“What have you done now?” I asked, shooting a glance at JT.
He simply shrugged once more.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Monroe?”
“Penelope.”
There was a slight hesitation. Then a clearing of the throat.
“This is Mr. James, JT’s English teacher?”
“Yes, Mr. James,” I said, pronouncing the name with emphases so that JT couldn’t miss it. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering: could you come up to the school and discuss JT’s performance in my class?”
“Today?” I asked, already running my schedule through my mind. I wasn’t sure I could fit it in even though I knew it had to be important or else the teacher wouldn’t be calling.
“Yes, ma’am. My conference period is from eleven to noon. Or I could see you after school.”
“It’ll have to be after school.”
“Great. I’ll see you at four.”
He hung up before I could say anything else. I glanced at JT again.
“What’s going on in English?”
JT shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“There must be something going on or he wouldn’t have called.”
JT just stared out the window.
“I really don’t want to go in there without some sort of idea what’s going on. Are you failing? Did you do that essay he assigned last week?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you forgot to turn it in.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“JT…”
But we had pulled up to the school by then. He grabbed his backpack and jumped out of the van before I even had a chance to pull to the curb. I groaned as I watched him rush off toward the main doors, high fiving several of his friends as they came over to greet him.
JT had always been something of an enigma to me. I remembered the adoption process. I was nine when my parents first met with his birth mother. That day sticks out in my memory because my mother was crying when they came home and my mom never cried in front of me. She showed me a sonogram picture the woman had given her, talking about the little brother I would soon have. And, sure enough, two months later, my parents disappeared in the middle of the night and arrived home with a screaming little baby wrapped in a heavy blue blanket. I wasn’t the kind of little girl who played with baby dolls, so I wasn’t terribly impressed with JT—Jonathon Tyler. As time went on, and JT took up more and more of my parents’ attention, I liked him even less. And then we moved and I was forced to leave my school, my ballet classes, my friends, my house…I had to leave everything. I was heartbroken. And I blamed it on JT.
Sometimes I thought that resentment toward JT is what brought me to this place. I mean, I learned to tolerate him as I matured. By high school, I was pretty much okay with having a little brother. I was relieved to go to college and be on my own, but I was okay with JT. But then, just as I started my own life, I had to come home and take custody of him. If not for him, if not for the bakery my mom loved so much, if not for all the regret and guilt that settled on my shoulders along with the grief, the loss, the pain of their deaths, I might have stayed in New York. But I owed it to my mom and dad to make sure their dreams stayed alive in both the bakery and JT. They wanted JT to have the experience of growing up in a small town like they had. Both my parents were from small towns—my dad from a small town in Florida and my mom from here, this little town in the panhandle of Texas—and both had wanted that for JT. So my dad quit his job as a literature professor at the State University of New York at Albany and we moved here. And I spent the next eight years trying to get back. And I did. And it lasted eight months.
I eased the van back into traffic and turned back toward the town square where the bakery waited for my return. I parked the van out front—free advertising—and stepped out, waving to Mrs. Olsen as she walked out of the bakery with a box of donuts balanced on her arm. Everyone knew everyone around here. I could tell you who owned and worked in each of the businesses along the square. The bank building across from us housed the doctor, a small pharmacy, an insurance office, and, of course, the bank on the bottom floor. Next to it was the library. Beside that was the county museum. Then there was the bakery, the bookstore next to it, and the city offices down on the corner. That was about it, all of downtown.
It was a very small town.
I pasted a smile on my face and pushed through the front doors of the bakery, nodding to all the familiar faces standing in line to get their morning sugar fix. Angela, one of only two employees I was able to afford, flashed a genuine smile as I slid behind the counter. I don’t know how she could always be so happy. It was like nothing bad had ever been bad enough to steal Angela’s joy. I wish I could be that optimistic.
Nick was in the back, carefully laying fondant across the cake we were working on when I left. It was a seven layer cake for an afternoon wedding that was taking place in less than five hours. We were due to deliver it in two. We weren’t going to make it.
“How many is that?”
“Four.”
I shook my head as I washed my hands and quickly dried them. “Why don’t you get started on the flowers and I’ll finish the fondant.”
He just nodded, silently finishing what he’d begun.
I’d known Nick since high school. He was a few years older than me, but with the town being so small, we had a couple of classes together. Then he started working for my parents his senior year and never really left. He attended college locally, graduating the same year I did. Yet, he stayed. I didn’t understand it. But, of course, there were generations and generations of people who elected to stay in this little town for reasons I would never fully understand.
I grabbed another layer and set it on the table, taking a ball of fondant and running it through the rollers to flatten it to the proper thickness. We worked in silence, covering the remaining layers in half the time it would have taken otherwise. Then I began to stack them on the hidden supports while Nick created delicate flowers out of buttercream frosting.
“JT’s English teacher called me. Said he wanted to talk to me, but JT claims he has no idea why.”
