Bliss and the Art of Forever (A Hope Springs Novel) (2 page)

Another hour, Brooklyn decided, and she was calling it quits. School had been dismissed for the four-day weekend, though since no one she knew actually celebrated Presidents’ Day, it was less a holiday than it was a paid day off.

She’d stayed late the last three afternoons to put her classroom in order and get her lesson plans in tip-top shape. Organizing her work life made it a lot easier to enjoy her personal life guilt-free. She planned to do a lot of enjoying over the upcoming break, even if Valentine’s Day fell smack in the middle of it.

The idea of a single day set aside for shallow, meaningless rituals of love had never sat well with her, even before meeting Artie. It was one of the things they’d shared, even if, ironically, the date itself ended up having a special meaning for them, and they’d used the it in other ways.

For Artie, it had been work. Every year he’d volunteered to swap shifts with any buddy who’d felt pressured to devote the day to romance. Then he’d chuckled about the poor soul not understanding the rewards of said devotion practiced daily.
“You don’t just brush your teeth after eating cotton candy. You see to the things that matter every day.”
Artie, practical to the core.

For Brooklyn, it had been doing nothing but anything she wanted. A movie at Hope Springs’ small art house theater after school. Antique shopping in Gruene and a solo dinner at the Gristmill restaurant. If she had the day off, a book in the backyard hammock. An afternoon nap in the same. And if the cold weather had been too much to bear, she’d done her reading and napping on the sofa in front of a fire.

Doing nothing but anything she wanted was exactly how she planned to spend the next four days, starting with lunch tomorrow at Two Owls Café with Jean Dial. Her next-door neighbor, a schoolteacher herself, though retired, loved Two Owls as much as Brooklyn, and they made a date of it monthly.

They had great fun swapping recipes and cooking tips and school district gossip, and discussing the medieval romances they both read until the spines cracked and the pages fell out. But Brooklyn enjoyed even more so listening to Jean’s stories—and advice—from forty years in the teaching trenches.

After lunch it would be home again for a movie marathon with a six-pack of Kaylie Keller’s brownies. The owner of Two Owls had made a name for herself and her Austin bakery with an incredible selection of the treats; now having sold the Sweet Spot and moved to Hope Springs, she offered a variety on the café’s buffet for dessert.

As far as what to watch while nibbling through all that chocolate, Brooklyn was thinking the original Die Hard trilogy, followed by
Unbreakable
. Oh, how Artie had loved
Unbreakable
. She pulled in a deeply felt breath and shuddered with it. The long afternoons she and her husband had spent cuddled up on the couch watching those movies and, as newlyweds, season after season of
Moonlighting
on VHS . . .

Eyes closed, she allowed the sadness its moment, then shook it off. Artie had been gone two years. She would always miss him. She would always love him. But he’d made her promise, should anything happen to him, that she wouldn’t stop living her life because he’d lost his. That was the last thing he’d wanted. And she’d done her best to respect his wishes, but once in a while, just every so often, she had to give grief its due.

Anyway, she mused, crossing from the classroom’s cubbies to her desk, a Friday spent with Bruce Willis and brownies required she do something on Saturday to counter the calories and sloth. Most of her friends would be busy with their significant others, leaving her on her own. Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing if, since Artie’s death, she hadn’t fallen into a rut.

It hadn’t happened overnight. But it had happened. She’d initiated fewer outings with friends—dinners, shopping, shows—and turned down more and more invitations. It was easier to stay in and read her medieval romances or watch her Bruce Willis films than feel like a third wheel—or like a walking reminder to other firefighters’ wives of what they and their men faced daily.

She had coworkers to whom she was close, and friends she’d met in yoga class, and neighbors, sure, but a rut being the dull and boring routine that it was, well, not to be defensive, but books and movies did make for great company. Though, she mused, a cat might be even better. Two cats. A clowder of cats. A glaring of cats. A whole freaking clutter of cats.

