Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Weaver Christmas Gift\The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming\Santa's Playbook (48 page)

Claire grabbed the coiled string from behind her, then stood to carry it over to him. “Thanks,” he muttered, reaching for the strand without looking. Only his fingers brushed hers, and he jerked at how icy they were, before frowning down to see that the tip of her nose, her cheeks, were red from the cold, and something inside him...shifted. Almost imperceptibly, for sure, but he'd definitely felt it. Yes, despite everything she'd said, and everything
he'd
said, and those crazy-ass things on her legs, and her taking his daughter's side about being an actress...

He trusted her, he realized. With everything he had in him. Because she
didn't
play games, or do the coy, cutesy thing that drove him bonkers. So if nothing else, whatever was going on here... It was real.
She
was real.

And very, very alive—

“What?” she said, and Ethan gave his head a sharp shake, then looked at her again.

“You want some coffee or something? Hot chocolate?”

She smiled, and things shifted a little more. “Coffee would be great, thanks.”

* * *

By mid-December, between rehearsals and trying to prep holidazed kids for midterms, Claire was far too busy to dwell overmuch on that soul-baring convo the day after Thanksgiving. But occasionally—like after she'd fall into bed, too exhausted to monitor incoming thoughts, or when she'd see Ethan from a distance at school and he'd give her a friendly wave—it would occur to her that they'd untangled a lot more than light strings that afternoon.

Because... Okay, call her crazy, but she'd sensed an easing, she guessed she could call it, between them. An acceptance, maybe, of who they were and where they were coming from. Like, maybe...they were friends now?

In any case, in spite of the ever-present hum of holiday excitement, things felt calmer and more settled—for her, anyway—than they had in ages, she decided as she circled a big, red B+ on Roland's latest essay. And speak of the devil... She looked up at the kid's knock on her office door.

“Good timing,” she said over the sound of the janitor running the big polishing machine in the hallway outside. “Just graded your paper.” She held it out so he could see the grade, and his entire face lit up.

“Whaaa...?”
he said, with a dig-me dip of the knees, then took it from her, the smile stretching as he scanned her comments. “I really did this?”

“You really did. Which I know since I watched you sit here and write it. I am so freaking proud of you, dude.”

Rolling his eyes, he stuffed the paper in his backpack, then slung the bag over his shoulder again, one hand clamped around the strap. “You know what's really cool, Miss J? The way you tell us what we got
right,
too. Instead of, you know, only marking what's wrong.”

Claire sat back in her chair, her arms crossed. “Well, of course. No sense in telling you what needs improvement if you don't know what's working.”

“Yeah, that's what Coach says, too. Which is sorta why I'm here, actually. 'Cause I figured you should know.” More beaming. “A scout from Michigan State was at the game on Friday.”

The division championship game. Which Hoover had lost by one lousy point. But the team had played their hearts out, and Roland had made a last-second touchdown that—according to Juliette and Rosie—had been nothing short of a miracle.

Claire sucked in a breath. “And...?”

By now the kid's dreads were positively quivering with his excitement. “And...he stuck around to catch me after. Said we should talk more after the holidays, but he was interested. Real interested. Said I've got exactly the kind of talent they're looking for.”

“Omigosh, Roland—” Claire got up to give the boy a high five “—that's wonderful!”

“Coach also said if there was one offer, there'd probably be others. Least, he said that's what happened with him. But...if it hadn't been for you kicking my butt about my grade in here—and then Coach's kicking it a second time to make sure I did whatever you said—none of this would be happening. So I just wanted to say thanks. Also, that I bought tickets for me and my folks to see the play. Because that seemed only fair.”

Claire laughed. “Whatever works. But I'm so happy for you. You're earned this, Roland. So revel in it, okay?”

“You got it, teacher lady,” he said, then left, fist-bumping the janitor on his way out. Goofball.

Doing a fair amount of grinning herself, Claire gathered up her things and slipped on her heavy coat. But instead of leaving the building through the door nearest her classroom, she trekked through miles of silent, dimly lit hallways to the other side, on the off chance that Ethan was still in his office.

He was, hunched over his desk with his chin in his hand and his forehead creased, a red pencil poised to attack the hapless page in front of him. Marking one of the state-mandated tests, no doubt, PE kids had to take these days and which Claire knew he hated with a purple passion. Smiling, Claire stood in the hallway, watching him, letting the wave of tenderness she felt for this quietly courageous man wash over her, and it occurred to her that in the infinite range of colors and tones that defined the ways we loved our fellow humans, admiration was definitely one of the brighter hues.