“Maybe he’s doing well and the teacher wants to enter him into some kind of competition. Remember that essay contest you and I did my senior year?”
I glanced at him. “I believe you placed higher than I did.”
Nick smiled. “I often did.”
I groaned. “Yes, and me the daughter of the literature scholar. I think that’s why my dad always liked you so much. You were the daughter he always wanted.”
Nick tossed a ball of frosting at me and I laughed.
But the laughter died quickly as I thought about JT. “What if he’s failing?”
“Then you let me have a talk with him. I’ll straighten him out.”
“We tried that last month when he was failing geometry.”
I pressed the last layer of cake down on the supports and stepped back to look at it.
“I don’t know what to do with JT. I’m not a parent, never really wanted to be one. Especially not to a teenager.”
“JT is basically a good kid. He’s just going through that thing all teenagers go through: adolescence.”
“I wished I believed that’s all it is. But I’m afraid there’s more to it than that. I don’t know what he’s doing half the time. He barely talks to me. What do I do if he gets arrested or, God forbid, something worse?”
“Take it one step at a time, Penny,” Nick said, coming to stand beside me. “It’s only a teacher calling for a conference. Do you know how many times my mom had to go to the school to talk about me?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t all bad.”
“Then you’d be surprised.” He kissed my cheek gently before returning to his flowers. “Don’t worry until you have a reason to worry.”
Much easier said than done.
~~~
I walked into the school still brushing flour
from the front of my pink t-shirt. I hadn’t had time to go home and change. After delivering the wedding cake, we had three orders of cupcakes that had to be prepared, decorated, and delivered. And then the sponge cake for two cake orders had to be baked before tomorrow. I still had to go back and finish the last set of cakes.
So, I brushed flour from my shirt, hoping the white splotches didn’t show too much. I paused outside the classroom and tugged at my hair, making sure my ponytail was still fairly straight and ran my hands over my jeans, wiping away imaginary frosting, food coloring, and anything else that might have been stuck there if I hadn’t washed my hands twice before leaving the bakery. Then, with a deep breath and a feeling that I’d somehow stepped back into time and become an awkward teen again, I stepped into the classroom.
“Mr. James?”
He was sitting behind the generic yellow desk that adorned the front of most high school classrooms, his head bent as he looked over a student essay. He was wearing jeans and a white dress shirt, a tie loosened at the collar. His hair was dark, a mass of curls that reminded me of the unruly disaster that was JT’s hair when he let it grow out. Thank goodness it was cut short right now, a requirement set by the football coach.
And then he looked up and my heart skipped a beat.
He was…his eyes were dark, a deep brown that was like caramel that was just on the verge of burning. He had a heavy jaw and full lips, a long patrician nose that somehow worked with his face, and a subtle dimple in his left cheek when he smiled.
He stood, so tall I had to lift my chin a little to meet his eyes. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his chest straining against the front of that well pressed, linen shirt. His sleeves were rolled up and I could see tattoos on his inner wrists and one halfway up one forearm. I’d never met a teacher with tattoos before, but I supposed it was a reality of the modern world.
He crossed his arms over his chest and studied me for a moment.
“Can I help you?”
That caught me off guard. I’d thought he was expecting me.
“I’m Penelope Monroe,” I said slowly. “JT’s sister.”
I thought I saw surprise dance in those dark eyes for a second. He stepped forward, holding out one hand with impossibly long fingers.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Nice recovery, I thought as I shook his hand, trying to ignore the little tingle that rushed up the length of my arm at his touch. When he released my hand, I crossed my own arms over my chest and studied him as he studied me. If my high school teachers had looked like this…
“Have a seat, Miss Monroe,” he said gesturing toward one of the student desks. “This shouldn’t take but a few minutes.”
“Has JT been acting out in class?” I asked as I slid into the narrow seat.
“No. In fact, it would be preferable if he did. But he’s actually sleeping through most of my class.”
I bit my lip, thinking about an argument JT and I’d had just a few days ago.
You have to go to bed earlier. You’re never going to be able to concentrate in class if you’re not getting enough sleep.
I get plenty of sleep.
No, you don’t, JT. Going to bed at one o’clock and then getting up at seven—
You’re not mom. Stop acting like it.
That always stopped me cold in my tracks. And JT knew it.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Mr. James. “He tends to stay up too late at night. It’s an issue we’ve been working on.”
“Teenagers need at least ten hours of sleep every night, Miss Monroe.”
“I’m aware.”
He nodded even as the pinched look of irritation crossed his face. He leaned back against his desk, his arms crossed once again, and stared at me with that look that teachers often get when they think a student is purposely ignoring his instructions.
“JT is a brilliant student. I’ve discussed him with his other teachers, and they all feel that if he tried a little harder, he would likely be on the honor roll. But, for some reason, JT feels the need to goof off in class. He’s often either sleeping, or playing the class clown. He rarely turns in homework. But when he does, it’s often far above expectations. Just this week he turned in an essay that easily could have been written by a college student. I had to run it through plagiarism software twice to make sure he wrote it.”
