by Megan Kelly
What had he heard? Was it only her paranoia making it seem as though everyone knew about her recent past with men and about having sex with Scott over Christmas break? He hadn’t officially been a student’s father then, as Shelby’s enrollment didn’t become active until the January return of school. Still, it didn’t look good.
The teachers in the back could also fidget without seeming as though they were guilty. Ginger had to remain still as a rabbit sensing a fox nearby, appearing as though Bushfield’s topic held little interest to her. Her peripheral vision picked up a smug-looking Cindy Grady, but without turning her head, she couldn’t tell if Cindy’s satisfaction had anything to do with her telling tales about Ginger or with Bushfield’s condemning tone in general.
Guilt sheened her skin with perspiration. What could Cindy have heard or seen and reported to the principal? For all he was a blowhard, he was their immediate supervisor, and his opinion mattered.
Scott had revealed his interest in Ginger at the tech meeting, but that wasn’t against any school ethical code of which she was aware. However, it was an unspoken rule. Even teachers dating one another was frowned upon by the community, although the school district couldn’t forbid it.
Cindy didn’t know of Ginger’s dating experiences since the divorce or if any of those dates had turned into sexual encounters. However, since Ginger was divorced, what business of it was anyone’s? And since being with Scott, she’d come to her senses, repented and repined, changed her ways, turned over a new leaf, woken up and smelled the coffee, and every other cliché she could think of.
To have her mistakes come back to bite her in the rear end now would be grossly unfair.
The image of a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms faded a little with each discouraging thought. She could almost feel the aching emptiness of her arms. Without a good job and a better reputation, she wouldn’t be able to adopt.
The best course of action would be to avoid being alone with Scott Matthews. She had to. No way would she jeopardize her chance at motherhood.
THAT NIGHT, GINGER RUSHED toward the phone in the kitchen, abandoning the novel she’d been reading on the living room couch. A glance at the clock quickened her steps. At 11:00 p.m., chances increased that the call brought bad news. A metal taste washed over her tongue as fear closed her throat— Mom? Dad? Kyle? Her step faltered. Surely her ex-husband had changed his ICE contact. Wouldn’t the new girlfriend be the person called in case of emergency?
Despite the sour churn to her stomach, Ginger picked up the phone. Please, not my parents.
Scott’s “hello” filled her with momentary relief, followed closely by panic. One of the girls?
“It’s the stupid dog,” he assured her, as though reading her mind.
Relief made her knees weak, and she leaned against the kitchen counter. The dog. Jeez.
“I wouldn’t disturb you this late,” Scott said, “and I apologize, but I’m at a loss here. Is there a vet who does house calls in the middle of the night? Maybe someone the animal shelter uses?”
He muttered something about “a fortune,” which Ginger could fill in for herself. “What’s wrong with Horace?”
“The Horace—” he pronounced it “horse,” but she didn’t know whether that was due to his Southern accent or a general opinion of the beast “—has eaten something bad. I think.”
“Eaten what? Do you have any idea?” Young girls played with perfumes and makeup sometimes. She searched her memory but couldn’t picture Shelby or Serena glammed up like a rock star. “Was it food or maybe a part of a toy? Do they have a dollhouse?”
She rushed upstairs to her bedroom and picked up her folded jeans from the dresser. She’d planned to wear them one more time before washing, and they didn’t look bad. Not too wrinkled. Perfectly acceptable for the middle of the night. This wasn’t a date.
“I believe it’s food-related.”
The dry certainty in Scott’s tone made her smile. And hesitate. He could clean up dog vomit on his own. “Is Horace in pain?”
“The Horace is a pain, but I shouldn’t kick a guy when he’s down. Yeah, I’d say he is suffering.”
“What makes you think so?” She could envision all sorts of messes, none of which was dire enough for her to speed over this late at night to tend to. Or in the bright light of day, for that matter.
“You mean the way he’s got his paws clutching his gut? Or his pale pasty skin tone?”
