Connection (Temptation Series Standalones Book 2)

by K. M. Golland

“Muuum,” I whine.

  “What? I’m just saying it’s not a crime to date someone you work with.” She winks at Dad. “Your father and I worked together for years.”

  “I know that, but Oliver and I are just friends.”

  She puts down her knife and fork, and I know what’s coming. It’s one of the reasons why I moved out with Carly in the first place.

  “Elizabeth, you’re not getting any younger—”

  “I’m not even thirty, Mum!”

  “You’re twenty-nine.”

  “So?”

  “So”—she taps her wrist—“time is ticking. You need to put yourself out there before it’s too late.”

  “Can we please not have this conversation now?”

  “I got a promotion,” Ian blurts, changing the subject.

  Mum smiles. “How wonderful.”

  I mouth to him, “Thank you.”

  He winks.

  “Yes,” Fi says while stabbing an innocent piece of broccoli, “but it means longer hours.” She sucks on her tooth, and I get the impression she’s not happy.

  “Oh.” Mum gives Dad a sideways glance.

  “It’s only a couple of hours extra a day,” Ian adds.

  “A couple of hours that you should be spending with us.”

  The room goes quiet, so I decide to change the subject yet again.

  “Scrapbooking? You haven’t done that in years, Mum.”

  “Well, I have a grandchild now, which means lots of photos.”

  I shake off yet another of her stabs at my single status before enduring more of them throughout dinner until I’m standing in my old bedroom, my fluffy lilac pillow clutched to my chest, while I stare at the Disney Princess decals still stuck to the pale pink walls. They were my favourite decorations growing up, and I’d almost taken them with me when I moved out, much to Carly’s disgust.

  Reaching forward, I trace my finger over Ariel and Prince Eric, both of them about to kiss in a boat—so innocent, so in love. My heart swells; I want to be kissed in a boat under a weeping willow while animals sing in the background.

  Never gonna happen, Libby.

  Shoulders slumping, I move to where Belle and the Beast are dancing in his ballroom, followed by Prince Phillip leaning over Aurora while she sleeps, and then to Prince Charming on bended knee, securing Cinderella’s glass slipper to her foot.

  I cock my head and let out a giggle. Prince Charming kinda looks like Oliver—tall with dark, neatly swept hair, clothes pristine, a smouldering smirk.

  Pointing my toe like a ballerina, I assess my shoe. Hmm… maybe I could “accidentally” lose it at school next week like Cinderella did? And maybe, just maybe, he’ll find it for me.

  I laugh then leave the room.

  Again, never gonna happen.

  Monday comes around rather quickly, and during second session—right before recess—I can’t seem to get Carly’s mantra of Vagina’s rule the world together with Operation: Oops, where’s my shoe? out of my head. It could work. I mean, nowhere in the laws of romance does it say you can’t help your own fairy tale along. And, sure, Cinderella’s missing shoe wasn’t intentional, but so what? That’s a minor detail.

  Lifting my head, I blink a couple of times and focus on Oliver who is at the helm of the double classroom we share. He’s filling in an analogue clock on the whiteboard while I grade spelling tests in the corner behind my desk. Beige chinos fit snuggly to his butt, a white shirt to his chest underneath a cute woollen vest with a duck-blue diamond pattern. He looks dashing. Very clean-cut, very… Oxford.

  Kicking off my shoe, I nudge it with my big toe until it’s under the bookstand next to my desk, instantly regretting my decision to do so as the smell of sweaty feet hits me like a grotty slap to the face. Abort, Libby. Abort Operation: Oops, where’s my shoe? now. Goddamn it, what are you doing? You know your feet pong when you wear these shoes.

  I quickly suck in a breath and inconspicuously slide down my seat to try to fish my fluorescent-yellow Tiek safely back onto my foot, where it should stay… forever.

  “Mr Bunt, why is there twelve numbers on the clock?” Jet Bradley asks.

  Oliver swivels to look at Jet, his eyes growing wide before they meet mine. I sit back up, unsuccessful with my foot-fishing. Shit!

