I go up in flames as I fuck her mouth, shuddering as I reach the edge. “Fuck, Sunshine. Gonna come so hard down your throat.”
My vision blurs as white-hot pleasure speeds through me, and waves of desire tug me under, toppling over me. I moan her name as I come undone.
A minute later, I yank her up and kiss her hard, pushing her hair away from her face. “I can now die having had the greatest blow job in the history of the world.”
“Good. Write a song about it, please.”
I glance over at the desk, hungry to have her, to bury my mouth between her legs. “Why don’t you get on that desk and spread your legs?”
She shakes her head. “No way. We’re supposed to be good.”
I blink. “That didn’t stop us a minute ago.”
She pats my hip. “It doesn’t count. Don’t you know?”
I furrow my brow. Perhaps the orgasm has robbed me of brain cells. “Why doesn’t my dick in your mouth count?”
“That was a continuation of the one-night stand. So it’s like an addendum to an existing incident. It doesn’t break my commitment to be good.” Her expression is full of laughter, but there’s a touch of seriousness in her eyes, and it tells me she’s been thinking, trying to make sense of what happened between us.
“It doesn’t break your resolve because it’s not new canoodling?” I ask, since I want to understand her logic too, such as it is.
She shakes her head. “Trust me, I’ve been working this through in my head. It’s definitely not a new instance. Since I had always planned to give you a fantastic blow job, I was simply finishing the work I started a few weeks ago, and the canoodling moratorium remains.” Her voice is no-nonsense, reasoned to the core. “Now, if I tried to do something like give you a hand job, that would count as a new canoodle and would therefore be a violation. But as it stands, we’re still in the clear.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t like your rules because I want to taste you right now, but if you’d like to pretend my dick accidentally fell in your mouth, so be it.”
She rises on her tiptoes and plants a kiss on my lips. “If I could find a way to accidentally slip onto your tongue, believe me, I would.”
I’ll be praying for that happy accident to occur.
A little later, I head to Mackenzie’s for the lesson with Kyle, and I put blinders on so I don’t let on that my student’s mom . . .
Nope. Won’t go there. Won’t even think dirty thoughts while I’m teaching.
I am Super Music Teacher, 100 percent focused on these sonatas and on saying a chaste goodbye to both student and parent.
When I return to my apartment that evening, I’m overwhelmed by the scent of salted caramel, and my ears are treated to loud pop music blasting from every speaker in the apartment’s sound system.
My brother and my daughter are singing in the kitchen, using spatulas for mics and dancing in their aprons, skulls for Sam and rainbow-breathing unicorns for Miller.
“Guys! I have neighbors! You can’t play it that loud.”
I turn down the volume, but that doesn’t stop my brother from belting out a pop tune about needing love. Samantha finishes the chorus at the top of her powerful lungs, hitting all the notes because my kid has a helluva set of pipes on her. Then she licks caramel off the end of the spatula and waves at me. “Hi, Dad. Miller came over to help me bake.”
Miller winks at her. “You can call it baking, but you know it was really performing magical artistry in the kitchen.”
“They’re salted caramel brownie bars, Dad.” Samantha points to a baking sheet on the counter. “And they’re definitely the best.”
I arch a brow, waiting for her to say they’re the worst too. But she doesn’t. Apparently, when she cooks with Miller everything is simply the best. Miller has that effect on people—he’s a dose of positivity. In a bad mood? Take a Miller pill. Bummed over the state of the world? Spend an hour with Miller and everything will be sunshine and unicorns again.
“Hey, Campbell,” Miller says, draping an arm around Sam. “Did you hear us rocking that duet?”
“Um, did you think I missed it?”
“And doesn’t Sam sing the shit out of a song?”
“Language, Miller.”
“Dad,” my daughter chides, “I’ve heard a lot worse.”
“But you don’t need to hear it in my house.”
