I gasp and grip the lapels of his shirt, my heartbeat escalating as our eyes bounce like tennis balls from each other’s lips to each other’s eyes. Will’s gaze drops to my neck, and my skin instantly heats.
“See?” I wiggle out of his embrace so I’m able to step back for much-needed space. “The only person I need to defend myself against is you.”
“Then I’ll teach you how. It’s settled.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“No, you don’t have a choice.” Huffing, I wonder why I’m still standing here talking to him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find Carly then pretend this night never happened.”
Will smiles, greedy-like, then licks his luscious Brad Pitt lips. “It happened, sweetheart, and it will happen again.”
Swallowing hard, I take another step back and shake my head. “No, it won’t.”
“I mean who does he think he is?” I move onto the pavement and hold the door of the taxi while Carly ungracefully climbs out.
“He is Will.” She giggles.
“He is an arrogant, pig-headed jerk.”
Carly sways as she stands, so I loop my arm around hers, bearing most of her weight as I lead her toward the front door of our house.
“Derek and I are,” she says, her eyes all dreamy.
I have no idea what she’s talking about. She’s been cooing and mumbling ever since she got off the phone with him. “Are what?”
“We just are.”
“Jesus, how much did you drink?”
“Enough.”
“You can say that again.”
We somehow stumble to the top of the porch steps unscathed, so I prop her against the door while I search my clutch for the keys.
“His dad is sick.”
“Huh?”
She twirls a piece of hair around her finger, eyes still dreamy. “That’s why he’s in Sydney. Sick dad.”
“Oh. That’s terrible.”
“It’s great!”
“What? Why?” My finger snags the key ring, so I pull it out and unlock the door, twisting the handle and opening it before remembering Carly’s still leaning against it.
She slips down the wooden panel and falls to her knees in our doorway. Oopsies.
“Ouch!” Carly rolls onto her side and then onto her back, her limbs splayed like a starfish, her dress pretty much around her waist.
“Shit! Sorry.” I reach for her hands to help her up, but she just laughs.
“It’s so great!”
I can’t help but giggle at her weird happiness. She’s never this happy. “Why is his dad being sick great?”
“It’s not.” She frowns at me. “That’s horrible.”
“But you said—”
“He doesn’t have a stupid wife and shitty kids in Sydney.”
“Oh.” I pull her to her feet again. “I never thought he did.”
“I did.”
“I know.”
“They would’ve wrecked everything.”
“Yes, they would’ve.”
“Stupid kids. Stupid wife.”
Guiding her into her room, I let go of her arm when she slumps onto the bed. I’m tempted to leave her that way, but I know if I do, she’ll be in the same position by morning. So I wrench her dress over her head, then lift one foot at a time and yank off her heels, nearly taking out my eye when one doesn’t budge until I’m not ready. The black stiletto flies out of my hand, swiping my head, and nearly lands in Rico’s tank.
“Jesus! Sorry, Rico,” I whisper to Carly’s startled axolotl.
He waves—well, technically, he swims, but tomayto, tomahto—so I wave back.
Rico is adorable. He reminds me of Rapunzel’s pet chameleon, Pascal, in the Disney movie Tangled. I’ve thought of getting my own Rico, but I’m happy to play Aunty Lib to Carly’s animal children, so I sneak him a few extra salmon pellets while winking at him.
“I know what you just did,” Carly murmurs.
Turning my back on Rico’s tank, I step to the bed, shush her, and pull her blanket up and over her body. “Go to sleep. You’re gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.”
As I go to leave her room, my finger hovering over the light switch, she snuggles her pillow and slurs, “He’s the one.”
“Who’s the one?”
“D—” She inhales deep then slowly exhales, and I think she’s finally passed out, when she slurs, “Derrrek.”
Tightness pinches my chest, swift and hard, but I breathe through it as an unbearable sadness overwhelms me like a lingering dark cloud. I want what she’s found: the perfect guy, a yin to her yang, her happy place. But no matter how hard I search, all I find are jerks.
Blinking through my tears, I drag the back of my hand across my eyes and force a smile. I’m happy for her. Really, I am. She deserves this. And if I can’t have the fairy tale I’ve always dreamed of, then maybe Carly can.
“I hope that’s true,” I whisper before shutting the door behind me.
The first school bell of the week rings, reminding me just how quickly the weekend flies by.
“I still have a headache.” Carly cups her ears, squints, then hands me my roll-call folder before sitting at her desk.
“It’s your own fault. You drank too much.”
Her phone beeps, and she diverts her attention from me to the screen, so I leave her to it, pushing open the heavy glass door that leads out of the main office building.
“Will keeps sending me annoying texts,” she calls out. “He wants your number.”
I pause and glance back. “Why?”
“I think he likes you.”
I point at her. “Don’t you dare give it to him.”
She waggles her eyebrows.
“I mean it.”
Carly makes a pfft noise, then says, “Our usual for lunch?”
“Sure.”
We always go to the café down the road for lunch on Mondays, and every time, I pretty much gag when she orders a roasted lamb sandwich soaked in mint sauce. To be honest, I kinda dread it; it really is gross. But I go anyway, because Carly loves it. Plus, it’s much quieter at the café. No screaming kids and bouncing balls.
