then getting home to find out what the hell was wrong with his son. That’s what he should be focusing on. If he were a good father that’s what he’d be focusing on. He must not be, he thought grimly, because what he was focusing on was the way her shoulder barely brushed his as she limped across the tiled lobby floor.
She fit well at his side. She was tall, taller than his wife had been, and the comparison stung as much as the memory. He tried to squelch the memory, to push it down deep where he could pretend it didn’t exist, but once begun it continued to roll. There was a time, long ago when the boys were small, when Melissa would nuzzle her cheek to his chest ...He’d lower his head, smell her hair ...A sharp pain struck him square in the heart. He couldn’t allow himself to remember anymore.
Melissa was gone, taking . . . no,
stealing
everything comfortable with her.
Damn you, Mel,
he thought, anger sweeping away the yearning.
Steven straightened so abruptly that Dr. Marshall looked up in surprise, her sudden movement sending her black hair swinging over her shoulder.
“Did I step on your foot?” she asked. He could see she was in pain. Her lips curved, but the smile was for polite show only.
He shook his head. “No.”
Her eyes questioned, then dropped back to her feet when it was clear he would say nothing more. Her head lowered and her hair fell forward to hide her face. Quickly she tucked it behind her ear. Coconut. Her hair smelled like coconut. Beaches and suntan lotion. And bikinis.
God.
She smelled good. He didn’t want to notice it any more than he wanted to notice the curve of her jaw or the straight line of her nose. Or her full lips. Or her legs that went all the way up to her shoulders. He didn’t want to notice any of her attributes, but he found them impossible to ignore. He drew an appreciative breath before locking his jaw.
The last thing he needed at this stage of his life was the distraction of a woman. Normally ignoring distracting women was one of the things he did best, much to the dismay of his aunt Helen. But it seemed harder today. Today he was feeling very... vulnerable. He grimaced. Just thinking the word left a bad taste in his mouth. But it was true, be it the emotionally taxing experience with Samantha Eggleston’s parents or the fact that his son’s life was falling apart and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do.
Dr. Marshall paused as he opened the front door of the school for her. Her hand that so gently grasped his arm for support gave a single soft squeeze.
“It will be all right, Mr. Thatcher,” she said quietly. “You need to believe that.”
He needed to believe that. He almost did. Almost wished he could have someone like her at his side, giving him the same kind of encouragement day in, day out. Almost.
He nodded once. “Do you think you can drive yourself home?”
She tilted her head as if to sharpen her focus and he felt suddenly exposed, as if she could see his most acute fears. He expected more wisdom, but instead she simply answered the question he’d asked. “Yes. As I said before, my right foot’s fine and my car’s an automatic. I’ll be fine.”
“If you give me your keys I’ll bring your car.”
He watched as she fished in her purse, coming up with a set of keys. “It’s a red Jag.”
He blinked. “You have a Jaguar? On a teacher’s salary?” “I inherited it,” she said and pointed to the far corner of the parking lot. “It’s over there.”
He took the keys from her hand and helped her down the flight of stairs leading from the school. At the bottom she released his arm to grab the iron guardrail. And he felt bereft. He didn’t like the feeling.
Distraction. Brad’s Dr. Marshall was definitely that. Brad needed to get his act together and fast, both for his own sake and to keep his father from needing to see his teacher again.
F IVE
Friday, September 30, 4:45 P.M.
B RAD T HATCHER SAT ON THE EDGE OF HIS
She fit well at his side. She was tall, taller than his wife had been, and the comparison stung as much as the memory. He tried to squelch the memory, to push it down deep where he could pretend it didn’t exist, but once begun it continued to roll. There was a time, long ago when the boys were small, when Melissa would nuzzle her cheek to his chest ...He’d lower his head, smell her hair ...A sharp pain struck him square in the heart. He couldn’t allow himself to remember anymore.
Melissa was gone, taking . . . no,
stealing
everything comfortable with her.
Damn you, Mel,
he thought, anger sweeping away the yearning.
Steven straightened so abruptly that Dr. Marshall looked up in surprise, her sudden movement sending her black hair swinging over her shoulder.
“Did I step on your foot?” she asked. He could see she was in pain. Her lips curved, but the smile was for polite show only.
He shook his head. “No.”
Her eyes questioned, then dropped back to her feet when it was clear he would say nothing more. Her head lowered and her hair fell forward to hide her face. Quickly she tucked it behind her ear. Coconut. Her hair smelled like coconut. Beaches and suntan lotion. And bikinis.
God.
She smelled good. He didn’t want to notice it any more than he wanted to notice the curve of her jaw or the straight line of her nose. Or her full lips. Or her legs that went all the way up to her shoulders. He didn’t want to notice any of her attributes, but he found them impossible to ignore. He drew an appreciative breath before locking his jaw.
The last thing he needed at this stage of his life was the distraction of a woman. Normally ignoring distracting women was one of the things he did best, much to the dismay of his aunt Helen. But it seemed harder today. Today he was feeling very... vulnerable. He grimaced. Just thinking the word left a bad taste in his mouth. But it was true, be it the emotionally taxing experience with Samantha Eggleston’s parents or the fact that his son’s life was falling apart and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do.
Dr. Marshall paused as he opened the front door of the school for her. Her hand that so gently grasped his arm for support gave a single soft squeeze.
“It will be all right, Mr. Thatcher,” she said quietly. “You need to believe that.”
He needed to believe that. He almost did. Almost wished he could have someone like her at his side, giving him the same kind of encouragement day in, day out. Almost.
He nodded once. “Do you think you can drive yourself home?”
She tilted her head as if to sharpen her focus and he felt suddenly exposed, as if she could see his most acute fears. He expected more wisdom, but instead she simply answered the question he’d asked. “Yes. As I said before, my right foot’s fine and my car’s an automatic. I’ll be fine.”
“If you give me your keys I’ll bring your car.”
He watched as she fished in her purse, coming up with a set of keys. “It’s a red Jag.”
He blinked. “You have a Jaguar? On a teacher’s salary?” “I inherited it,” she said and pointed to the far corner of the parking lot. “It’s over there.”
He took the keys from her hand and helped her down the flight of stairs leading from the school. At the bottom she released his arm to grab the iron guardrail. And he felt bereft. He didn’t like the feeling.
Distraction. Brad’s Dr. Marshall was definitely that. Brad needed to get his act together and fast, both for his own sake and to keep his father from needing to see his teacher again.
F IVE
Friday, September 30, 4:45 P.M.
B RAD T HATCHER SAT ON THE EDGE OF HIS
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