“Anyway,” Miller says, claiming the figurative mic again, “you don’t mind if Sam joins a band with me, do you? We could be the Rocking Utensils.”
“By all means, I’d have no problem letting my fourteen-year-old sing with you—and tour the world too.”
Miller pumps a fist and Sam laughs as she slides brownies off the tray and onto a plate.
“But speaking of singing with a woman, what do you think about the gal I mentioned the other night?” I ask.
Miller emits an approving noise. “Rebecca is good. We could make beautiful music together.”
Samantha furrows her brow. “If you’re going to sing with a woman, why don’t you do it with Ally?” she asks, mentioning his longtime best friend, who’s also a once-upon-a-time singer. She dominated on YouTube for a few years with her brother, raking in millions of views with their clever mash-ups.
“Ally?” Miller asks, as if Samantha suggested he take up unicycling while learning Romanian in the rain.
“Ally,” I repeat. “The woman you hang out with all the time. Brunette? About this tall?” I hold my hand above my shoulder.
Miller smacks his forehead. “Oh, thanks. I didn’t know who you meant otherwise.”
“Miller, she’s the best. It’s like listening to angels when she sings,” Samantha says, staring at him as if he’s gone mad for not getting this.
I chime in, “And it’s shocking you’ve never considered that since you’ve been friends with Ally forever.” I grab a stool and park myself across from them at the counter, waiting for Miller to tell me what he thinks of either Ally or the Joss Stone sing-alike. “What do you think, Mill?”
Miller scratches his jaw. “You know things don’t always go my way when I play with someone I’m friends with. It’s caused all sorts of trouble in the past.”
I scoff. “Ally is hardly a troublemaker.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the issue.”
“What’s the issue, Uncle Miller?”
He heaves a sigh. “Friendship and music don’t always mix.”
Sam pats him on the shoulder. “It’s sweet you care so much about her.”
He glances at me, meeting my eyes. “But the real issue is I’m still so wounded you won’t get back together with me. Sam thinks it’s a good idea if we sing again, don’t you?”
My daughter tsks him. “Do not get me into trouble with my dad.”
“You could never get in trouble. You’re the apple of his eye,” Miller says.
“She is the apple of my eye, but she can also get in trouble, especially if she hangs out with you, troublemaker.”
Miller waggles his eyebrows, owning it.
I snag a brownie from the tray and take a bite. I moan in appreciation. “This is divine.”
Sam smiles. “Speaking of divine, I want to get the recipe for those sandwiches you brought home the other night. The sauce was to die for. Can you ask that woman what it was made of?”
I smile, loving that I have a legit reason to text Mackenzie. “I can.”
Miller arches a brow. “One of your student’s moms is making you sandwiches? I smell a crush.” He points at me, like a kid singing the kissing-in-a-tree tune. “Someone has a crush on Mason Hart.”
“Eww, gross,” Samantha says.
I roll my eyes because Miller is flirting far too close to the truth, and I need to divert his attention. “So, would Ally sing with you?”
He slinks around the counter and punches my arm, undeterred. “Who is she? Come on. Fess up. Who’s the sandwich-maker?”
“No one,” I mumble.
Just t
he woman who had her lips wrapped around me like a Hoover earlier today. The woman I can’t resist flirting with. The woman I love talking to.
Miller turns to Sam with a look of exaggerated shock. “No one? Did you hear that, Sam? You really think she’s no one?”
“I wonder if this no one would like a salted caramel brownie,” Sam says playfully. “Want to bring her some next time you see her?”
I nod. “She’d love that.”
Sam points at me. “Busted. She’s so someone.”
That’s the trouble. Even as we do our best to avoid entanglements, Mackenzie is quickly becoming someone special.
Or maybe it’s because we’re doing our worst.
Chapter 19
Mackenzie
* * *
“And that’s how you deal with a trapezoid.” Campbell stabs the graph worksheet with the tip of a pencil. “Done!”
Kyle sighs in relief, dragging a hand through his hair. “Trapezoids are the worst.”
