Quick Study

by Gretchen Galway

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 1

  Paul had never expected to meet his dream girl so early in the morning. He took one look at the curvy brunette walking into the school and dropped a clipboard on his four-year-old nephew’s head.

  The thick-skulled little guy shook off the impact and galloped into the classroom without pausing—unlike Paul, who had forgotten how to move. When he finally bent over to retrieve the clipboard, he got a view of the woman’s thighs in tight jeans and nearly passed out.

  She paused a couple feet away, the curve of her smooth forehead level with his mouth. She had soft brown eyes, a cloud of dark, wavy hair, and was a little younger than him, maybe mid-twenties. He gave her a slow, open smile, figuring he might as well admit he’d been checking her out. So what if they were in a preschool and not a bar? Live a little.

  He glanced down at the clipboard. She seemed to be waiting for it. “What do I do with this?”

  “It’s the sign-in sheet.”

  Her voice, soft and slightly hoarse, slipped down his spine like a warm tongue. He shivered, struggled to get a grip. “Don’t they know who he is by now?”

  The corner of her mouth curled up. She drew back and crossed her arms over her chest, exposing a pierced belly button. “Probably, but they have to keep track.”

  He found a pencil taped to a long piece of green yarn pinned to the wall and studied the sheet. “Right.” He peered down at the clipboard and bit the inside of his cheek, blanking on how to spell the little guy’s name. Damn it, he was a numbers guy, and in his day, all the boys had easy names like John and David, none of this retro geek chic stuff.

  “There's an H at the end. And no U,” she said, smirking at him. “E-L-I-J-A-H.”

  Paul wrote it down, embarrassed. “I knew that.”

  “So who are you, anyway? Neighbor?”

  He glanced over at her, starting at her midsection and moving up slowly to her cute, mocking face. A stream of parents and rugrats were angling around them through the half-door into the classroom, and he tore his eyes off her to sign his sister’s name and study the rest of the sheet. He had no idea how long the little guy got to stay here, but he hoped it was all day. He gave up on the rest of the form and handed the clipboard to her.

  “He’s my nephew,” Paul said. “One of several.”

  “Not close, I take it.”

  He frowned at her, but she looked amused, not hostile anymore. “I’m trying to remedy that. That’s why I’m here.”

  His sister had been more pissy than usual that morning, which was saying a lot. Since he’d moved across the bay from Silicon Valley, he had realized how exhausted she was—belatedly, he had to admit, since he hadn’t been that far away, and even a great job was no excuse. Too many damn children. He didn’t understand why she didn’t tell whatshisface to jerk off in the shower once in a while. God forbid anything interfered with his sperm’s holy destination, as though four tiny kids wasn’t four too many for a woman who apparently hadn’t found time to sleep since high school.

  His nephew had curled up on a rug with a giant stuffed dinosaur. Paul wondered if he was supposed to do anything else before he could escape.

  “Lunch box,” the woman said, pointing to the camo-print nylon bag slung over Paul’s arm.

  “Right.” He worked it free and gave her a clueless look.

  “Cubbies are around the corner.”

  He smiled his thanks, grateful she didn’t seem offended by him drooling over her. “I’m Uncle Paul,” he said, stepping past her and finding Elijah’s cubby, then returning to her. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

  Measuring him up, curiosity sparked in her eyes. Her pink tongue flicked out and moistened two full, generous lips, and when her gaze dropped down to take the rest of him in, he realized his heart was starting to pound. He hadn’t expected any action so early in the morning. He hadn’t even had his coffee yet.

  There was an idea. He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled at her. “That coffee place next door any good? I’m new in town.”

  Her brown eyes widened. Then she hesitated, regarding him. “I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”

  “Want to?”

