Chemistry: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World)

by J. P. Nicholas

  I, too, have noticed that his grades in my class don’t reflect the intelligent kid my colleagues rave about. You have raised a very intelligent, well-behaved young man. There are a few options I would like to discuss with you in person. We can go over them in detail tomorrow. I’ll be at the school until 7 p.m., catching up on grading. Feel free to stop by any time until then.

  In the meantime, I will give Kyle a more fundamental-based benchmark assessment during class. That way, I can get a better understanding of just where his lack of understanding starts. I’ll make sure to have this assessment marked for us to review before you arrive. Rest assured, Ms. Hayden; Kyle will come out on the other side of this. That’s a promise.

  Kind Regards,

  Lucas Ashford

  7th Grade Chemistry

  Room 2-11

  I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders as I read his response over again. I don’t know why I expected to have to throw a few punches before I won the fight, but I’m very much relieved that’s not the case here.

  With a little more pep to my step, I strip down and step into the shower.

  The hot water feels heavenly as it trickles down my skin, attempting to soothe my aching arm muscles. Baking all these treats every day requires a lot more upper body strength than my I don’t even wanna look at a dumbbell, let alone touch one body would prefer. Perhaps I should add hire a personal trainer to my long list of when I get around to it, let’s do it items. But in all honesty, I know I don’t have the time or energy to work on my fitness, not while focusing on raising a twelve-year-old boy and trying to take my newish bakery to the big leagues.

  As soon as I get out of the shower, I wring out my hair until there’s no more water weighing it down. I spend the next ten minutes blow-drying it. When it’s no longer soaking wet, just damp, I fasten it into a bun. I don’t care how it looks in the slightest as I shove my head through an oversized black Bon Jovi T-shirt that has certainly seen better days. It isn’t until I catch a quick glimpse of myself in the mirror that I remember that this was his. This T-shirt and my son are the only remnants of the love my ex and I once shared. Unbeknownst to me, I flip my reflection the bird. Whether that was directed to my younger self or my ex, I’m not sure. Either way, I am beyond over him. The only reason I kept this shirt in the first place was that it was great at hiding my baby bump when I started showing in the second trimester. Then it became the one shirt that I didn’t mind if it got stained beyond recognition.

  After tossing on a pair of shorts underneath it, I tie the excess shirt fabric at my waist and tuck it under the waistband of my shorts. There, it’s a sloppy look, but who needs to look cute to be baking like a fiend at nearly six in the morning?

  I spend the next several hours baking, getting lost in measuring, pouring, and mixing the perfect ingredients to make my signature treats. I must’ve been so busy slaving away in the back that I didn’t hear Layla, my one and only employee, start her shift. Her mere presence startles me when I carry the tray of freshly baked cookies from the backroom to the display upfront.

  “Layla, you scared me,” I admit, placing the hot tray on the counter.

  “Sorry, I thought you heard me come in,” she explains before taking a sip of her iced macchiato. Once she sets it down, she slips on a pair of gloves and scurries over to help me unload the cookies into the display case. “I’ve actually wanted to talk to you about tomorrow.”

  “Oh? Did I schedule you to work tomorrow?” I ask, confusion clouding my head. I know better than to schedule Layla to work on Saturdays.

  She shakes her head, which causes her Ariana Grande-esque high ponytail to whip around her shoulders.

  “No, you didn’t. I just have this group project to work on tomorrow,” she smacks her lips, probably mustering up the courage to ask me something. I don’t know why she’s beating around the bush when she knows that I’m without a doubt going to say yes to whatever she asks me. I’m indebted to her. Without her help, I couldn’t run this place. Plus, having her here helps keep me sane…most days, that is. “Can you babysit Mateo for a few hours?”

  “Absolutely. Just drop him off on your way.” The smile stretching her perfect mocha skin tugs at my heartstrings. The truth is, I see so much of myself in her—a single mother who is just trying to provide a better life for her son. For the longest time, that was me. Actually, I guess that still is me. The only thing that’s really changed from then to now is my son can now wipe his own ass.