  “Uh… because….” Oliver’s brow crumples, his expression saying, Good fucking question, and I can’t help but bite my lip to refrain from laughing. “Maybe Ms Hanson can answer that question, Jet,” Oliver says, looking rather pleased with himself before turning back to the whiteboard.

  I smile—not an entirely happy smile, because the stench of my foot is near killing me. “Sure,” I say. “Time is measured by the movement of our planet, Earth, in relation to the sun.”

  My Grade 3 and Oliver’s Grade 2 students all turn their heads to where I’m sitting, so I continue. “The earth rotates or spins—”

  “The earth spins?” Jet asks.

  “Yes, it—”

  “Then why aren’t we dizzy?”

  “I know!” Hannah Morris’s hand shoots into the air. “My dad told me. It’s gravity.”

  I nod. “Yes, you’re right, Hannah. But that’s a whole other lesson, so let’s stick with time today, okay?” Another waft of feet swims around my face, and I cough, blinking because I’m not sure if it’s burning my eyeballs or not. “So the earth spins around an imaginary line—” Cough. “—that runs between the North Pole and the South Pole—”

  Jet’s hand shoots up into the air again, but as per usual, he doesn’t wait to be addressed before he speaks. “Can Santa see it?”

  “No, Jet, it’s imaginary.”

  His shoulders slump. “Oh.”

  “As I was saying—” Cough. “—the earth turns around the imaginary line you can’t see, and when all the places above the line face toward the sun’s light, that’s when it’s daytime. And when all the places below the line face away from the sun’s light and it’s dark, that’s when it’s night-time. We get daytime and night-time in one whole day, don’t we? So that’s how long it takes for the earth to do a complete turn, one whole day.”

  Most of the kids nod their understanding while some shove each other, and one picks his nose.

  “How many hours are there in one whole day, Dylan?” I ask, hoping he’ll remove his finger from his nostril to answer.

  He quickly does but also shrugs.

  “Want to take a guess?”

  He shrugs again. “Twenty?”

  “Close. There are twenty-four. Twenty-four hours for the earth to do a complete spin. “Now—” I cough again, wishing I could fan some fresh air in front of my face. “—can someone tell me how many minutes there are in each hour?”

  Emma Johnson bounces on her bum, her arm stretched so high I’m almost afraid it’ll tear off.

  “Yes, Emma.”

  “Sixty.”

  “Very good. And how many seconds in each minute?”

  She bounces again.

  “Yes, Emma.”

  “Sixty.”

  “Uh huh. Sixty seconds equals one minute, and sixty minutes equals one hour, and how many hours in one whole day?”

  Most of the students yell, “Sixty!” and I can’t help but giggle.

  “No, it’s twenty-four. The ancient Egyptians divided the day into two lots of twelve, because two times twelve equals?”

  The kids shout various answers, some saying, “Twenty-four,” some saying, “Ten,” and one shouting, “One hundred!”

  “Twenty-four,” I reaffirm. “They divided the day into twelve hours for daytime and twelve hours for night-time.” Standing up behind my desk, I finally breathe in fresher air. “On an analogue clock, like the one Mr Bunt has drawn on the board for you, the twelve daytime and night-time hours are marked out around the edge in a circle. The number twelve is always at the top, the number six always at the bottom, and the rest are equally spread out in order between the two. The two pointers, called hands, show the hour and the minutes.�
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  “They don’t look like hands.” Jet flaps his, and the students copy him, flapping their hands and laughing.

  Evan Hunter stands up and spins around, pretending to get dizzy. “I’m the earth, wheee.”

  “Sit down, Evan,” Oliver snaps.

  Evan drops to the floor and lands on Emma. She cries out and bursts into tears. Without thinking, I walk around my desk and rush toward her, when Jet points to my foot.

  “Where’s your shoe, Ms Hanson?”

  Shit!

  “Uh, I lost it.”

  My cheeks flush with warmth just as the bell rings, and I sigh with relief. As much as I love being a teacher, I love the recess, lunchtime, and hometime school bells even more so.

  “You may head outside for recess,” Oliver says to the kids before stepping up to where I’m now squatting next to Emma.