“Not true,” Campbell says, his expression stony. “Rhombuses are the worst.”
“Can we agree they’re all the worst?”
“Wait till you get to calculus. Everything is awful then,” I say from my spot in the kitchen where I’m whipping up my most excellent mac and cheese, complete with gouda and English snap peas.
Campbell stretches his arms, parking them behind his head. “I beg to disagree. I thought calculus was quite fun.”
I shoot him a look then turn to Kyle. “Can you grab the thermometer from the medicine cupboard? Clearly Campbell has a temperature if he thinks calculus was fun.”
Kyle laughs. “I think the aliens have taken him over.”
“Calculus is neat and orderly. It makes sense. It follows logic. It’s not that different from music.”
“How the heck are you good at classical music, rock music, and math? That’s insanely unfair,” I point out as I stir the melted gouda into the glass mixing bowl. Somehow, we’ve fallen into a routine of music, help with math, and food. It’s been a week since our happenstance coffee, and nothing has happened to fall into my mouth again. Shame, that.
But it’s for the best. Kyle is flourishing in violin, and I don’t want to mess that up.
Campbell leans back in his chair and glances at me. “By the same token, how are you good at trivia, graphic design, and parenting?”
I can’t help but smile, even as I roll my eyes. “Roxy and I did win at a trivia contest earlier this week. We’re trying out another pub that has trivia, so Ike doesn't kick us out of The Grouchy Owl for winning all the time,” I add, with a wink.
“You rock, Mom,” Kyle says.
“And how is Kyle good at music, and basketball, and history?” Campbell posits.
Kyle gives a self-deprecating snort. “I’m not that good at basketball.”
“Work with me, buddy,” Campbell says to my son.
“Okay, I’m good at knowing details about sports stars. How’s that?”
Campbell high-fives him. “There you go. Anyway, calculus goes hand in hand with music. Every piece of music is a function. Music works in intervals and ratios just like calculus.”
Kyle tilts his head as if considering Campbell’s words. “And reading music is like reading math symbols?”
Campbell’s eyes light up. “Yes, like a treble or bass clef. And each measure is divided into beats, and the time signatures are usually written as a fraction.”
Kyle grabs some sheet music on the table and studies it. “Dude. You’re right.”
“A lot of times musicians are better than average at solving more complex mathematical equations,” Campbell adds. “Want to know why?”
Kyle’s smile brightens. “Why?”
Campbell taps the side of Kyle’s head. “Because you’re trained for detail. For discipline. Because you practice until you’re perfect. All of that carries into solving math problems.”
“If I want to improve my ability to balance my checkbook, should I listen to Mozart?” I chime in, and Campbell laughs.
“It’s not a bad idea.”
“I’m kidding. I’m a wiz at balancing my checkbook. Math is hard, but it’s important. If you’re naturally good at it, even better. But even if you’re not, you still need to learn it,” I tell my son.
“Totally, Mom. Also, I’m super hungry. Is that ready?”
“It is, and it’s delicious. Campbell, want some?”
He pats his belly. “I’m not sure I could live with myself if I turned it down.”
When we’re done with dinner, I scoop up some leftovers for Campbell’s daughter. He snaps his fingers. “She was asking for your sandwich sauce recipe the other week.”
“Is that so?”
He presses his hands together in a plea. “Any chance you’d share it?”
“For her? Of course.”
I grab a sheet of paper from a notebook and jot down the details, adding a doodle of a girl in an apron at the end of the paper.
“She’s going to love that,” Campbell says, as I tuck the goodies into a bag and hand it to him.
After he says goodbye to Kyle, I walk him to the foyer.
“So . . .” he says.
“So . . .”
“We’ve been good.”
This is the third time I’ve seen him since the coffee shop encounter. “No accidental slips of the tongue.”
“I think we deserve medals.” He leans in to drop a kiss on my cheek. “Especially since I still want to get my lips all over you. Everywhere.”