  She looked away and shook her head, laughing a little, and his heart sank. But then she looked back at him, nodded sharply, eyes serious, and walked towards the door. Hoping he wasn’t misunderstanding her, he strode after her, stunned by his good fortune. She had a round, protruding butt, the seam of her tight jeans dividing it lengthwise into a perfect apple. When she reached forward to push open the door to the parking lot, he admired the tattoo above the waistband, something colorful and abstract he couldn’t identify. He needed a better look.

  Then reality set in. She was dropping her kid off at a preschool. Mothers meant fathers. He tilted his head to study her left hand, swaying along beside her generous hips with each step, and nearly got flattened by a silver Odyssey backing up in the parking lot. He jumped out of the way just as he had established that she wasn’t wearing any rings. Which was no guarantee, but made him feel better.

  They turned onto the sidewalk and approached the cafe. “I don’t know,” she said. “It looks closed.”

  He peered through a cloudy window at the rows of empty tables. “There is someone behind the counter.” He gave her a pathetically eager smile.

  She stopped and gazed up at him, another measuring look in her eye. After a moment, she said, “I have fresh beans at my place.”

  His mouth went dry. He dropped his gaze to study her hot, pink mouth, and tried to swallow. “I am pretty thirsty.”

  She smiled at him as though she thought he was a dork, but that was fine. Looking nice and non-threatening was getting him invited to her place. The smell of her, flowery and strong, like the jasmine around his swimming pool at night, filled his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply to catch as much of her as he could.

  “I’ve got the red Beetle,” she said quietly. “Follow me.”

  He nodded dumbly, then watched her stride away from him without looking back. As soon as she disappeared into her girly car, he sprinted to his Prius down the block and shoved his keys into the ignition, hands shaking. “Thank you, Jesus,” he muttered, too pumped to even smile. He pulled a U-turn into the street, his tires squealing, and nearly ran over a grandmother with three tiny kids jaywalking over to the preschool. Vowing to chill, he put on his seat belt and watched the awkward floppy-limbed creatures toddle out of the way. Vehicular manslaughter would be bad for so many reasons. One being no women for a long, long time.

  It had already been too long. Grateful her car stood out, Paul floored it and caught up just before she turned sharply at a Jack in the Box a few blocks away. He could just make out a big yellow flower on the dash next to her.

  Another car honked and he slammed on the brakes. Stop sign. Right. Other people on the road. Light-headed, he sucked in a lungful and forced himself to calm down. Other guys did this sort of thing all the time. Not from a suburban California preschool at eight in the morning, true, but at thirty-two he wasn’t getting any younger and had to carpe the diem.

  He took one hand off the wheel, readjusted his jeans, and followed her the rest of the way through Pleasant Hill to an apartment building near the mall. Nothing fancy, just a two-story concrete block painted pea-green with scrawny shrubs and a lawn of bark chips. Not the best place for a kid, he thought, but forgot about that as soon as she beckoned to him with a crooked finger from the front entrance
.

  At her side in seconds, he watched her unlock the dented black entry gate and prop it open for him with her knee, her tight jeans creasing along her thigh. He hesitated in the doorway, gazing down at her, giving her a chance to change her mind. He noticed she wasn’t looking him in the eye anymore. Her fingers kept tugging at the skimpy hem of her t-shirt.

  “Come on,” she said suddenly.

  He caught another whiff of flowers and woman and leaned closer to breathe more of her. “What’s your name?”

  She flinched, then smiled at him quickly and gestured down the hall. “It’s the back unit.” She walked away from him, keys jingling in her hand, to the last door on the right.

  Paul frowned, following her slowly, trying to decide if he minded keeping it anonymous. She could find out all about him through his sister. As he followed her into the apartment, all beige carpet and mismatched cheap furniture, he realized she might already know about him through his sister. He wasn’t really a stranger. Mary was one of those supermothers, always volunteering at the school, getting to know everyone in her children’s lives and sharing everything about her own.

  They stood in the middle of the drab little room scattered with plastic trucks and Matchbox cars, staring at each other.