“Lib, wait up.”
The sound of Oliver’s voice followed by his hurried footsteps almost makes me want to power walk, but there’s no use avoiding him. It’s impossible; we practically teach at the hip.
“Have a good weekend?” he asks, stepping up beside me.
I smile in his direction, instantly noticing his woollen vest—not that it’s unusual he’s wearing one. For some reason though, the mustard-coloured number he has on today, paired with the red tie around his neck, makes him look like a walking, talking hot dog with ketchup.
I blink. “Yes, thanks, I did. And you?”
He shrugs. “It was nothing special. A bit boring, actually.”
“Oh. I’m sorry about that.”
He chuckles. “It’s not your fault.”
“I never said it was.”
“Right. Yes.” Oliver chuckles again, but this time it’s less humorous. “So how was Friday night? Did you and the others go to Opals in the end?”
Surprised by his sudden interest in my social life, I almost clip my shoulder on the brick wall as we round the corner. Oliver has never really shown much interest in anything other than himself and his love of tennis. At the beginning of the year, I thought he was going to invite me to join him at the Australian Open when he showed me two tickets he managed to secure to the semi-finals. Only then I saw a picture of him with his friend on his Facebook page the very next day, drinking wine from plastic cups in the stands at Rod Laver Arena.
Remembering how hurt and disappointed I felt, I can’t help but exhale harshly through my nostrils.
“Yes, we did go to Opals. Carly knows the owner, so we spent most of the night in a private section with our own bar. It was great!”
Oliver’s eyes grow wide. “Office-Carl
y? She knows the owner of Opals?”
My jaw tightens. “Yes, Teacher-Oliver, she does.”
We stop outside the classroom where our kids are lined up in pairs and chatting about the fun things they got up to on the weekend.
He gives me a sideways glance and murmurs, “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Good morning, everybody,” I say, deliberately brushing him off.
“Good morning, Ms Hanson. Good morning, Mr Bunt,” the kids chant.
Smiling at their innocent little faces, I gesture they go inside. “Quickly put your bags on your hooks and sit on the mat, and I’ll announce this week’s bell monitor, roll monitor, and classroom helpers.”
“Can I be a helper?” Jet Bradley asks.
I lovingly cup the back of his head and usher him along—he asks every Monday morning. “Just go and hang your bag up, Jet, and we’ll see what happens.”
Quickly entering the classroom before I’m bailed-up by the few loitering parents, I leave Oliver at their mercy. That’s another thing that happens every Monday, and usually I’m the one who’s stuck answering queries while Oliver slithers inside like a snake. Not today, buddy.
I take a seat at the front of the room and clasp my hands together. “Okay, Grade 2s and 3s, who’s ready for Funday Monday?”
Most of the kids say, “Me!” except for Evan, whose head is down, his shoulders slumped. He’s not normally the spriteliest of kids, but even so, he looks particularly miserable, so I make a quick change in my notebook and appoint him one of this week’s classroom helpers.
“Is Gregory Adams here?” I ask, starting the roll call.
The kids who are present answer, “Yes,” and I soon discover only one student is absent.
“Excellent!” I close the roll-call folder and hand it to Jet with a knowing smile. “Here you go. You’re this week’s roll monitor.”
He jumps up and says, “Yes!” while the other students clap.
“And the bell monitor is—” I pause while the kids perform a drumbeat on the carpet with their hands. “—Emma Johnson.”
Most of them clap while some moan their disappointment.
“And this week’s classroom helpers are—” Another carpet drumbeat. “—Zoey Michaels and Evan Hunter.”
I wait for Evan to smile, but he doesn’t, and it has me a little concerned.
Oliver enters the room, frowning, and I’m childish enough to enjoy his annoyance. He normally announces the monitors and helpers, but again, Not today, buddy. Instead, he heads to the back of the room, to where our sink and Let’s-Make-It table is, and readies things for the first lesson—Science, and the wonderfully messy shit known as Ublex.
“Hannah and Dylan from Red House, it’s your turn for Show and Tell,” I announce.
Dylan springs up, goes to his bag, and brings back a pair of boxing gloves, and I’m instantly thrown back to Friday night, when Will said he was going to teach me how to box. Large, sculpted biceps dance across my mind, and I delight in them before blinking them away. What the hell was that?
“What do you have there, Dylan?” I ask.
“Boxing gloves.” He shows the class, and they stare wide-eyed.
“My dad has those,” Gregory says.
“My mum has pink ones,” Hannah adds.
“Hands up if you have questions,” I remind them.
“These are my new gloves.” Dylan straps them on and punches the air in front of him.
“Whoa, Muhammad Ali! Be careful. We don’t want anybody getting hurt.”
“I won’t punch anyone.” He punches the air again, his demeanour overly confident. “I’m not allowed to, unless it’s self-defence or I’m in the ring.”
“In the ring?” I nearly choke, a little surprised. Surely not. I can’t for the life of me imagine one of “my” kids in a boxing ring.
“Yeah, but I’m too young for the ring. I gotta be ten.”
Jesus! Is that all?
Jet sticks his hand up.