  In a lot of ways, Layla has it much worse than I did. Sure, she’s older than I was when I had Kyle. But unlike me, she is truly alone. Her parents disowned her the second she told them she was pregnant. That’s why I hired her on the spot during her interview. Her story being so similar to my own, I couldn’t help but feel for her and want to aid her in any way I could. I gave her a box full of Kyle’s baby clothes and several helpings of unsolicited parenting advice. Both of which I know she is grateful for.

  Thankfully, I had a support system around me, cheering me on along the way. My parents and three wacky brothers pitched in whenever they could. And I know I couldn’t have done any of this without them.

  “Thank you so much. I’ll never be able to repay your kindness properly.” Tears start to well in her eyes. Reaching upward, I flick them away with my thumb.

  “None of that. You’ll ruin your makeup.” I yank her in for a hug. “You know I love that little boy.”

  She smiles back at me. “I know.”

  We stand there for a moment, neither one of us breaking the silence. That is until she arches her brow. “Are you okay today?”

  I nod.

  “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

  She waves her hand around me. “Cuz your aura is usually yellow mellow, and today it’s more of a burnt orange. Are you nervous about something?”

  I never will understand these auras she speaks of, but I’ll tell you this: they’re freaking accurate at reading my moods.

  “It’s nothing. I just have a meeting with my son’s teacher after school.”

  Her jaw drops. “Really? Kyle?”

  I chuckle. “He is my only son.”

  “Right. I just—” she stops mid-sentence when something catches her eye over my shoulder. She takes a step forward and brings her voice to a barely audible whisper. “Your mom’s here.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I whisper back.

  “Hiya, Mrs. H! Can I get you anything?”

  “Layla, always such a ray of sunshine in the morning. I wish I could say the same about my daughter. I bet that’s why she gives you all the morning shifts.” Or because she has afternoon classes. My mother turns her attention to me, her good morning smile faltering. “What are you wearing?”

  “Good morning to you too, Mom,” I snark sarcastically, carrying the cookie tray to the back. I know she’s going to follow me back here. In three, two, one…the door swings on its hinges. And here we go.

  “Honey, I’m concerned about you.”

  Involuntarily, I roll my eyes at the wall, grateful that she can’t see me at the moment since she’s staring at my back. “What about this time?”

  “I’m afraid that you’ve given up on love completely,” she admits, her voice wavering as she forces the words out while she tries to hold the tears in.

  I’m caught completely off-guard. I thought for sure it would be her usual catalogue of my appearance, job, or parenting. Never in a million years would I have guessed she would venture into my love life—or lack thereof.

  “I’m just saying, you haven’t been with anyone since—”

  “Mom, don’t,” I warn. She completely ignores it.

  “Kyle’s father,” she finishes. I close my eyes to collect my thoughts and heave a sigh.

  “The only man I need in my life is my son. And I will not subject him to another man walking out on him,” I bite out. Perhaps I’m being a bit too harsh, but I can’t help myself. The memories of the day Mac walked out on me come flooding t
o the surface, hitting my frontal lobe like a tsunami. I was barely a couple of months pregnant when I mustered up the courage to tell him. He didn’t stay much longer after that. But the betrayal cut deep, and just the idea of bringing an outsider into the lovely life I built with my son terrifies me to my core.

  The squeeze of my shoulder brings me back to reality. I rapidly blink away the tears.

  “I just want to see you happy, honey.” Her words are purposely soft. She knows she crossed a line, and now she’s trying to weasel herself back into my good graces.

  “I am happy.”

  “I know you think you are.” And with a pat on my back, she vanishes through the door.

  Despite my mother trying to play tricks with my mind, I manage to focus my attention on my work. When I’m done putting the last swirl of frosting on the final batch of cupcakes, I tell Layla to watch the shop and bolt upstairs to attempt to make myself more presentable to the general public. That means scrubbing flour patches off my cheeks, detangling my knotted hair enough to comb a wet brush through it, and changing into something that doesn’t provide free advertising for an eighties rock band.

