A Year of Love

by Anthology

  Exhaustion pulls me under.

  I’ll worry about the rest tomorrow…

  Dear reader!

  I hope you enjoyed a taste of my love for things unusual. This was an experiment, and I’m anxious to hear back from you if you like—or dislike—my trek into the supernatural. Let me know via email if you want more, or if you hope I never pen anything like this again. Haha. All my links are below!

  Love,

  Ilsa

  About the Author

  Wall Street Journal, New York Times, and USA Today best-selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills pens angsty new adult and contemporary romances.

  A former high school English teacher and librarian, she adores all things Pride and Prejudice, and of course, Mr. Darcy is her ultimate hero.

  She's addicted to frothy coffee beverages, cheesy magnets, and any book featuring unicorns and sword-wielding females. Feel free to stalk her online. ☺

  *Please join her FB readers group, Unicorn Girls, to get the latest scoop as well as talk about books, wine, and Netflix:

  https://www.facebook.com/groups/ilsasunicorngirls/

  You can also find Ilsa at these places:

  Website:

  http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com

  News Letter:

  http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com/contact

  Other Titles by Ilsa Madden-Mills:

  All books are standalone stories with brand new couples and are currently FREE in Kindle Unlimited.

  Briarwood Academy Series

  Very Bad Things

  Very Wicked Beginnings

  Very Wicked Things

  Very Twisted Things

  British Bad Boys Series

  Dirty English

  Filthy English

  Spider

  Fake Fiancée

  I Dare You

  I Bet You

  I Hate You

  I Promise You

  The Revenge Pact

  Boyfriend Bargain

  Dear Ava

  Not My Romeo

  Not My Match

  The Last Guy (w/Tia Louise)

  The Right Stud (w/Tia Louise)

  Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2021, Max Monroe

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing by Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  To Short Stories: We wish you were taller. We wish you were a one-hundred-thousand-word, full-length-novel baller.

  To Teachers: Thank you for everything you do.

  Introduction

  Katy

  Thursday, April 1st

  Raucous laughter roars through the wall behind me, and then what sounds like a semitruck rams straight into it and shakes the floor. For the love of everything. I pause, midway through my quiz instructions, and twist my torso to face the offending direction—through my classroom wall, to the other side toward Mack Houston’s classroom.

  Mr. Music Man.

  Mr. Fun Time Bobby (without the booze).

  Mr. Giant-Thorn-in-My-Side.

  Basically, all my work-related problems come from Mack Houston. His classroom is always loud, always boisterous, and always on the verge of being out of control, and because he’s right next door to my classroom, my students’ and my ears never miss a moment of the chaos.

  And the constant disruptions never aid in my endeavors to keep my high schoolers focused enough to learn important mathematical concepts.

  Most days, I feel like I’m trying to teach calculus in the middle of an amusement park.

  The onslaught of noise dulls slightly, and after heaving a deep sigh, I turn back to my students and straighten the bullet-pointed instructions’ outline in my hands. I might be a little Type A when it comes to organization, but I’ve found that giving specific directions before my students get started on an exam minimizes the confusion during testing time. Which, in turn, allows them to focus and go at their own pace and do so without adding any undue stress.

  Calm. Relaxed. That’s the ambiance I’m always trying to provide for my class.

  “Okay, where was I?” I hum my way down the paper until I get to the next bullet point. “Right. You all have a single piece of scratch paper for your work, which you can fill front and back completely if you need to. As always, though, you’ll be turning in this sheet at the end of the quiz, and if possible, I’ll use it to give partial credit on problems you worked through mostly correct. Just make sure you outline each of your steps clearly because I’d really hate to score you lower than you deserve, okay?” I offer a little smile toward my students. “And I know you guys got this. You know the material, and I know you can rock this quiz.”

  One of my most conscientious seniors raises her hand, and I gesture toward her with a friendly hand. “Yes, Caroline?”

  “Ms. Dayton, can we…” Unfortunately, after the first couple of words, a loud round of pandemonium breaks out again next door, and the only information Caroline manages to relay is that she has the ability to move her lips. It’s a regular mime show in here, and I haven’t made a dime off admission.

  I swear, the disruptions never end—drums and screams and kids sliding by my door in the hallway like Tom Cruise in Risky Business. All thanks to Mack Houston, the good-time guy, who just happens to teach music at the same school as me. And his obnoxious teaching style—if you can even call it teaching at all—always comes at the expense of my classroom.

  God help me. I can’t take this anymore.

  I slam down my paper on the corner of my desk, hold up one finger to the class at large, and stalk toward the door like a woman possessed. Out my door and around the small divider between our rooms, I march right through his open door to the noisy classroom and raise my voice over the din to get his attention.

  “Mr. Houston!”

