Love in the City (The Complete Collection Boxed Set)

by Liv Morris

  Anyway, I’m just now entering the main office Mr. Reynolds told me about. It appears orderly and quiet, most likely due to the fact that school isn’t in session right now. I tiptoe into the room so my heels don’t click on the hard tiles announcing that I’m here.

  Toward the back office area, I see a woman typing away on her laptop. She doesn’t hear me come in. Now I’m worried that I’ll scare the shit out of her when I do speak so I let my heels fall onto the tile before I make it to the carpeted area.

  We now have eye contact and the woman, who I’m assuming is Mrs. Peterson, smiles at me. A very welcoming sight indeed. I see she’s dressed very casually and I feel a little overdressed in my interview attire. I’m wearing a navy dress, with a respectable hem length and little cap sleeves. I opted against pantyhose. You may not know this but a woman showing up to a job interview in the South without stockings on is almost a cardinal sin. However, it’s ninety-one degrees outside and as humid as the rainforest so I left the hose at home. After seeing how casual this woman is, I’m thankful that I did.

  “Mrs. Peterson?” I ask.

  “Yes, you must be Ms. Montgomery.”

  “That’s me.” I smile big back at her.

  “Well, welcome to Peachtree High. You’re early.” I like arriving early to important things like this. I bet that surprises you. Most people would likely peg me as being late to everything, but in this one area of my life I’ve risen above my chaotic, scattered self.

  “Just a little bit. Mr. Reynolds said there was some paperwork that I needed to fill out, so I thought I’d get here a little early. Get a head start on it if possible.”

  “You’re right. There is a lot of paperwork for you. Forms galore.” She reaches for a clipboard and hands it to me. “Here’s everything you need to fill out. If you’d like, you can sit at the empty desk up front. The receptionist is on vacation until the week before school starts up again. I’m pretty much Mr. Reynolds’ gatekeeper for now.” She laughs but I have a feeling she keeps good guard for him. I see something in her eyes. They have a keen, observing look to them like she misses nothing.

  “Thanks.” I take the clipboard and proceed to the desk Mrs. Peterson suggested. As I’m finishing the forms a door opens up and I hear two people speaking behind me. Their voices fill the silent room. Looking in the direction of the sounds, I see a portly man standing at the door behind Mrs. Peterson’s desk.

  I think it’s safe to assume the man in the doorway is Mr. Reynolds. Funny thing though, he resembles Boss Hogg on the old TV show Dukes of Hazzard, minus the white suit. As a southern girl, I suffered through watching reruns of that show with my dear father. A few years ago, Jessica Simpson starred in the movie remake of the TV sitcom. Truthfully, it isn’t even close to the real thing. Most remakes never are.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Reynolds.” I hear a sex-laced, sultry female’s voice. You know the kind that makes men fall to their knees. With my eye trained on the office door, I watch a woman walk through the threshold and stand a couple feet from Boss Hogg’s twin brother.

  As I get a closer look at this woman, I believe a better term for her is drop-dead gorgeous. Jeez. She’s tall, statuesque-like, and her silky, long hair would make any Crystal Gayle fan hot under the collar. Who’s Crystal Gayle you’re likely wondering? She’s an old-school country singer whose brown eyes turned blue with hair so long it was likely a safety hazard.

  The interaction between Mr. Reynolds and “The Hair” is blatantly flirtatious. She’s coyly batting her eyelashes and he appears to be blushing a bit too. She reaches out and shakes his hand. The way he’s looking between her and their joined hands makes me wonder if he might dip his head and plant a kiss on her knuckles.

  “We’ll let you know one way or another about the teaching position, Ms. Lannon. You should be hearing from us by the middle of next week. We need to get the art teacher position filled as soon as possible.”

  Wait. What? This is my competition?

  Holy crap. Did you hear my hopes and dreams hit the floor just now? Hold it. That sound was just my pen crashing against the tile when I dropped it in shock. But the scuffle of my reaching down and retrieving the damn thing has everyone’s eyes on me now.

  Looking up from my half-bent position to pick-up the pen, I give my audience a weak smile. It says, “I’m sorry to have bothered you. Please look away.” And thankfully they do.