  He unzipped his jacket. “Do you know my sister, Mary? Elijah’s mom?”

  Her head shook a quick, short no. Then she took a deep breath, hooked her fingers over the bottom of her t-shirt, the only thing she was wearing, and pulled it up over her head.

  Chapter 2

  All the blood left Paul’s brain. He must have closed the door behind him because he could feel the knob stabbing him in the small of his back.

  She was biting her full bottom lip, looking at the floor, until her gaze crept up to his face. His body began to burn, admiring her. She had brown eyes with thick lashes, creamy cheeks around that hot, pink mouth, a dimpled chin, and soft-looking skin down her neck and collarbones that disappeared into a skimpy black bra that presented overflowing, round breasts to him like scoops of Häagen-Dazs.

  “Bonnie,” she said. “My name is Bonnie.”

  He strode over to her and ran the tips of his fingers across one creamy breast while his other hand slid around the curve of her spine to pull her firmly against him. He was hard. His jeans felt like a tourniquet.

  “Take off my pants,” he said, just because he couldn’t think clearly enough to be romantic, and not expecting her to do it.

  Her eyes widened, her head tilted to the side, then her smooth fingers slipped under the waistband of his jeans and wriggled down to tickle the base of his cock.

  He was going to come in his pants.

  She yanked his jeans open. “What about the coffee?” she whispered.

  “Uh,” he said.

  She flattened her palms against his bare skin, slid them around his waist and cupped his ass in her hands, her breasts still in the bra pressing against his chest as she ground herself against him. He groaned and gazed down at the bare tops of her breasts swelling over his black leather jacket, then gripped her shoulders to push her away to arms length before he embarrassed himself and wasted a truly heaven-sent opportunity.

  “Maybe we should slow down,” he said, trying to smile but panting instead.

  She gave him a coy grin and pulled away completely. “I’ll get the coffee started.” She walked away before he could catch her and apologize.

  Slow down? Was he insane?

  The room felt cold without her. He took a deep breath and looked around. It really was cold, even in his jacket, which he was still wearing, with his jeans half open and his dick straining through his boxers. He tore off his jacket and readjusted his pants.

  The whine of the coffee grinder split the silence and he draped his jacket over a sad-looking IKEA recliner near the wall furnace. He read the thermostat and frowned. It was fifty-seven degrees, the paint-spattered old heater cold and silent. Not sure he should interfere but unwilling to be distracted by his ass freezing off, he knelt down to check the pilot under the plate near the floor. He popped open the ancient cover, peered through the cobwebs, and confirmed the pilot was out.

  “Oh, my,” she said.

  He jerked around to face her from his position on the floor. On his hands and knees with his butt in the air.

  She stood there watching, eyes wide, lovely and half-naked.

  He cleared his throat. “Your pilot is out. Mind if I light it?”

  The amusement in her eyes faded and the temperature in the room fell another few degrees. “I’m sorry. It’s freezing in here, isn’t it?”

  Regretting the distraction he’d initiated, Paul shrugged and smiled. “It’s fine. I just thought you might need some help lighting it.” He got to his feet and didn’t say out loud what he suspected was the truth, that she couldn’t afford the PG&E bill.

  “I just never got around to it, I guess.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

  He didn’t say any more about it, just got to his feet to get closer to her. He traced his index finger along her jaw, then bent down to brush his lips along the peachy fuzz at her temple. Her dark curls were soft and springy and smelled really, really good. More flowers. Sweet, warm.

  The kettle whistled and she pulled away. “Just a sec.”

  He frowned after her, confused by the mixed messages he was getting. Hot, shy, fast, slow. He still didn’t know her full name and was struggling to think clearly without any blood in his brain. For the first time since he’d been struck by the sight of her at the preschool, he wondered if he should get his head out of his pants and fix the code the guys in Sunnyvale were after him to finish. He had a mortgage now. Couldn’t just slack off because he worked from home. And the toys around the apartment reminded him what kind of fire he was messing with.