Ginger smiled at his joke.
“Other than moaning, he’s just lying down. I don’t know a sick dog from my aunt Patsy. The dogs down South have the good sense not to eat things that are bad for them.”
All trace of humor faded as the sound of puppy whimpers grew louder. Scott must have moved closer to the dog to inspect him.
Judging by the pathetic whines, Horace needed help. Scott would require either someone to transport the dog to an animal clinic or vet’s office, or to stay in the house with the girls while he did it. She wedged the phone between her chin and shoulder and stripped out of her pajama pants. Hopping and balancing, she pulled on her jeans.
“What are y’all doin’? You’re puffin’ like a long-distance runner. Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Is this a bad time?”
She let the phone drop on the bed while she pulled her pajama top over her head and replaced it with a sweatshirt. With assumptions like that, he could just wait. After smoothing her hair back into place, she picked up the handset. “Do you mean is Monday night at nearly midnight a bad time for a phone call? Or is it a bad time to run out in the dark and cold to help you?”
“I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
His accent turned the words into, “Ah’m surry,” which defused her irritation. She ignored his tacking on the endearment. It was probably left over from talking to the girls all weekend and he’d accidentally let it slip. It meant nothing. It held no importance for her. She wouldn’t pay it the least attention.
She’d have to pay attention to her reaction to his accent, though, and make sure it didn’t buy him too much slack. Yes, it was charming and made her smile. And sent shivers up her spine, depending on what he was saying. But that was beside the point.
Keep to the point, Ginger Pearl. The admonishment stiffened her resolve. The man had just insinuated she was having sex with someone else. He could clean up dog poop himself. He wasn’t Ashley Wilkes, too fragile to deal with the ugliness of life. But he wasn’t as cavalier as Rhett Butler, either. She waffled, hating his effect on her.
“So, do you know someone I can call at this hour other than you? Someone the shelter trusts?” He hesitated and she heard the resignation in his voice. “Maybe someone who’s treated Horace before.”
That stopped her. She’d been about to recommend one of the vet techs who might need a couple or thirty bucks. Something in his voice indicated other objectives. Did he plan to return Horace, now that he’d proven defective? Like Kyle had rejected her? “Why do you want someone who’s treated Horace? So that person would be familiar with his history?”
“Well, sure. Right. That would be why.”
He sounded too relieved, too agreeable. As though he snatched at her answer like a lifeline. She hurried down the stairs and grabbed her purse, then went to the closet for her heavy coat. “That might be why. Or not.”
He heaved out a breath. “I want someone Horace feels comfortable with, okay?”
Ginger headed to the kitchen door, touched by his concern for a puppy he hadn’t intended to adopt. A big dog with a big heart, seemingly matched by his new owner. “I’ll be right there.”
On the short drive across town, she gave herself a stern talking to. No involvement. No dating. For sure, no sex. She had her job and her baby-to-be to consider. There wasn’t an endearment or a charming accent or a sexy voice or a sexy man that mattered as much as having the adoption agency approve her application.
Anticipation coursed through her as she pulled into Scott’s driveway fifteen
minutes later. Despite the reason for his call, she wanted to see him. She needed to take a breath. No, she told herself, standing on his porch. You’re not visiting your lover. You’re helping a friend. That’s all.
Scott swung open the door. She registered his grin right before—
“Oh, ick.” The smell hit her. Vomit. She was glad she’d taken that deep breath already—it might be her last of the evening. “Who gave him chocolate?”
“What?”
“Someone has been giving chocolate to the dog.” She knew that smell. She wouldn’t be able to eat chocolate for a couple of weeks.
“What makes you so sure?” Scott took the coat from her shoulders before tossing it over a chair by the door. Boots and various shoes lay where they’d been kicked off, some in a woven basket, some on the rug, some just abandoned where they’d landed. Exhaustion marked his face; his flannel shirt and jeans had seen fresher hours. She hoped he was up to the task at hand. It wouldn’t be pretty.