  “I look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Reynolds. If you have any more questions, give me a call. You have my number.” The Hair continues on unaffected by my interruption. She’s as smooth as silk.

  She turns away from him to exit the office and it feels like her parade across the room’s in slow motion. Each step she takes with her long legs, every flip of her glossy hair, and each twist of her hip, all in slow motion. She floats by the desk I’m cowering at without even a glance in my direction.

  All I can think of is how totally and utterly screwed I am. Maybe I should just gather up my purse and leave. Avoid the humiliation. But I really need this job desperately, so I sit up straight as a board in my chair and pray that my confidence returns. I plaster on a fake smile that says the glamazon’s beauty pageant presence means nothing to me. But you know that I’m a big, fat liar. That woman totally outshines me. She’s a hot bonfire and I’m just a flickering flame compared to her.

  After she’s left the office area, I pick up the clipboard on the table and start walking back toward Mrs. Peterson. All the paperwork is filled out, as if it even matters at this point.

  “Here’s the paperwork. I believe it’s all completed.” As I’m standing at her desk, I swear I smell the lingering scent of some expensive perfume. I bet The Hair left it behind. Dammit. I have to admit it smells divine.

  “Thanks, Ms. Montgomery. Let me introduce you to Principal Reynolds.” Mrs. Peterson rises out of her chair and motions for me to join her on the other side of her desk and I politely comply.

  “Mr. Reynolds, this is Amelia Montgomery.” Sweet Mrs. Peterson. She winks at me as she finishes the introduction. I wonder if she can sense my disappointment after seeing the last candidate breeze through here.

  “Ms. Montgomery. Pleasure to meet you. Thanks for coming in all the way from Augusta on such short notice.” We shake hands quickly as he welcomes me.

  “Nice to meet you too and it was no problem. Two days was plenty of time to get to Atlanta.”

  “Why don’t we step into my office?” Mr. Reynolds speaks to me as he turns and walks back through the open door of his office.

  I smile back at Mrs. Peterson and follow behind Mr. Reynolds. Once in the office, I see a wall of windows taking up the entire back wall giving the room a nice view. The office isn’t too large but there’s enough space for a couple of chairs.

  “Please have a seat.” He points to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  I sit down gracefully and then the questions begin…

  “So tell me a little about yourself, Ms. Montgomery.”

  That’s also when the lies begin to pour out of me like a gusher. I sure as heck can’t tell him the sad truth. That I’m an unemployed, overeducated slacker living back at my parents’ house. A place I swore I’d only visit on special occasions and government holidays. But reality bites, so I basically lie my ass off. Literally, there was nothing left of said ass when the interview was finished. It’s a good thing I didn’t wear pantyhose after all or they’d have fallen down around my knees. There isn’t anything there now to hold them up.

  By the last question, I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread, like my fingers are holding on precariously to the side of a cliff as the world of unemployment waits below to catch me.

  “I have one more question for you today. We’re a tight-knit community here at Peachtree. What could you contribute to our school as an art teacher?”

  I think I can answer this one honestly. No padding the response this time.

  “People hang artwork on their walls. It be
autifies their homes, makes them more welcoming. I’d like to bring that same feeling to Peachtree. Have the students here realize how much more beautiful our world is because of art and all its different forms.”

  “Interesting. Can you be more specific? What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “Well, football season begins the first week of school right?”

  “That’s right. The guys have been doing morning practices since July.”

  “Imagine the banners the art students can make for the games. Colorful, eye-catching. Artist meets Athlete. A good way to bring groups together.”

  “I’d have to run that by the football coaches and the cheerleaders. They usually do all the banners for the football players. But who knows? They may welcome the chance to share.”

  “Sure. It’s just one idea. There are so many other ways to bring art into the students’ everyday lives.” Here goes the close. The pitch. “I’d love the opportunity to do that at Peachtree.”

  “You definitely have enthusiasm for your subject. It’s a good counterbalance for the lack of teaching experience you have.”

  Ouch! And with those words, my heart sinks into a sea of disappointment. Ker plunk.