  After a few outfit changes, I settle on a light blue sweater and pair it with a black laced hem pencil skirt. Giving my reflection a good once over in the mirror, I decide that I finally look like a woman who hasn’t spent the majority of her day baking every delicious and savory dessert under the sun.

  The second I step outside, I realize my mistake. None of my outfit selections took into account the cool Autumn breeze that has been consistently whistling its way through Sunnyville over the past week. I check the time on my watch. Not enough to spare a dash upstairs for a jacket, so I’ll just power through it.

  My resolve weakens on the walk from my car to the school as the breeze inevitably picks up, cutting through the thin fabric of my skirt and leaving goosebumps on my legs.

  “Great, just great,” I sigh to myself, rapidly rubbing my hands over my legs to warm them. That’s when I make out the familiar staccato of her high heels colliding against the tile floor in the hallway.

  “Well, if it isn’t Chloe Hayden,” she chirps, her voice every bit as sharp as I remember it.

  “Mrs. McAdams, a pleasure as always.” How on Earth is she still the principal of this school? She seemed like she was one hundred when I attended here back in the day.

  Ultimately, she hasn’t changed all that much. Admittedly, a few more wrinkles are creasing the corners of her lips and eyes. Her white locks are styled in a more budget-friendly version of Miranda Priestly’s signature cut. The difference is that it falls flat in the front due to a lack of volume. As always, her RayBan eyeglasses match her outfit. She’s wearing a vibrant fuchsia pantsuit that I bet would fit right into Elle Woods’ wardrobe in Legally Blonde.

  “What brings you in today?” she asks, pursing her lips as she awaits my response. I physically fight back an eye roll because I just don’t have the patience to play catchup with her today.

  “Parent-Teacher conference,” I pretend to check my watch. “Which I am running late for. We’ll have to catch up another time.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “Of course. Maybe you can stop by my office before you leave. It’s been so long since we’ve last spoken. I heard the rumor mill circling around town saying that you were moving back here. But frankly, I just didn’t believe it.” She takes a breath before she continues. “You know how those things go.”

  Yes. All too well.

  “It was nice running into you,” I lie through gritted teeth.

  “You, too. Take care.”

  Immediately, I wave goodbye and continue strutting down the hall. That may come off a bit rude, but I don’t want to give her a chance to drag out the conversation any longer than it already has.

  I don’t dare glance back. Instead, I focus my attention on the odd-numbered plaques drilled into the wall as they climb higher. 2-03. 2-05. 2-07. 2-09. When I reach room 2-11, I hold my breath. However, I’m not quite sure as to why. Perhaps I’m letting my nerves get the better of me. Glancing at the ceiling, I mentally curse out the burnt orange aura—I think that’s the color Layla mentioned. Or was it bright orange? You know what…it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I go through that door and fight like hell for my son.

  Shivers run down my spine when my skin comes in contact with the cold metal door handle. I release a shaky breath, hoping it will help calm my nerves. I haven’t the slightest idea if it actually worked, but I’ve wasted enough time psyching myself out already. It’s time to do this.

  Once I open the door, I’m assaulted by familiarity. My eyes drown in rich pools of amber. Holy fucking shirtballs!

  Chapter Seven

  Lucas

  I should just give up on this shit today. I’ve been staring at these homework assignments for hours, but I just keep getting distracted. My head’s not in it today. And my half-assed attempt to grade this work is not fair to my students.

  Let’s be honest here. I can’t focus because I’ve been thinking about that bakery cutie, Chloe, all damn week. I gave myself a few days to mull over the idea of asking her out, just in case it was my dick driving my actions. But it’s been a few days, and I still can’t get her off my mind.

  Earlier today, I decided that the second my conference with Ms. Hayden is over, I’m going to hightail it over to The Nutty Cookie and ask her out. And I couldn’t be more excited about that. I feel as giddy as a teenage boy who’s about to lose his virginity. Which, I know, is ridiculous. But I can’t help it. There’s just something about Chloe that excites me…in more ways than one.

