Wait... She scurried across the room to practically snatch the leaded-glass lamp off the table. Okay, it was hardly Tiffany, not for twenty bucks, but it would look terrific on that little table by her front door—
“Miss Jacobs?”
Clutching her prize, Claire twisted around...and grinned. “Juliette! What are you doing here?”
Sporting a denim jacket, a blinged-out hoodie and preppy shorts worn over patterned tights, Claire’s student flashed a mouthful of metal punctuated by hot pink ties. “We live a few houses down,” she said, and Claire’s stomach pinched. Since “we” included Hoover High’s ridiculously good-looking, widowed football coach, the object of probably most of Maple River’s postpubescent female fantasies. Except Claire, of course, who was above such folderol. Stomach pinching aside. “So I figured I’d check it out,” the teen said, “see what was good.”
“Not sure there’s much that would appeal to a teenager,” Claire said even as Juliette zeroed in on a demitasse collection, carefully picking up one of the cups and holding it to the light.
“Oh, I’m not looking for myself.” She scrutinized another cup. “It’s for my business.”
“Your...business?”
“Used to be my mom’s. She’d buy stuff at estate sales and flea markets, then sell it on eBay. She was pretty good at it, too.” This said matter-of-factly as the girl sidled over to a stash of old books. “She taught me what to look for, how to price things and stuff. So a few months ago I decided to try selling some pieces myself.”
“And is it working?”
“It is.” Juliette selected a couple of the books, tucking them to her side. “Which is great, since it’ll help pay for college. Depending on where I go, of course.” Another sparkling grin accompanied her words. “I’d have to sell a boatload of stuff to afford Yale.”
Claire’s heart twisted. Although she’d only been teaching a few months—a fork in her life path she could have never predicted—she knew it was wrong to have favorites. And truthfully she loved all “her” kids. Not only her drama students, but even the less-than-motivated ones in her English classes who groaned every time she made them dredge correctly spelled words from their iPodded/Padded/Phoned brains and write them down. By hand. On paper.
But this one was special, for many reasons, not the least of which was her plucky, wide-eyed determination to not only succeed at something at which few did, but also her refusal to feel sorry for herself. Or let anyone else feel sorry for her either, despite losing her mother so young. A stroke, she’d heard. At thirty-five. No prior symptoms, no warning... How scary must that have been? For all of them. Claire had been a little younger than Juliette when her dad died—suddenly, like Juliette’s mom—and she’d been stunned by how tenaciously the pain had clung. And yet, if Juliette was suffering from bitterness or resentment, Claire sure as hell couldn’t see it.
“There are plenty of drama programs besides Yale’s, you know,” she said as Juliette carted two of the delicate cups and saucers to the table. “And it would definitely be cheaper to go to school in-state.” Claire’s sole option, when her mother had barely made enough to keep them housed and fed, let alone fund her only child’s college education.
“Yeah, I know.” Juliette meticulously stacked books, a few old toys, other odds and ends that Claire wouldn’t have thought worth squat next to the cups. Mr. Tweed frowned, but Juliette seemed unfazed, returning to poke through the offerings on another table. “But not a lot of schools that people will actually take your theater degree seriously.”
Except—as Claire knew only too well—when you’re one of a gazillion actresses auditioning for the same part, the invisible director sitting in the dark theater doesn’t give a damn where you got your degree. Or even if you have one. However, she was hardly going to burst a fifteen-year-old’s bubble.
Juliette carted over a few more cups. “And, yeah, I know I’ll have to keep my grades up like crazy, and that’s not even counting the audition. But it’s dumb to admit defeat before you’ve even tried, right? At least that’s what Mom always said.”
Claire paid for her lamp, which seemed to slightly mollify old Tweedledee. “Very true. And...your dad? Is he on board with your plans?”
“Sure,” Juliette said quickly, poking her hair behind an ear only slightly less studded than Claire’s. “And anyway, I’ve got a couple years to figure it out, so...” She stopped, frowning at her growing collection. Tweedy glowered.