“We’ve got to take care of Horace immediately,” she said. “Chocolate is toxic to dogs, and possibly fatal, depending on how much he ate. He’s pretty big but he has a puppy’s digestive system. It’s vital to flush him out.”
“Oh, sweet hell. I don’t like the sound of that.”
Ginger patted his arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you how.”
“Tell me? Meaning I’m on my own?” He ran a hand down his face. “Okay, let’s get this nightmare started.” He led her to the mudroom, which thankfully had a tile floor.
It wasn’t pleasant, but it could have been worse, according to the vet tech Ginger contacted. In the past half an hour before Scott called, poor Horace had vomited out a great deal of the chocolate cake, as it proved to be. He also had diarrhea, which helped rid his body of the toxins.
“We have to keep him hydrated,” she said. “The vet’s assistant said Horace might be overexcited from the caffeine, too.”
“Just great. A hyper thirty-pound dust mop. I didn’t know chocolate cake was so bad for dogs.”
Ginger couldn’t believe her ears. “Did you feed him cake?”
“No, but he’s taller than he looks.”
She couldn’t help but smile as she grasped his meaning. “You’ll need to store food where he can’t reach.”
“I put it on the kitchen counter, in plastic wrap, I might add.”
“Try the refrigerator next time. Or get a lockbox.”
“Very humorous.”
“Just hide the key up high.”
Scott rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched.
“You’d better not let him see where you put it, either. He’s not only taller than he looks, he’s smarter than—”
Horace moaned and Scott reacted as though to a pistol shot, launching himself across the room and swinging open the door. The puppy stared at the crazy human. Then pooped on the floor.
Ginger covered her mouth but laughter escaped anyway. “What did you hope to accomplish by opening the door? Did you housebreak him already? In two days?”
Scott grimaced and latched on to the dog’s collar. “Come here, you. Let’s see if you can’t finish your business outside.”
Horace nearly bounced on his toes with glee at this new game, momentarily emptied and ready to play.
“Get him some water,” Ginger called. She turned to search for whatever Scott had been using to clean earlier. Hushing the voice that said, You’re cleaning up his dog’s mess while he’s outside, probably fooling around with the animal, she set about finding a plastic garbage bag. The newspapers and paper towels she used went into the bag before she twist-tied it closed. Scott could open it to reuse throughout the night as he spot-cleaned the messes.
Poor Horace. She washed her hands and looked around the room. A clothes washer and dryer, numerous shelves and cabinets and a sink lined the walls, but the floor was clutter-free and easy to clean. It wasn’t a bad place for a sick dog.
The outside door opened and four muddy paws proceeded Scott’s bare, wet feet into the room.
“Hold him for a minute,” she said. Scott grabbed the dog’s collar as she left. She located two chairs and brought one back, laying it on its side across the opening to the kitchen. Then she did the same with the second.
Scott filled the water bowl and petted Horace while the dog drank.
The room passed inspection. The man did not. “Get a towel for your feet. Where are your shoes?”
“I’m going to burn them.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.
“Step in it?”
“Only once, thankfully with the shoes still on. I think I know why his former owner abandoned him.” He scowled, but Ginger saw the concern in Scott’s eyes. “That dog is too goofy to housebreak.”
Tenderness welled inside her, knowing his sour words masked his worry. She placed a hand along his jaw. “You have had a hard night, haven’t you?”
“I’ve had worse.” He kissed her palm without taking his gaze from hers. “I’ve had a lot better, too. Most recently with you.”
“Scott,” she softened her tone. “I can’t tell you how not passionate I’m feeling at the moment.”
His dimples deepened. “Let me know when that changes. Because the sight of you in that sweatshirt, with your sleeves pushed up, ready to take on all the problems of the world, is turning me on.”
She uttered a disbelieving chuckle. “Really?”
“Or maybe it’s because that sweatshirt smoothes over your breasts every time you move. You’re not wearing anything under there but pure temptation.”