  “Where does it hurt?” I ask her.

  “My hand.”

  She clutches it to her chest but rotates it so I can have a look.

  “Ouch! It looks a bit red,” I say. “I think we should get some ice from Miss Henkley at the sick bay.”

  As Oliver and I help Emma to stand, his eyes narrow and he scrunches his nose, almost gagging. My stomach seizes as another waft of feet floats around the space between us, my “lost” Tiek now dangling from Jet’s finger as he steps up to my side.

  “Found your shoe!” he announces, pinching his nostrils with his other hand. “And it stinks!”

  Oh my God! Somebody please kill me now.

  Chapter Three

  Oliver had pretended he couldn’t smell my feet, but there’s good reason why he’s not the drama teacher, and that’s because he can’t act for shit.

  I appreciated the sentiment, though I’d been so mortified I could barely make eye contact with him for the remainder of that day. Thank God Oliver’s timetable included a double session of Sport, which meant he’d been out of the classroom. And thank God Jet never brought it up again, especially when the students practised their “ch” spelling words, one of which had been “stench.”

  Needless to say, I’d been pleasantly surprised when, at the end of that day as I climbed into my car and he climbed into his, Oliver asked if we were still on for dinner that coming Wednesday night. I’d been certain he’d ask for another raincheck, or no rainchecks at all.

  Now Wednesday afternoon, I slide my feet into a pair of perfectly aerated sandals. I’m preparing to leave for my dinner date with Oliver when Carly leans against my bedroom door.

  “You look… nice.” She nods toward my ensemble—pink floral maxi skirt, white T-shirt, and a denim jacket.

  “Thanks.” I tilt my head to the side and assess myself in the mirror. “Is it too much?”

  “Too much?” Carly steps into my room and unties the silk scarf around my neck. “If you mean too much clothing, then yes.”

  I roll my eyes and step around her. “What would you have me wear, a swimsuit?”

  “Depends, are you and Mr Bunt”—she wobbles her head like an idiot as she says his name—“going swimming?”

  I glare at her. “No.”

  “Where is the dork taking you, his grandma’s?” Carly picks up my bottle of Chanel N°5 and sniffs it, pulling a face similar to Oliver’s when he pretended my feet didn’t smell bad.

  I snatch it from her. “No. His grandma lives in a granny flat in his backyard.”

  “Ew.”

  “It’s not ‘ew.’ It’s lovely.”

  She picks up a pair of my earrings and holds them to her to ears. “It’s weird.”

  “It is not.”

  “Yeah, it is, and so is he. Why are you even going out to dinner with him?”

  “The same reason you go out with Derek.”

  Carly puts down the earrings and licks her lips, and I know what her X-rated mind is thinking.

  I sigh. “Because he asked me to, that’s why. You know, courtship? And just because you and Oliver don’t get along, that doesn’t mean he’s a weird person.”

  “Courtship? What century are you in?” She flops onto my bed and picks up my seashell-shaped cushion. “He dresses like a grandpa, Lib. Enough said.”

  “He does not! I happen to think he dresses with sophistication.”

  “Yeah, if you call golf pants and turtlenecks sophisticated.”

  “When did you become Queen Judge of Character?”

  “When I was born.”

  I take hold of her hands, help her to her feet, then spin her to face the door, and give her a gentle nudge to leave. “Goodbye, Carly. Don’t wait up.”

  “I won’t have to. His bedtime is probably seven o’clock.”

  My gentle nudge turns to a playful shove.

  “Hey!” She bounces off the hallway wall and stumbles.

  Grabbing my handbag from my nightstand, I sling it over my shoulder and pull out my keys.

  Her eyes meet mine. “Is he not picking you up?”

  “No. I’m meeting him at his place.”

  “See? Weird. A real guy picks you up.”

  She has a point, but I push it aside.

  “He had a lot of class prep to do so thought it would save time if I just met him at his place. No big deal.”

  “Like I said, weird.” She turns her back to me and waves her fingers above her head. “Bye. Have fun, I guess.”