  “Again, thank you for the opportunity to interview with you today, Mr. Reynolds.” He stands as I’m speaking. I expect him to move forward and escort me to the door like he did The Hair, but he remains planted, not moving a muscle toward me. Crap, this is bad.

  I shake his hand while he says a quick goodbye and tells me, “We’ll call you later with our decision.”

  Completely discouraged, I head out of the office and see Mrs. Peterson’s empty desk and I’m glad. I just don’t have it in me to force another smile on my face. Right now I’m trying to hold ugly crying at bay.

  You may be wondering why someone like me, a qualified teacher with a master’s degree, is having such a hard time landing a job? The facts are hard to face. Across the country, art-teaching positions are almost impossible to come by because of budget cuts. Cost-saving measures by school boards all add up to few openings. Unfortunately, art departments are the first to land on the cutting floor when schools need to trim costs.

  So it has come down to an art teacher actually winning the lottery for me to even secure an interview. Pathetic. There are times that I wish I were a science teacher like Priscilla. They’re actually in demand. A scarcity.

  Once I make it out to my car, I crank up the A/C and drive back to Priscilla’s apartment. It totally sucks that she’s not here right now because I could really use a friend. A shoulder to cry on and a drinking buddy would be great.

  As I’m pulling into her apartment complex, I see a small bar across the street from the entrance. That’s when inspiration hits me. I need some liquid encouragement. Pronto!

  Chapter 3

  Once inside her apartment, I quickly shed my interview attire. I decide on clothes more appropriate for this sweltering heat and hanging out at a dive bar. Now I’m wearing white, short shorts, a breezy aqua-colored sleeveless top, and a pair of sexy, gladiator-looking sandals, the ones with all the leather strings that wrap around the ankles. They also look great with togas. Think Animal House.

  At this point in my story, it’s important to clarify that drinking before noon isn’t my normal behavior or routine. But you know how my morning has gone. Straight down the crapper. So, hopefully, you can understand my need to get a little buzz going.

  If my mother knew what I was up to she’d kill me. Heading off to a neighborhood bar by myself no matter the time of day, isn’t what a young woman raised in Augusta, Georgia, does. Oh well, I’m not in Augusta anymore. Thank God.

  After locking up the apartment and donning my favorite sunglasses, I head back out into the bright midday sun. One good thing about Joe’s Gather’n Place, the bar across the street, I can crawl home if need be. No driving necessary.

  Heading toward the bar’s entrance, I cross the street and feel the pavement heat radiating up around me. It’s going to be a scorcher today. Gravel dust stirs as I walk through the small parking lot. I finally arrive at the door, grab the tarnished brass handle, and tug on it. The hinges let out a protest as I walk into the darkened bar. The door shuts behind me. All sunlight disappears. It’s like walking into a cave. I remove my sunglasses, but my eyes still have a hard time adjusting to the darkness.

  Finally, I see the beer signs illuminated above the long, wooden bar to my left. The neon lights beckon me to belly up and partake. I select the stool the farthest from the door, not sure why, but I guess I’m not really in the mood to socialize. Which isn’t a problem as there’s no one here but the old bartender. He has to be pushing seventy. Maybe he’s Joe, the bar’s namesake.

  “Welcome, Miss,” the old-timer greets me. His smile shows he’s missing one of his front teeth. Poor guy.

  “Hello,” I answer back.

  “What can I get ya?” he asks. “Something to drink?”

  “Definitely something to drink.” I’m just not sure what my poison should be. It’s about high-up noon, so I can move past the morning standards of Bloody Mary’s or Mimosas. “I’d like a vodka tonic. In a tall glass with lots of ice, please.”

  “One vodka tonic coming up for the pretty lady.” He ends with a little wink. What a flirt and I have to laugh.

  “Are you always this busy around here?” I joke.

  “This place is usually pretty crowded at lunch. Must be the heat.” I watch him pour a scary amount of vodka into my glass. I need to eat something if I plan to drink this much or I’ll be sliding off the stool onto the floor after two drinks.

  “Lunch? So you serve food too?” I ask.