Thankfully, she’d be on her way to Italy soon, and seeing Artie’s family there, because knowing that many terms for a group of said felines was a pretty good sign sloth was the least of her worries. This trip, as hard as it would be, was going to be good for her, because honestly, she needed to remember how to have fun.

Reaching for her trash can, she dusted her hands free of used staples and bent tacks. “Maybe I’ll do something outrageous tomorrow. Like buy myself chocolate for Valentine’s Day.”

“Valentine’s Day isn’t Valentine’s Day without chocolate.”

At the deep male voice, she spun, reaching for her scissors, yet realizing instinctively she wouldn’t need them. What criminal sort announced himself before committing his crime? Also, after today’s story hour, she knew that voice well. She imagined she’d be a long time forgetting it.

She turned from her desk, forgoing the weapon. Callum Drake stood in her doorway, wispy twists of hair hanging loose from the knot on the back of his head to brush his cheeks. He had a forearm on either side of the frame, his feet in the hall as if he were a vampire awaiting an invitation.

For a very long moment she wondered how safe it would be to offer him one. “Mr. Drake,” she finally said. “You scared me.” She brought her hand to the base of her throat, less frightened than . . . other things. Things that had no business in this classroom. “What’re you doing here?”

“Callum,” he said, his shrug careless and lazy, but also hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure, or was having second thoughts about whatever he’d come for. “Or Cal. Or C.B.”

“C.B.?”

“Bennett,” he said, and grinned, a devastating flash of teeth and charm. “My middle name. Friends used to call me that, but it’s been a while, so . . .”

Callum Bennett Drake. Irish biker. Candy maker. Daddy to a six-year-old moppet.
Deep breath, Brooklyn. Deep breath. You have plans and no room in your life for a rogue.
“Callum it is.”

His grin deepened. “Addy told me you’d been staying late all week. I was hoping you might still be here.”

Addy.
She’d forgotten his daughter telling her he used the nickname. She’d also forgotten telling the class she’d be preholiday cleaning after school, using the chore as a lesson in rewards. All she had to do was put in the time, and voilà, she had the long weekend free.

She waved him inside, wondering what he wanted. She preferred to discuss her students’ progress during official parent-teacher conferences. “She told me she’d be at her grandparents’ this weekend because you were working.”

He pushed off the frame, seeming to gain six inches of height as he did, though at least some of that was due to the biker boots he wore. Black leather, silver buckles, tough stitching. “I dropped her off earlier, and I’ll pick her up Sunday morning. Shop’s closed the rest of the long weekend, so she gets two days with my folks and two days with me. And yeah. I’ll be at Bliss till the clock tolls the end of Valentine’s Day.”

That would be Saturday night, yet instead of working, here he was. “Of course. All those last-minute shoppers.” She pictured him again in chef’s whites, though there was nothing wrong with the oxford and the blue jeans and the black leather he had on now. “All that chocolate temptation.”

A dimple cut deep into his scruffy cheek. “Mmm, not so much.”

“Familiarity breeding contempt?”

His laugh was a visceral, vital sound that echoed. “Gotta watch my figure—”

Because having every woman in the room watching it for you isn’t enough?

“—what with having a six-year-old keeping me on my toes.”

“Now,
that
I can relate to,” she said, a blush heating her cheeks. She was
so
very glad he couldn’t read her mind.

She returned to removing the artwork from above the cubbies, conscious of his gaze on her as she reached to pluck the staples and tacks. December’s theme had been snowmen and sleds. Last year, for January, she’d used fireworks because she couldn’t deal with clocks depicting the passage of time.

February was easy, with flowers and chubby little cupids and all things Valentine’s Day, but two weeks spent looking at candy hearts was enough. She wanted her class to come back from the weekend to find portraits of past presidents, not just the pink and red of fabricated love.

“Looks like you’re doing a good job. Keeping up with the kids, I mean. Not . . . your figure.”