  It’s not just her looks, although she has that department nailed with her captivating olive eyes, perky ass that I know she likes to shake, and full lips that I bet taste as sweet as her baked treats. But it’s also just talking to her. The conversations we’ve had, however brief and silly, were like breaths of fresh air—rejuvenating and so full of life. It’s hard to describe. All I know for sure is that I’d love to just converse with her again.

  My attention is immediately shifted to the right as my classroom door swings open. As if willed by the universe, the woman I was just thinking about walks into my classroom. An abundance of dirty thoughts floods my mind. All starting with a hot baker walks into my classroom and ending with both of us naked on my desk.

  The way my heart soars at the sight of her is surprising yet exceedingly welcomed. That is until I realize why she’s here. Then it sinks into my stomach, making me feel sick. I just don’t fucking believe this. Every last thread of hope I was clinging onto was sharply cut when she uttered the next two words.

  “Mr. Ashford?” she half-asks, sounding both sure and unsure of herself at the same time. It’s endearing as hell. So is that blush of hers that I’ve grown so fond of so quickly. I bet it would be a brilliant contrast against my dark bedsheets. HOLD ON! That train of thought needs to stop right the fuck now.

  Too late.

  The mental image hits me like a ton of bricks. I leave my bathroom, my hair still damp from a shower. I turn the corner and find her in my bed…waiting for me—that blush trailing down her neck and swirling over her plump breasts.

  Aaaannndd…now I’m hard. Fanfuckingtastic.

  Typically, I stand up to greet my parents, but I’ll have to make an exception just this once due to my current situation.

  “Good evening.” My voice is so gravelly that it stings my throat. I take a much-needed sip of my water. Bringing a fist to my lips, I clear my throat. Using that same hand, I gesture toward the chair positioned directly in front of my desk. “Please, take a seat.”

  I try my damnedest not to survey her every move as she pulls out the horribly uncomfortable school-funded chair and takes a seat. My gentlemanly instinct is to offer her my chair, knowing that it’s much more comfortable than that one, but my current situation prevents me from suggesting as much.

  “You mentioned giving Kyle a benchmark test today. How did
that go?”

  I’m both grateful and disappointed that she’s getting right down to business. Part of me wanted to toss around a little bit of flirty banter first. But alas, this is much more professional as it and I should be.

  “Right.” I open my desk drawer, and the sound of metal screeches along the track, which causes both of us to grimace. “Sorry, it’s not the best desk.”

  She smiles, but it appears ingenuine.

  I hold out the test; she takes it and gives it a quick once-over.

  “I know you probably are unsure what exactly you’re looking at.”

  “Yeah, not a clue what any of this means.”

  “In layman’s terms, it means that we have a lot of work ahead of us here. Or, more specifically, Kyle and I do. Which brings me to the options I wanted to discuss with you in person.” I look her straight in the eye, ensuring to meet her gaze before I continue.

  “Chloe—” I stop myself, surprised at just how easy her name flows off my tongue. That was very unprofessional. In my entire academic career, I have never once addressed a student’s parent by their first name, just like I never let them address me by mine. But it just feels different with her—almost as if it’s wrong to call her Ms. Hayden. But that’s a very dangerous precedent of mine to break. I should backtrack it.

  “Ms. Hayden,” I correct. She raises her hand as if she’s one of my students, which rises a chuckle out of me. “You don’t have to raise your hand. Speak freely.”

  She facepalms herself.

  “Right. Excuse my ditsy moment. And please, call me Chloe,” she insists. I bite my lip to stop myself from saying the flirty remark on the tip of my tongue. I’d rather call you gorgeous.

  Well, it would seem that I’ve backed myself up against a ledge, and there’s no way back now. “Chloe it is then.” I clear my throat once more. “The way I see it, there are only two options to move forward here. Option one is that Kyle attends weekly peer-tutoring sessions held in our school’s library at the end of the day from four to six.”