  Kids yell and whoop, and I have to curve my hands around my mouth to make a megaphone and try again.

  “Mr. Houston!” I repeat, finally catching his attention. “Can I speak with you for a moment, please?”

  Every student’s head whips in my direction, but I only have eyes for one man—the menace. Mack Houston.

  His smile is so big it’s almost lopsided, and two big dimples crater into the center of his cheeks. His sun-highlighted brown hair curls haphazardly around his ears, and his green eyes shine big and bright. If it weren’t for the manly, muscular body that sits beneath his far-too-casual attire, I’d think he was less than half of his actual age. As it is, the only real explanation I can think of is some kind of Tom Hanks in Big situation.

  I sigh as Mack jogs my way, his cheesy smile aging so much it might as well be cheddar from Wisconsin. He holds up a hand to his class, tossing a pair of cymbals to the boy behind him just beforehand, remarking, “Make yourselves busy, guys. I’ll be right back.”

  His ruffled hair bounces as he quickly closes the last few feet between us, and I have to actively work not to roll my eyes. Him telling his class to work without him is an absolute joke—the man doesn’t have them work while he’s there.

  “What can I do for you, Katy?” he asks informally upon arrival in front of me at the doorway. I glance away as he pushes forward to pull me into the hall, leaning against the wall and crossing his khaki pant-clad legs at the ankle. Red Chuck Taylors stick out from the bottom
.

  “Do you have any idea how loud you’re being right now?” I question back.

  He tilts his head to the side, and a smirk crests one corner of his mouth. “Well, that depends. What kind of scale are we working with?”

  I shake my head in frustration. I don’t have time for him to be playful. The period is already half over, and I designed this test to take around twenty minutes. I have zero time to waste. “We’re trying to take a test next door. A little deference to my students would be nice.”

  “A test?” he retorts with a laugh. “On the Thursday before Good Friday, which also happens to be April Fools’ Day?” He shakes his head. “I think I found your first mistake, Katy Cat.”

  Katy Cat? Sheesh.

  If I had a nickel for every time this guy has made me roll my eyes, I’d be a lot richer than I am right now. As it is, all I can look forward to is the upcoming long weekend, which, thankfully, includes three full days without his classroom making my ears bleed and my nerves frazzle.

  Just get through today, Katy. Just get through today, and then it’s rest and relaxation time.

  “Can you keep the volume down or not?” I ask, cutting straight to point.

  “Sure,” he agrees easily enough, drawing a wrinkle of suspicion between my eyebrows. “We were just about to head out to the parking lot for our first water balloon fight of the year anyway.”

  Water balloon fight? Is he for real?

  It’s situations like this that make me wonder how he’s still drawing a paycheck as a flipping educator. I get the motivation to keep learning fun for your students, but his version of mixing fun and education is on another level. A level that always appears to include very little educating.

  “What exactly do water balloons have to do with music?”

  “Ah!” he hems, shaking a dramatic finger between our faces. “What don’t they have to do with it, Katy Cat?”

  I sigh at both his riddle-like answer and the ridiculously annoying nickname he gave me a year and a half ago and shake my head. “Never mind. I better get back to my classroom so my students have enough time to finish.”

  “Gotcha,” Mack taunts with a wink, strolling back in through his classroom door, only to lean back out into the hallway dramatically, not quite done with me yet. “We’ll be outside in the south parking lot if you get done with time to spare. Bring your kids out to play. We’ve got plenty of balloons.”

  I shake my head again and smile sarcastically, enhancing the expression with an over-the-top thumbs-up. A deep, throaty laugh jumps from his lungs and makes the strong cords of his neck flex, and my chest tightens.

  I don’t know how on earth someone so annoying can be so attractive, but I know one thing with certainty—I can’t wait to be free of work, and him—and on the beach for three whole days.

  I just have to make it through the rest of today, and then it’s sunny Florida, here I come.

  Katy

  Friday, April 2nd

  I gently kick the condo door shut behind me and walk straight to the kitchen area to set down my bags of groceries on top of the counters.

  My long, relaxing weekend has officially started.

  No class. No students. No late-night marathons of grading papers.

  I am a free woman ready to enjoy my mini vacay.

  Hallelujah!

  Cute, beachy, Florida-themed décor dots the kitchen of my rental. Seashells and plastic flowers intermingle with a teal table runner that showcases ivory-colored napkins and gives way to wicker and glass beneath them.

  Everything may be a bit kitschy, but I can’t deny it’s all perfectly designed to frame the floor-to-ceiling windows on the back side of the condo.

  Outside of those windows? Heaven—otherwise known as miles and miles of crisp white sand and bright-blue Gulf water that makes my heart skip atop itself in my chest.

  I can’t believe I’m finally here. Man, I really needed this.

