings were laid out. Afternoon sun streamed through the glass, raising the temperature in the room a good ten degrees. Sweat formed on Eddie’s upper lip, along his hairline. Reaching behind him, he grabbed the sweatshirt at his shoulder blades and tugged it upward. Only to realize he was stuck, his lower back pressed against the chair holding the shirt in place. He scooted forward and rammed his stomach into the edge of the desk. He grunted. Banged his elbow when he tried to straighten.

      “Shit,” he muttered, his funny bone tingling painfully.

      Someone cleared their throat, the sound delicate, feminine and, if he wasn’t mistaken, subtly chastising.

      The back of his neck heated with embarrassment. Standing, Eddie shoved the chair back. It toppled over. He sighed. Some days a man just couldn’t win.

      He yanked the sweatshirt off, avoided looking at the door while he tugged his T-shirt down, then righted the chair. Smoothing his hair—and realizing Max wasn’t the only one who needed a trim—he turned. Scanned the curvy blonde in the doorway.

      Harper Sutter—now Harper Kavanagh—didn’t look much like the perky cheerleader she’d been in high school. Then she’d been petite with light brown hair that fell to the middle of her back. Now her hair was several shades lighter and at least six inches shorter, her face, hips and breasts fuller.

      His gaze flicked to her chest.

      Much fuller.

      A tickle formed in the back of his throat. Interest—basic and purely physical—stirred. Ignoring it, he shoved his hands into his pockets, focused on her face. Same high, pronounced cheekbones and gray eyes that turned down slightly at the corners. Same full, heart-shaped lips.

      He’d had a few fantasies—brief, insignificant fantasies—about her mouth.

      Then again, he’d been seventeen. Sexy dreams had pretty much been a nightly experience.

      Those lips curved into a bright smile. She switched her coffee cup to her left hand and offered him her right one. “Hello, Eddie. It’s so nice to see you.”

      With a nod, he shook her hand. Though he’d known her since kindergarten, he’d never touched her before. Her palm was warm against his. Soft.

      Awareness bolted through him. He acknowledged it was partly due to the remnants of the teenage fantasies playing in his head. Accepted it as a man’s instinctual response to an attractive woman.

      Acknowledged it, accepted it. Then let it—and her hand—go.

      “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” she said.

      “You didn’t.”

      He wasn’t sure if she’d

Скачать книгу