  Closing the front door behind me, my stomach clenches as I walk to my car and climb inside. Is it weird that I’m picking him up? I don’t go on many dates, but even I know the guy picks up the girl, at least on the first date.

  What am I saying? It’s the twenty-first century. And if vaginas are going to rule the world, they should drive every now and again.

  After walking between two cement white lion statues sitting atop a redbrick fence that surrounds Oliver’s front garden, I make my way up his porch steps, dodging pots of succulents before knocking on his door. Déjà vu sweeps over me, and I realise his home reminds me of my Nonna and Nonno’s house. It’s weird, considering he’s my age and not in his eighties.

  I shake my head, silently berating myself for thinking the very word my annoying roommate planted in my head.

  “Damn you, Carly,” I mutter as the door swings open, revealing Oliver in all his Prince Charming glory—navy chino shorts, latte-coloured shirt, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. It’s exactly what he’d worn at school today, except now he’s barefoot.

  I tell myself to repay the favour and pretend his feet don’t smell, even if they do.

  “Hey, Lib. Come in.” He holds the door open and gestures I enter.

  “Thanks.” I stop on the threshold for the slightest of seconds, expecting a kiss on the cheek or a hug but getting neither.

  “Just through here, into the living room.” Oliver closes the door behind us then leads the way.

  I bend to remove my sandals.

  “You can leave them on,” he says.

  My face burns with embarrassment; of course I should leave them on. I’ve already near killed him with them off.

  “I mean, if you want to,” he adds. “The carpet is old, so it doesn’t matter.”

  Without intentionally doing so, I laugh the type of laugh you hear in the audience of a TV sitcom then choose to leave my sandals on. Seems stupid to take them off when we’re leaving for dinner at any moment.

  Following Oliver into the living room through open, amber-coloured, glass doors, I take in his minimalist living style—brown leather recliner sofas, stereo system, gaming console, and a couple of picture frames with photos of him and who could very well be his parents and grandparents.

  Because I’m not rude, I say, “This is nice,” when it’s not nice at all. It’s old fashioned and austere.

  He swishes his hand. “It’s not my place. It’s my gran’s.”

  “Ohhh! I thought she lived in a flat out the back?”

  “She does.”

  I’m a little taken aback by his answer, and he must notice, because he continues.
“The house is too big for her, so Dad built her a flat and moved me in here.”

  “But isn’t it too big for you too?”

  He narrows his eyes, so I cover my mouth with my hand.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound rude. I just meant she’s one person, and so are you, so it’s the same thing.”

  “Of course it’s too big for me too, but I don’t mind. I can keep an eye on Gran.”

  I nod. “She must love having you look out for her.”

  “She’s the one who looks out for me, really.”

  I nod again. I have a Nonna, so I know what that’s like.

  Oliver sits on the leather sofa, a coffee table before it with an open laptop and worksheets fanned out on top.

  “Take a seat.” He pats the spot beside him. “I’m just catching up on schoolwork.”

  I do as he suggests and pick up a worksheet, noticing it’s from over a month ago. “Have you not corrected these yet?”

  He laughs as if it’s nothing. “Told you I was behind.”

  “Oliver! You’re very behind. These should have been done already. The kids need their results if they’re going to progress.”

  Picking up a red pen, I start marking the children’s narratives for their portfolios they’ll present in the coming weeks at the end of term.

  “I know.” He leans back and places his hands on his head. “I’ve just been so busy.”

  “With what?”

  Not that it’s any of my business, but I’m curious as to what he’s prioritising over his students.

  “Er… Gran. She’s been sick.”

  “Oh!” I put down the worksheet and pick up another. “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah. Well, some days. She has angina.”

  “That’s no good.”

  “She’s on meds, but I have to keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn’t do too much, you know?”

  I nod and giggle at Evan Hunter’s narrative.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Evan’s story,” I say. “I don’t think he likes his mum’s boyfriend.”

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

  I point to the part where Evan locks his mum’s “friend” in a lion cage.

  Oliver leans forward and reads what Evan wrote. “I reckon you’re right.” He leans back again, happy for me to continue correcting his work. “Poor kid. With a mum like his, he doesn’t stand a chance.”