“Thanks. I think,” she said, and looked over.

He scrunched up one side of his face. “That didn’t come out right. You’re figure’s just fine.”

“Thanks,” she repeated, this time holding the caveat. “You were really good with them, you know.”

He crossed his arms, leaned a shoulder against the end of the cubbies. “If I can’t manage one hour of one day reading a book and answering questions, I should be shot. You’re the pro, doing it all day long every day.”

“I enjoy it,” she said, because it was true. “Seeing their young minds working through problems, reaching conclusions. Using the skills they’re learning. Though this
is
kindergarten, so I’m not sure they’ve got it in them yet to save the world. Still, when you think about it, our future really is in their hands.” Then she shrugged because it seemed a silly thing to say.

He considered her for a moment. “You have any of your own? Kids?”

If she had a nickel for every time she’d been asked that question . . . She turned to him, pressing the hearts and cupids she held to her chest. “No. I don’t. But that seems to be the leap most people make.”

“It’s an easy one, considering.”

Because her chosen career meant she wanted children of her own? “I love what I do. But I also love leaving it here at the end of the day. That’s why I’m still here now. So I can enjoy the four days I have off.”

He nodded, and thankfully, changed the subject. “What’re you doing with the break?”

“A whole lot of nothing,” she said, slipping the construction paper cutouts into a huge manila envelope.

“You want to take a tour of my shop?”

An extra-chubby cupid slipped free and floated to the floor. “Your shop?”

All he did was nod.

“I don’t understand—”

“You’ve been asking Addy about me,” he said, a dark brow arching above eyes that were an even deeper green without the morning light from the room’s windows to brighten them. “You asked her if I help her with her homework.”

Hmm.

“You asked her if I talk to her about the stories we read.”

Uh-oh.

“You asked her if she rides with me. And if she has a helmet.”

“I ask all my students about their parents,” she said, vowing never to ask Adrianne Drake anything again.

“Do you?” Those words in that voice . . . they heated the air, a flame licking at the oxygen between them.

“Of course,” she said, waving off his query as she bent to retrieve the art. “It helps give me a sense of how involved they are in the education process.”
Lame, Brooklyn. Really, really lame.

He scuffed the toe of one boot against the floor. “And my not showing up before now makes you think I’m not involved?”

Fine. Okay.
She turned to face her sins head-on. “You’re right. I’ve been curious. Adrianne’s situation isn’t particularly unique, but it is . . . interesting.”

He worked the words around in his mouth as if he found them unpleasant, then said, “Because I have sole custody? Or because of my history?”

Brooklyn nodded, but rather than press either point, she moved to less volatile ground. “And the fact that you’re a chocolatier.”

That seemed to settle well enough. “Then the timing is perfect for you to see me in my element, what with Saturday being—”

“Valentine’s Day. I know,” she said, realizing the holiday probably brought him a tidy little profit. “And with your business consisting primarily of online orders, which I know from your parents, not your daughter”—
though also from gossip and from googling you
—“you’re no doubt up to your eyeballs packing boxes for last-minute shipping.”

“I’m actually up to my eyeballs making the product to go in the boxes.” He shoved his fists in his jeans’ pockets, his shoulders hunched as if he were exhausted already. “I’ve had a couple of middle school kids helping me out after school with the surge. Addy’s pediatrician’s son, Grady. One of his friends, Jo.”

“I thought there were laws against child labor.” She teased him, a change of mood while she did her best to ignore the gap beneath the buttons of his shirt. The way he was standing gave her a glimpse of the bare skin above his belt. And it was so,
so
hard not to stare at his very tight abs, the dusting of hair there, and what looked like tattooed red, green, and gold scales . . .

He shrugged, the motion widening the gap. A lizard? A dragon? A snake? And what were the words clinging to the spikes along its back? She would need to get closer to see, and, well, that wasn’t going to happen, was it?