“Our father was a literature professor. JT’s been reading since he was three.”
Mr. James’ eyebrows rose. “May I ask what’s going on at home that might be causing JT’s behavioral issues?”
I sat back a little, once again feeling like a teenager being dressed down by a superior. I reached up and tugged at my ponytail.
“My parents died in a car accident three years ago. I have custody of JT. We’re doing the best we can, but things are a little chaotic between his school schedule, his football responsibilities, and the bakery.”
“Bakery?”
“The family business. It’s our only source of income, so it’s pretty important that I keep it running.”
“It’s also important that JT be supervised properly.”
The implication in that statement made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I straightened again, my eyes narrowed as I regarded this outsider, this teacher who had no idea what it was to grow up and live in a small town.
“I do the best I can, Mr. James. I realize his behavior leaves a little to be desired, but he’s essentially a good kid who’s gone through a lot of crap these last few years. We’re both struggling to make things work, but we are making things work. I will talk to him about sleeping in your class.”
I stood up and brushed past him on my way to the door was all set to slam the door on my way out. But then he spoke, final words that I’d been afraid of hearing for three years, but never really thought I would.
“If things don’t improve, Miss Monroe, I’ll be forced to contact child protective services to make sure JT’s home life is not endangering his wellbeing.”
Chapter 2
Harrison
I watched her walk out the door without responding to my parting words. I wanted to grab her and force her to respond. I wanted to…she was not what I’d expected. I’d known the adoptive parents had died. My investigator was able to uncover impressive details on Dale and Robin Monroe with what little information Julia managed to get from the adoption agency, earning much more than the outrageous fee he charged. Within weeks of learning I had a son, I had pictures and addresses and credit scores and death certificates. Everything I needed to locate him. I’d been ready to march in and claim him as my own. I never signed adoption papers. I never gave up my parental rights. A good lawyer, and I could have been awarded custody in a matter of weeks.
But Libby wouldn’t allow it.
He’s fifteen, Harrison. He’s grown up with this identity, as Jonathon Monroe. You march in there and take him away, and you’ll destroy the one thing that we all hold dearest: his identity. You have to do this slowly, let him adjust to the idea of having you in his life before you steal him away from the only family, the only life, he’s ever known.
That was the problem with Libby. Her arguments were always so logical that there was no arguing with her. So, I decided to come to this little town to meet him. But I needed a reason to be here, an excuse to make myself a part of his life. It was a happy coincidence that the school had just lost their freshman English teacher and I happen to have a master’s degree in literature. It was a simple thing to arrange to become a Texas certified teacher and simpler yet to get hired on at a school where few of the teachers had better than a bachelor’s degree.
The first time JT walked into my classroom…seeing photographs of him were nothing like seeing him in the flesh. I recognized myself more in him than I thought I would. He had Julia’s blue eyes, but the dark hair, the heavy jaw, that was all me. It surreal, really. I was a little afraid that he would take one look at me and know who I was. But he barely looked at me, more
interested in the blond cheerleader who sat in front of him than anything else.
He got that from me, too.
It’d been more than a month now. A month of frustration as I tried to get him to pay attention, to stay awake, without seeming to single him out. I didn’t want any of the other students—or teachers—to think I was treating JT with any sort of preference. But it was driving me crazy, watching him destroy every opportunity that appeared before him without thought to his future. If he slept through all his classes like he did mine, he’d never make the grades required to get into a good college. And then where would he be.
And then it bugged the crap out of me that I was beginning to think like my own father.
It was frustrating having no control. So I thought, calling in his sister, suggesting a few ways to help out, perhaps it would make a difference.
But then she walked in here, all covered in flour, looking incredibly sexy…I wasn’t expecting the perfect curves hugged by low rider jeans and that simple cotton tee. Or the exhaustion in her eyes that made them seem bigger and greener than they looked in pictures. And the way her wavy mahogany-colored hair sat askew in its ponytail only made her look more vulnerable, more innocent, in a most alluring way. I couldn’t hardly put two thoughts together from the moment she walked through the door. And then she got mad—as if she had a reason to get pissed off—and that just set me off.
I hadn’t meant to make threats. But watching her storm out of here like that loosened my tongue.
I cursed under my breath after she’d gone, aware that I’d just opened a door that should have remained closed a little while longer. I gathered my things, shoving student essays into a leather case that was meant to carry million dollar business deals rather than badly written essays on Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, and stormed off to the tiny house I was renting six blocks from the house where JT lived.
Everything in my life right now seemed to be measured by how it related to JT. How far my house was from his, how long until he was scheduled to sit in my classroom, how many days until I could sit in the stands and watch him dominate on the football field. At least when he played football I could take pictures to send back to Libby without someone thinking I was some sort of pervert, or something.
BOUGHT: A Standalone Romance Page 79