She crossed her arms, mortified.
“I can see the curves you’re hiding, and I remember their softness.” His tone deepened and his eyes darkened. “And their taste. And their texture on my tongue.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. She coughed, trying to break the spell he wove with his seductive words. Memories flooded her—the feel of his tongue on her skin, the pull of his mouth on her breasts as he sucked. The clench of need in her belly and the luxurious freedom of letting go.
Horace moaned, interrupting the moment.
Ginger had never been so glad to be in the company of a sick dog.
“Damn dog.” Scott frowned and dragged the pup outside again, hopping in the cold. “Serves you right,” he muttered as the huge creature in front of him not only pooped but vomited. “That’s what you get for ruining my night. Try to remember this lesson.”
Horace moaned and turned soulful eyes toward Scott, who gave in and bent to pet him. “I guess it’s not your fault, is it, boy? Just stay off the counter from now on, okay? You want some water?”
The dog woofed and threw up on Scott’s bare feet.
So much for getting romantic tonight.
Which was a damned shame, he thought as he rinsed off his feet with the water bowl he’d brought out for the dog to drink. The cold minishower did nothing to cool his libido, although he figured he might lose some toes to frostbite. He had an extrastrong case of lust, despite Horace’s illness. He wanted Ginger. Her softness tempted him in the late-night intimacy. He considered locking the dog outside with a refilled bowl of water and dealing with him tomorrow. Scott had more important things to tend to.
“All better now?” he asked the dog.
Horace nudged his head against Scott’s thigh.
“I’m having lustful thoughts in there, buddy. Your cooperation would mean a lot.”
The dog panted, his mouth open in a smile, drool dripping in the cold night air.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Scott said. “You think I just want her body. And I do, I admit it. But there’s more. She’s more.”
Horace’s low bark sounded like agreement.
“Right. I mean, she drove over in the middle of the night, in the freezing cold.” Scott rubbed his arms over his shirtsleeves. “Are you done, pal? I don’t have a long shaggy coat.”
They went back in, wiping their feet and paws.
“Aw, you poor baby,” Ginger said,
warming Scott more than a coat could have. Until he realized she was looking at the dog.
While laughing at himself, he had to admit her compassion for the sick puppy made him want her even more. Heaven help him, her nurturing the ailing animal turned him on. Which male in the room was really a sick puppy?
“Do you want to go out some time?”
She looked up from rubbing Horace’s feet with a towel. “Excuse me?”
“Dinner. We kind of skipped that part before.” Scott cleared his throat. He wasn’t ashamed of having sex with her in December, but starting a relationship now felt awkward. Like having dessert, then going back for steak. Just as good, but in a different way. One was nutritional; one was for pure enjoyment. He wanted both.
He wanted a relationship with Ginger. They’d work with the girls, getting them used to the idea. He didn’t know whether Shelby’s animosity stemmed from Ginger being her teacher or Ginger’s resemblance to Sam. Rena’s constant staring had to be because of Ginger’s appearance. Neither girl had mentioned it bothered her, but he knew. However, it had been almost a year. His life had to begin again.
“Maybe,” he said, “we could go out some night this week. I think I have something Wednesday night, but other than that, I’m open.”
She offered him a weak smile. “We have a tech committee meeting Wednesday night.”
The reminder sobered him. He needed to check into the constraints against dating his daughter’s teacher, but he sensed Ginger would evade answering if he asked her. Something was keeping her from opening herself to him, and, as they’d already been intimate, he could only think it was her job. He didn’t want to push her into an impossible situation. Would she get in trouble? That other teacher, Cindy Grady, sure had a narrow view of what was allowed.
Could he date Ginger without endangering her job? Or would he have to wait until Shelby had moved on to third grade? What the hell would he do for the next five months?
Except go slowly insane.
GINGER RUBBED THE HEADACHE forming at her temple Wednesday night. The parents on the tech committee had batted around different wording of the Student Acceptable Use Clause for Internet Access for almost an hour.