“Problem, young lady?”
“Yeah. My eyes are bigger than my arms. Um...if I pay for everything now, would you mind if I take it in several trips? Since I walked over here—”
“I could give you a lift,” Claire said.
Big blue eyes met hers. “You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, then. Thanks!” Juliette dug her wallet out of the worn Peruvian-style shoulder bag she always carried as the guy added up her purchases. “Guess this is what you’d call...serendipity. See—I remembered from that vocab list last week. I am so gonna rock my SATs.” Then she sighed. “The language part, anyway. Because I totally suck at math. Like Mom did. It’s like a genetic curse.”
Claire smiled. “What about your father?”
Rolling her eyes, the girl handed over a wad of cash to Tweedsie as a woman wearing a matching scowl wrapped the breakables in tissue paper, placing them in a cardboard box that had once housed cans of little Friskies. “He did his best when I was in middle school, and I didn’t flunk, so that’s something. But there’s a reason he teaches PE.”
And clearly the girl had also inherited her mother’s sense of humor, since from what little interaction Claire’d had with Juliette’s father, she doubted he had one. “Then, maybe you should start working with a tutor. Get a leg up before it gets any harder.”
“Omigod—it gets harder?”
This said with a twinkle in those blue-green eyes, a flash of dimples. Shaking her head at the teen’s giggle, Claire hauled a bag of unbreakables off the table and started toward the front door, holding the lamp aloft like Lady Liberty’s torch. Juliette followed with the first of three boxes, which they loaded into the trunk of the ten-year-old Ford Taurus that had belonged to Claire’s mother. A few minutes later they pulled up in front of a dignified but slightly weathered twenties-era Tudor...and Claire fell immediately in love.
Not that she felt inclined to two-time her adorable apartment, wedged under the eaves of an even older Queen Anne on the other side of town. It was quirky and funky and all sorts of other -y words, and she adored it. But this house, with its dark wood trim and gabled roof and ivy scrambling up one corner to tickle one of the windows... Wow. Of course, three weeks before Thanksgiving the forty-foot oak on one side was bare, but a pair of frosted spruces glistened in the sun, and a little curl of fireplace smoke teased the bright blue sky, hinting at the warmth inside.
And this charming house was where Ethan Noble lived. Huh.
Claire popped the trunk and got out, figuring she’d help Juliette haul her loot inside, then scram. Except before they got through the slightly scratched up front door, adorned with a slightly sorry fall wreath, not only did the cutest, fuzziest, little white dog trot over to say hi, but Juliette said, “Hey—have you had breakfast? I make awesome omelets. And I’m sure Dad put coffee on, there’s always coffee when he’s home. Or I could make hot chocolate?”
Yes, Claire could smell the coffee, singing to her like it was auditioning for The Voice. But again, getting overly chummy with a student... Not a good idea under the best of circumstances. Getting chummy with one whose father practically gave Claire the evil eye whenever they ran into each other...
“That’s lovely of you to offer, but—”
“Pleeease?” Juliette said, and the coffee crooned a little more sweetly, and Claire’s stomach growled, and she thought, Oh, what
the hell?
“You really make good omelets?” she said, and the girl squealed and clapped her hands, yeesh, and the dog did a little dance on its hind legs, and then an absolutely adorable little squirt wearing half her closet barreled down the stairs and right into Juliette’s thighs, prattling on about stupid Harry and dumb Finn and how much she hated, hated, hated boys, and Claire got a little dizzy.
Juliette, however, calmly set her box on a nearby table and crouched in front of her baby sister, brushing back a tangle of pale blond hair from a very pissed-looking little face. “So what’d they do this time?” she asked, and the child rattled off a litany of offenses, which were then interrupted by a very masculine but somewhat weary “Bella. Enough.”
Followed by a silence thick enough to slice.