  “Been told that our hamburgers and fries are the best in the area.” He puffs out his chest and boasts. “Have folks coming from all around here for them.”

  “Sounds good to me.” My neglected stomach starts to rumble. I was too nervous to even think about food before the interview. “I’ll have a burger with cheese and can you—”

  As I’m getting ready to ask the man to hold the onion, the door squeaks and light floods in from the outside. It’s blinding as I turn my head to see it flood through the door. But what catches my eye is the shape of the man standing there. The sunshine streams around the darkness of his form, almost looking like it’s jetting out of his body’s edge. He appears to be glowing. It reminds of a scene you might see in a western movie. The outlaws are at the local saloon, hiding away at the bar, and in walks the sheriff. A dramatic moment.

  When the door closes behind him, all I can make out is his height. He’s a giant but, damn, my eyes are not working right. The shock of light from outside blinds me again and they need to readjust.

  The silhouette of the man begins moving toward the bar where I’m sitting. He walks toward me taking long strides. Before I know it he’s actually standing one place away from me at the bar. I find this interesting, as there are about ten empty stools to my left. But when my eyes start focusing clearly again, I’m damn glad he’s close by because he’s as hot as the dashboard of my car on a sunny summer day. Burn your fingers when you touch him hot. Sizzling. Lucky me.

  I’m guessing he’s at least 6’3.” Towering tall. He’s more a presence then a mere man, the kind that turns your head and makes your eyes follow. Muscled arms press against the sleeves of his gray t-shirt, the material also stretches tightly across his large chest and shoulders.

  He sports a pair of cargo shorts. I’m not normally a shorts fan for guys, but I get a little peak of his thighs along with his toned calves. I gulp down a bit more of my drink. Damn, his body has more definitions than a dictionary.

  “Afternoon, Coop.” The old man greets the guy who decides to perch himself one empty stool away from me. Seems safe to guess his name is Coop too.

  “Afternoon, Joe. What’s up?” Whoa, the way this Coop guy speaks gets my attention. His deep voice is commanding. Confident.

  “I was just taking this lovely lady’s order for a burger.”
The old man tilts his head my way. “Tell her about them, Coop. I think she’s a first timer.”

  And just like that, Coop and I begin engaging with one another. Thoughts of food or the old man standing in front of me fade away when this guy named Coop turns toward me.

  I bite my lip waiting for the full view of him as he slowly turns his head. Anticipation builds. I notice his eyes first. He looks directly into mine. Consuming. I feel this strange flutter in my stomach and my breathing stops. It’s an unusual and intense connection and he doesn’t break it by looking away. His gaze is keeping me paralyzed, pinned to my stool. Add his high cheekbones, the light stubble outlining a razor sharp jawline and he looks like a model in GQ. He’s a total panty-soaking machine.

  The bar is too dark for me to make out the exact color of his eyes, but they appear almost black, piercing. Like they know unspoken things about me. It’s unnerving, really. Then he takes his sweet time while giving me the once, then twice over. When he’s finally finished perusing me, my skin feels sunburned, overheated.

  “Hi there.” His words float on a cloud of lust to my ears. Sexy just isn’t a big enough word to describe him. I find myself shivering like a cold blast just ran over my skin. It’s so bizarre. I’ve gone from hot flashes to chills in seconds. No other guy has gotten this reaction out of me. Never… Who is this dude?

  “Hi there.” I’m doing a great job as his echo.

  “So you’re new here?”

  “I’m not even new. More of an interloper,” I finish with a little chuckle.

  “An interloper?” He appears amused as his smile appears a bit crooked, like he’s trying to figure me out.

  “Yes. I’m up here from Augusta. Had a job interview this morning.” I turn to my vodka. I need some liquid courage and my mouth is parched, dry, unlike my panties. I take a healthy swig and continue. When I turn back to him, he still has that amused smirk on his face. It’s cute. Don’t get me wrong. He’s still as sexy as sin but, hell, there’s something endearing about his smirk… It’s like he’s transformed into this adorable, young boy mixed with a little orneriness. The pull your sister’s pigtails kind.