  While all my students and their families went away on vacation a couple of weeks ago for Spring Break, I was home, helping my mom take care of my dad as he recovered from knee surgery.

  You might assume that he injured himself doing something simple like yard work or cleaning out gutters. You know, normal things that a parent of an almost thirty-year-old woman might be doing, but I guarantee that any and all of your guesses would be wrong.

  My dad, Kai Dayton, is one of the craziest SOBs you’ll ever meet. He’s lived his life in the fast lane, and wherever he’s gone, my mom hasn’t been far behind. But I suppose that’s bound to happen sometimes when you get pregnant with your only kiddo at sixteen.

  Don’t get me wrong, I respect the hell out of both of my parents for making something out of our lives. But I cannot say in good conscience that we escaped without any consequences. See, my dad was a professional motocross rider up until five years ago, and he hasn’t lost an ounce of craziness in his retirement.

  He goes hard all the time, and occasionally, that means he has to go home…and sit his butt on the couch because he shattered his patella after gunning a huge jump on his backyard course.

  And since my mom Melissa is squeamish about injuries, it left me to take on the temporary caregiver role. A role that I stepped into a lot while growing up in a house with two wild and crazy parents. But it’s not just that—out of the three of us, I’ve always had the oldest soul. Hell, in high school and college, rather than partying with friends and getting drunk, I was my parents’ designated driver.

  Needless to say, these three days to myself are about as essential as air to breathe. And I’m grateful fellow teacher Kimmie Ward’s parents decided to rent out their Florida beachfront condo this year.

  Shoulders sagging with long-delayed relief, I tuck my groceries away into one of the cabinets and finger the sweet note left on the counter. Enjoy your time!

  I know Kimmie’s parents themselves didn’t leave the note—they’re in Pennsylvania. But the fact that their cleaner or condo manager or whoever did is still nice. Turning to my Neoprene wine sleeve at the other end of the counter, I take out the very expensive bottle I’ve been saving for a special occasion and set it next to the note. It’s not like it cost a million dollars—more like sixty—but for a single high school teacher without a trust fund, it’s a huge splurge. And since the moment I booked this stay three months ago, I’ve been looking forward to drinking it while my toes are in the sand and the calm waters of the Gulf roll in before me.

  “Okay,” I mutter to myself, surveying the kitchen counter around me. “I think that’s everything.”

  Satisfied with my unpacking job, I fold up my reusable grocery bags and stack them together so I can tuck them into the drawer next to the sink. Everything looks completely in order, just as when I arrived.

  I lift my overnight bag onto my shoulder and peruse my way down the hall toward the two bedrooms at the end. Photos dot the walls, mostly abstracts and landscape-style shots of the beach, but a braces-sporting shot of a middle-school–aged Kimmie pulls me up short and makes me smile.

  Oh man, I wish Kimmie and I were closer. This would be the perfect opportunity to send her a text message and tease her a little about her parents’ nostalgic décor.

  But I don’t have her phone number, and even if I did, I probably wouldn’t use it. I’m not the bold type who texts people teasing things. I’m the overthinking type who thinks them, types them, and then deletes them swiftly.

  Back in motion, I pad my way down the hardwood floor and peek into the first bedroom I reach. It’s the smaller of the two, I remember from the website listing I booked on, but is perfectly quaint enough for a weekend at the beach. What the listing didn’t show, however, is the mini Kimmie Shrine, full of photos and medals and trophies.

  Photos of a teenage Kimmie in a wrestling onesie, mind you.

  Oh boy. That’s something…

  Feeling a little uncomfortable to have so much insight into Kimmie Ward’s childhood and apparent love of wrestling as a teenager, I p
ull the door shut and head to the bedroom at the end.

  Once I step inside, my eyes take in the way the light filters through the huge windows on the ocean side of the room and wispy white curtains float in the soft breeze drifting in through the screen.

  Instantly, I inhale the addictive aromas of salt water and fresh air that are wafting in from a cracked-open window.

  Living in Savannah, Georgia, means I’m not far from the ocean, only a fifty-mile drive to Hilton Head, but there’s just something about the Gulf waters and white sand beaches that speaks to my soul.

  “Yes,” I whisper joyfully, dropping my bag to the floor and performing a spin.

  The huge four-poster bed in the middle of the back wall is covered in bright white linen, and the walls are a bright blue-gray that make the room seem like it goes on forever.

  “Oh yes,” I moan then, spotting the bathroom on the left side of the bed and the glittering white-and-silver tile in the gargantuan walk-in shower. A nice hot soak under the rain showerhead is exactly what I need after the six-hour drive from Savannah to Destin.

  Gently, I set my bag on the edge of the bed and start digging through my clothes and setting them into the drawers of the dresser. It doesn’t take me more than five minutes to get all my things organized, and the water of the shower heats up just as quick.