I want that too.
More and more, every day I spend with him.
I want the laughter and the naughtiness. I want the dinners and the desserts.
But I also want what’s best for my son.
I’ve had enough detours in life. I’ve had to improvise in my career and with my plans. I’ve had to turn onto new roads to reach my destination. That’s why I need to be careful, so I say goodbye. Chastely.
Later that night, Campbell texts me a video of his daughter.
She’s eating a spoonful of the mac and cheese and rolling her eyes in pleasure. “Oh my God, this is the greatest mac and cheese ever, and you are literally the best cook in the world. You have an open invitation to come on my baking show anytime you want.”
Mackenzie: I love your show! I just watched a ton of segments. It would be an honor to be on it.
* * *
Samantha: The honor is all mine! Your food is the BEST! I LOVE HAVING GUEST COOKS ON MY SHOW!
* * *
Mackenzie: I can’t wait. Do I need to bring anything?
* * *
Samantha: JUST AN AMAZING RECIPE!
* * *
Mackenzie: Fortunately, that’s my specialty. :)
“Just be natural.”
I can do that. I can totally do that.
I smooth my hands down the front of my apron as Samantha smiles into the phone perched in its holder on the stunning kitchen counter.
“Hey, everybody! I have a fabulous special guest today! I cannot believe she agreed to do my show.” She stops and squeezes my shoulder. “This woman, who makes the best savory treats in all of Manhattan, is here with me. Can you give Mackenzie a big baker welcome?”
Samantha gestures to me, and I wave to the camera. “Hey, everybody.”
“Wait till you try some of her treats. You will die. Just die. Legit die one hundred percent from the awesome.” Samantha turns to me. “What yumminess will we make today?”
I flash her an easy grin. “What would you say to baked savory cream cheese and herb donuts?”
Her green eyes widen to saucers. “I’d say that sounds famazing.”
We get to work on the mixing and the measuring and the baking, with Samantha taking breaks to turn on and off the record button.
At one point when it’s off and we’re stirring, she says, “How did you learn to be such a great cook?”
“I don’t think I’m such a great cook.”
“Oh
, stahp. You are. You’re incredible. Everything my dad’s brought home has been delicious. Tell me your secret because I want to be a baker someday. Well, if I’m not a baker, then I want to be superstar ski jumper.”
“You ski?”
She shakes her head, her looped-over blonde ponytail brushing her cheeks. “No, but I want to. I think it would be so cool. So would skateboarding.”
“So you’re going to take up ski jumping at age fourteen in case you want to be one?” I ask, laughing lightly.
“Bad idea?”
“I think you can do whatever you want.”
“I wish I could draw like you. I loved your doodle of me. If I could get a tattoo, I totally would.”
“What would you have done?”
She stops mixing and stares at the ceiling. “Mountains on one elbow, waves on the other.”
“I love that. Any particular reason?”
She returns to the mixing bowl. “Just life’s balance, you know? It’s a good reminder to climb the mountains and relax on the beach.”
I smile. “Good mantra. I like that, and I know what you mean.”
She nudges my elbow. “Tell me your cooking secret. How are you so good at it?
I narrow my eyes, oh so serious. “You really want to know?”
“Yes, I’m dying,” she says as she doles out cheesy donut mix on a tray.
I point to the donut mix. “Cooking is like doodling. You have to try it out. Test things. See what works. I was never afraid to try something with a pen and paper, and I’m the same in the kitchen. I doodled with food till I got it right.”
“I love that. We can call this episode Doodling with Mackenzie.”
An hour later, she bites into a savory herb donut, and tells me she wants to become a master kitchen doodler.
That is, after she becomes a skater.
Three days later, Kyle races through his time with Campbell. He rushes out the door the second the lesson is over because Jamison is back in town, waiting in a Lyft to take him to Madison Square Garden to see the Knicks.
Once Upon a Real Good Time Page 12