“Hey, Dad,” Juliette said, standing, then twisting her baby sister around in front of her like a shield. “Look who I ran into at the estate sale! And she gave me a ride home. So I invited her to breakfast. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Oh, dear. Was that adolescent defiance rearing its pretty little head? Only, before Claire could process that little tidbit, a certain steely blue gaze rammed into hers—speaking of pissed—and a thousand ancient insecurities tried to rear their heads, and she thought no.
Or, more exactly, Hell, no.
Hey, she’d survived an ever-changing cast of roommates in more New York apartments than she cared to count, not to mention pointless cattle call auditions and insane directors and leering weirdos on the subway, capped off by caring for her dying mother back here in Maple River for nearly a year. A weenie, she was not. Not now, anyway. So no way was a pair of hot blue eyes slinging her back to that hellacious era when she hated her hair/body/clothes and a cute boy’s smile would render her a blithering, klutzy idiot.
Not that she’d actually ever seen Ethan smile. Although he was cute. In a brooding, Brontë-dude sort of way. Even if she hadn’t known he was ex-military, his posture and close-cropped hair—a dirty blond, maybe?—would have given him away. He was maybe a hair over six feet tall, but his bearing was...fierce. She imagined he was hell in football practice. Even though she’d never heard any of his players bad-mouth him. Ever.
“Your home is...” Claire glanced around, taking in the clutter of toys and sports equipment smothering what had probably at one time been nice furniture in mostly tans and reds and dark greens...the charred-brick fireplace...the mantel choked with family photos. From some unidentifiable part of the house, an obviously ticked-off male child bellowed, immediately followed by an even louder bellow in response. Claire turned back, smiling. “Lovely. Thank you for having me.”
“You’re welcome,” Ethan mumbled, then yelled up the stairs. “Guys! Come pick up your crap! We’ve got company!”
“Aw, Dad...”
“Jeez, Dad!” Juliette chirped.
Ethan stabbed a dark look in her direction before turning again, shouting, “Now!”
Sneakered feet thundered down the wooden treads, attached to a pair of gangly, shaggy-haired tweens—one blond, one red-haired—who threw Claire a mildly curious glance before attacking the mess. And she had to admit she felt a pang of sympathy for Ethan, raising four kids by himself. There had only been one of her, and both of her parents, and as a kid she’d been way too much of a scaredy-pants to rock the boat. But this—the boys vroomed around the room like a multilimbed dust devil, snatching up equipment and tossing it more at than in what Claire assumed was a mudroom off the kitchen—was Crazyville. You hear that, ovaries—?
Ah. The glare was once more aimed in her direction. Over, she realized, Bella’s head, who’d somewhere along the way ended up in her daddy’s arms. Strong, muscled arms underneath a gray fleece pullover that emphasized the equally muscled, broad shoulders carrying the weight, if not of the entire world, at least the world that was his.
Realizing Juliette had disappeared—to the kitchen, Claire presumed—she said in a low voice, “I don’t mean to intrude—”
“It’s okay,” he muttered through a jaw that redefined tight. “Jules likes to cook, but it’s mostly lost on her brothers and sister.” His eyes dropped to the little girl clinging to him like a baby monkey, his expression softening. Sort of. “Can’t get this one to eat eggs for anything.”
“Because eggs are gross,” Bella said, making a face exactly like her father’s, and it was everything Claire could do not to laugh. Then the little one leaned back, frowning into her father’s eyes. “And could you please tell Harry an’ Finn to stop calling me a baby. It hurts my feelings.”
Ethan frowned back. “Then you have to promise to stay out of their room. You know it bugs them when you go in there.”
“But I want to see Spot!”
“You can see Spot when he’s out in his ball.”
“But they never take him out anymore!”
“Okay. I’ll talk to them, see if we can arrange visitation. Deal?”
After a second, the little girl pushed out a long sigh. “Deal.”
“Good.” Ethan set her down, cupping her head for a moment before she took off to another part of the house, sparkly sneakers flashing as she ran. He watched her for a moment, then turned back to Claire, muttering, “I’ll take eighty hormone-crazed teenage boys over one six-year-old girl, any day.”