  But before he could follow that thought to a respectable conclusion, she was back with two mismatched coffee mugs and heading for a sagging futon under the window. She sat down and smiled at him, balancing one mug on each knee until he joined her, no coffee table in sight, which made him wonder if they were actually going to have to drink the damn coffee before getting back to business.

  “Thanks.” He brought the mug to his lips, prepared to scald his throat rather than risk too many minutes to get sensible.

  She stared at him, then leaned down to set her untouched mug right on the carpet, never looking away. He raised his eyebrows, lowered the mug away from his mouth and handed it to her. She set it next to hers.

  He was finding it difficult to breathe, gazing at all the naked woman flesh pinched by a black bra that was blissfully inadequate for such great breasts. They were heaving up and down under her own fast breathing, and any other thoughts about code, sisters, rugrats, or fathers disappeared when he dipped his head to lick the shadow of her nipple right through the fabric. The lace was scratchy under his tongue. He nibbled and sucked until she was sinking softly onto her back beneath him.

  “Oh,” she gasped. “That’s nice.”

  “I like being nice.” He dipped his head and took the next nipple in his mouth. It got hard under the lace, and he savored it, his heart pounding in his ears through the sound of wet sucking and the little groaning sounds in her throat.

  Her fingers tunneled through his hair and gripped his skull, pulling him closer. He couldn’t remember ever being so turned on, so fast. Soon, he’d be inside her, so soon—

  The phone rang. Just a brief distraction they both ignored. A distant chirp. He ran his hand over her belly and squeezed, kneaded the swell of her hip, dipped his fingertips under the waistband of her jeans and shoved his hand between her legs until his finger dipped into wet, hot girl.

  Then the machine picked up, a child’s voice on the recording, young and serious and unintelligible. Paul froze, his index finger sliding deeper, his teeth around the tip of her left nipple.

  “Hey sweetheart,” a man’s voice crackled over the line. “You there? Jakey, little buddy? Dang it, I wanted to tell you in person. I’m
coming home! Daddy’s coming home! They’re talking about adjusting to post-deployment, for real this time, can you believe. . .”

  Paul had begun to pull away as soon as he realized who was talking, and by the time the man was crowing into the phone with obvious love and joy, Paul was on his feet and buttoning his jeans with shaking hands.

  “Are you there?” the man went on. “Babe, I miss you so much—”

  She was married. With a kid. And the dad was coming home, from war or whatever, he was a hero, a decent guy who didn’t deserve this.

  What kind of woman was she, to keep looking at him like she didn’t want to stop?

  Through an ashamed, resentful, angry panic he remembered his jacket and stumbled over to it, forcing himself to look at Bonnie again.

  She didn’t look ashamed so much as embarrassed. “It’s not what you think,” she said, but didn’t get up to stop him. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  By then he was already backing up into the hall. “Sorry. I can’t do this,” he said. “Thanks—” But that was lame, so he shut up, gave her a pathetic wave, and shut the door between them. His chest was heaving. His stomach wanted to.

  Holy fuck. That was horrible. What had he almost done? Some poor guy was out serving their country and Paul the overcompensated computer geek had almost slept with his wife, whose full name he didn’t even know, with their little boy’s toy cars all over the carpet and—

  His sister had just called him an aging adolescent that morning, and she was right. He hadn’t even considered who he might have been hurting, following his dick around like a GPS. Turn left. Turn right. Take this one all the way to the end.

  Out on the crappy suburban street, the early morning haze was burning off, and he scowled at the January sky and strode up the street to his car, his body awash with adrenaline, lust, and self-loathing.

  At least it would be spring soon. The woman and her child wouldn’t be freezing to death in their own home—even California got cold at night, especially to a little kid. Hopefully by the time fall came around again the dad would be back home, helping out. If he could find work, if he hadn’t gotten PTSD from serving his country.