“Yes, Jet, you have a question?”
He nods. “Can you do an uppercut, Dylan?”
Just as Dylan punches toward the ceiling, Oliver curses under his breath, except it’s loud enough for me to hear, which means the students hear it too.
I stand up and make my way to the back of the room where he’s clearing out the sink. “What’s wrong? I’m fairly sure the entire class heard that S-bomb.”
“Everything is wet.” He holds up a set of containers.
“That’s because you left them here on Friday.” I point to the faucet, which is dripping much more than usual. “And because that’s still leaking.”
He huffs, moves the containers aside, and angrily flicks on the tap. Water bursts from the faucet like a fountain and hits me in the face. I scream and hold my hands up to block the spray, but there’s too much.
“Shit!” he says.
I step aside, but the water spurts out toward the carpet, so I take one for the team and, once again, use my hands and body as a shield. I’m already drenched, so why the hell not.
“Quick! Turn it off!” I yell.
“I can’t. The tap broke off.”
“What?”
From his dry position a few feet away, he holds up the rusted brass lever that used to be attached to the sink.
“So? Don’t just stand there; do what you did at your Nonna’s house.”
“Huh?”
“You fixed her leaking tap, didn’t you?”
Oliver appears to search his mind for what I’m referring to, but I’m fairly sure—given his Dumbo expression—that he has no idea, because it never happened.
“Uh… er….” He steps back and scratches his head just as George—Mr Tims—and Carly rush around the corner.
“Wow!” George gives the kids an excited but reassuring smile. “It’s raining in your classroom. Cool!”
I laugh a not-so-funny laugh at the oldest teacher at our school while unsuccessfully trying to stem the flow of water with my hands. “A little help, please.”
“I’ll call a plumber,” Carly says and rushes out of the room.
George bends down, reaches under the sink, and the fountain turns to a trickle.
“Oh, thank goodness.” I sigh, prop myself against the sink, and wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands, droplets of water falling from my nose, ears, chin, and arms.
Oliver sheepishly hands me a roll of paper towel, and I have the overwhelming urge to crack him over the head with it, especially when he moves to the front of the room and says, “Okay, kids. It’s stopped raining inside, so you can take a seat back on the mat, please.” He then picks up the multiplication chart and starts next session’s lesson as if nothing happened, as if I’m not standing here soaking wet with a mess to clean and a tap to fix. Is he kidding me?
George stands up. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” I offer him some paper towels. “But the tap has been leaking for a couple of weeks now—”
A thunder rumbles from the sinkhole.
George steps back then looks at my tummy as if it’s about to explode. “I hope that was your stomach.”
I step back too. “Normally, it would be.”
“It might be worth turning the water mains off to this building.” He wipes his face then scrunches up his piece of paper towel and tosses it into the bin. “I’ll go do that now.”
“Thanks, George. You’re a lifesaver.”
He looks at Oliver then at me. “You gonna be okay?”
I scoff then peel my blouse from my chest and flap it. “Yeah, but I might need to go stand in the sun for a bit.”
He chuckles, squeezes my shoulder, and then leaves.
Not one to stand around and do nothing, I head to the storeroom and return with a bucket, mop, and some cloths and begin mopping the floor, towelling the edge of the carpet and wiping down the sink, tables, and windows. It takes me a while, because water reached farther than I realised, and when everything is dry—sans me—and
safe from hazards, I make my way outside to dry off a bit, still flapping my shirt when I turn the corner and slam into a wall.
A man wall.
A big, hard, familiar man wall.
“Will?” I question, stepping back, perplexed.
“Damn! If it isn’t a wet Labia.”
Chapter Six
His misty eyes hover over my chest, so I cross my arms, shielding his view. “What are you doing here?” I hiss.
“I’ve come to clean out your pipes.”
“What?”
“Apparently your pipes are blocked.”
I pinch my brow, a headache forming.
“You look confused, sweetheart.”
“I am.”
“Sorry, Will. I had to answer that call,” Carly says as she steps out from behind him, a sneaky smile creeping across her face when her eyes meet mine. “Oh, good. You’re here, Lib. Can you show Will the tap that burst, please?”
“Why?”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Because he’s the plumber.”
“He’s the plumber?”
Will jiggles a metal toolbox dangling from his hand, his smile full of white dazzling teeth, which look contradictory against his bushy beard.
I throw my hands in the air. “Of course you are.” Turning on my heel, I walk away and bite out, “Follow me,” not waiting for him to do so.
“You look good wet,” he says, voice low but humorous as he falls into step beside me.
“Oh, shut up.”
He chuckles. “So tell me what happened.”
“I’m not entirely sure. One minute, I’m standing there, and the next, I’m soaking wet.”
I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth.
“You wouldn’t be the first woman to say that to me.”
I roll my eyes, my smile sarcastically sweet as I open the classroom door. Will follows me inside, and the students grow silent, which is eerie considering they’re normally bustling with sound.
I look at their faces, all of them staring at Will, wide-eyed, their mouths parted but quiet.
“Whoa!” Jet croons. “You’re the biggest man in the world.”
Connection (Temptation Series Standalones Book 2) Page 5