Wait. Were her ears deceiving her, or was that Ethan Noble making a funny? Well, hell.
“So who’s Spot?” she asked when she found her voice again.
“A hamster. The boys named him. So...you ran into Jules?”
“At that estate sale, yeah. I bought a lamp. She bought...a lot more.”
One side of his mouth lifted. More chagrin than grin, though. “Sounds about right.”
“She’s really good at the eBay thing?”
“She really is.” He paused, the faint glow in his blue eyes dimming. “Exactly like her mother. I gave Jules fifty bucks seed money. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s multiplied it since them. Kid has a real head for business.” Pride glowed through his words, if not on his face, and Claire felt a slight...ping. Of what, she wasn’t sure.
“Then she has choices about what to do with her life,” Claire said, and Ethan’s brow furrowed. “If she’s serious about an acting career—”
“Not happening,” he said, effectively ending the discussion. But although something in Claire prickled at the dismissal, this was not her battle to fight. Especially since Juliette could easily change her mind a dozen times between now and graduation.
So she smiled and changed the subject. “Mmm...breakfast smells great, doesn’t it—?”
“Just so you know,” Ethan said, his eyes locked on her face, “my daughter’s on a mission.”
Now Claire frowned. “What kind of mission?”
“To get herself a stepmother.”
An idea with which, judging from his expression, Ethan was not even remotely on board.
Which was fine with Claire, since that was one role she wasn’t even inclined to audition for.
* * *
Ethan’s brows dipped when Claire clamped a hand over her mouth to, apparently, stifle a laugh.
“And you seriously think,” she whispered after she lowered her hand, “that’s why she invited me to breakfast?”
“Odds are,” Ethan said, not sharing Claire’s merriment. “You’d be the—let’s see—third woman in the past six months she’s tried to throw in my path.”
This time, a piece of that laugh broke loose to float in his direction, and Ethan felt his shoulders tense. That laugh... It’d been his introduction to the woman before he’d even seen her, during prep week back in late August. A sound far too low and gutsy to come out of someone so small, he remembered thinking when they’d finally met, and her smile had arrowed into him hard enough to make him flinch, her handshake as firm
as any man’s. Now he literally stepped aside in a lame attempt to dodge that laugh. Not to mention the grin. Although there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to avoid the deep brown eyes. Except look away, he supposed. But that would be rude.
“I’m sorry, I know it’s not funny for you,” she said, but not as if she really meant it. Then she shook her head, making all those curls quiver.
Those curls drove him nuts. Shiny. Soft. Bouncy—
No.
She grinned. “And here I thought we were bonding over a mutual love of the theater.”
Ethan bristled. Yeah. That. Or rather, that, too. Then again, knowing Jules, the stagestruck phase would in all likelihood go the way of the photography phase and the piano phase and a dozen other phases he didn’t even half remember anymore. This matchmaking thing, though, was something else again. He resisted the temptation to massage his knee, acting up despite his telling it not to. He loved Jersey, Jersey was home, but the damp weather sucked.
“Afraid not.”
Something like sympathy shone in her eyes, and he bristled again. After three years, you’d think the pity wouldn’t bother him anymore. “Then why’d you invite me to stay for breakfast?”
“I didn’t. Jules did.”
“But...”
“I didn’t want to come across like some hard-ass, okay?”
Her mouth curved. No lipstick. Or any other makeup that Ethan could tell. Not that she needed it, with her dark brows and lashes—
Yeah, it bugged him, bugged him like hell, this dumb physical attraction to the woman. Because he had no business being attracted to anybody right now, especially some cute little bouncy-haired drama teacher who was obviously feeding his way-too-impressionable daughter a load of bull. Man, Juliette’s constant yammering about the woman was about to drive him up the wall. Even though he knew this was only a crush—although considering how many of the teachers at Hoover were barely younger than the school’s namesake, he could hardly blame her.
Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 2 of 2: The Maverick's Thanksgiving BabyA Celebration ChristmasDr. Daddy's Perfect Christmas Page 40