She rapped lightly on his door. Still frowning, he glanced up...and practically jumped to his feet. “Hey there! Uh...come on in—”

“No, that's okay, I need to get home, I promised my landlord I'd have dinner with him.” At Ethan's curious expression, she laughed. “He's in his eighties. And gay. He also recently lost his partner,” she said with a small smile. “So hanging out... I think it helps.” He gave her one of those looks that sent her stomach into overdrive. “But anyway...” Her hand shook a little when she shoved her hair behind her ear. “Roland stopped by to tell me the great news.”

The muscles eased in Ethan's brow. “Not sure which of us is happier about it, either. Although he couldn't have done it without you.”

“Without both of us. Apparently it takes two to kick butt.”

His chuckle sounded tired. “That one's butt, anyway.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “Guess we make a good team.”

“Apparently so,” Claire said, and the air thickened between them.

Ethan cleared his throat. “Actually, since you're here... Jules's math tutor is leaving Hoover, so he's no longer an option. I was wondering if you knew of anybody else...?”

“Gosh, sorry... No. Not in math. But I'm sure the counseling office can help.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Figured I'd check with you first, though. Since you seem to have a pulse on these things.”

She humphed a short laugh. “I'm very flattered, but you're giving me way too much credit.”

He smiled. “I'll let you go, then—”

“Um...yeah.” She started to leave. “See ya 'round—”

“Oh, did Jules tell you?”

Claire turned back.

“She's sold every single thing she bought from that estate sale the two of you went to.”

“No, she didn't. Good for her!”

“Yeah. Kid's got a knack. Good head for business.”

Claire knew exactly where he was going with this, chose not to follow. “Clearly. Well. Give everyone my—” Love, she started to say. “Best. And have a good night. All of you.”

“You, too,” he said, his gaze locked in hers, and she thought,
Hell.

Because, as she zipped out to her car, the thought nagged that despite what she'd wanted to see—to believe—about things easing between them... Had they really? If they'd truly settled into friendship—which was the only logical choice, given the circumstances—why had that conversation felt like a pair of shoes that didn't fit?

“Don't even bother answering that,” she muttered to the universe.

Which was probably laughing its damn ass off.

* * *

The note from her counselor clutched in her hand, Juliette marched into the library during lunch on Friday, squinting slightly as she looked for her new tutor, some chick named Ashley Robertson. Man, she sure hoped this one was better than that other dude, who had the patience of a gnat. Him, she would not miss.

The library had set aside an area for tutoring alongside a bank of windows overlooking the courtyard. Juliette scanned the heads bent over books or sitting in corrals with headphones, her breath catching when she spotted Scott sitting at a far table by one of the windows.

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself. “So he's in here, big fat deal...” And, oh, my
God,
what was he
doing?

Standing, was what he was doing. And...waving her over?

What the hell?

She lifted the note—like he could see it from way over there, yeesh—and shook her head. But he gestured to her again. Nodding. And...smiling?

Juliette shook her head again, as if that would wake her up from what was obviously a dream. Then curiosity overcame horror and she made her way across the industrial carpet, clutching her math book so tightly to her chest she could barely breathe.

“I was looking for Ashley,” she whispered.

“I know,” Scott whispered back. “I traded students with her.” Juliette blinked, not understanding. Scott grinned. “I'm your new tutor.”

She nearly dropped the book. And her jaw. “How—?”

“Ash is better at algebra. Geometry's my baby. And...”

Holy cow, was he
blushing?

“I figured helping you ace this class,” he said, “was the best way to apologize for being a jerk to you. You didn't deserve that.” At her continued gawking—because coherent speech was so not happening at the moment—he got even redder, then said, “I'm not a bad person, Julie. At least I'd like to think I'm not. But I sure acted like one, and I'm really, really sorry. Can you... Will you forgive me?”

Her eyes might have narrowed. One thing about coming from a large family?
Everybody
is all hot to warn you about boys who only want to play you. Rosie got the same thing—God knows they'd shared notes often enough. So it wasn't like she was naive or anything. In fact, she realized as her hammering heart slowed down enough to hear herself say, “Sure. Whatever,” she was in total control of the situation.

Yes, even in the face of those adorable dimples when Scott grinned again, clearly relieved.

“Okay. That's...that's awesome. Thanks.” She shrugged. Never mind how badly her knees were shaking. “So. Have a seat and let's get started. What chapter are you on?”

Nope,
Juliette thought as she sat beside Scott and opened her book, trying like the dickens not to react to how good he smelled,
this time
she was not going to act like some lovesick chick. If this was fate... Fine. If not...

It was like Miss Jacobs said: if things were supposed to work out, they would. But you couldn't
force
them to. Meaning all she had to do—all she could do—was trust. With that thought, every bit of her nervousness dropped away. Okay, most of it.

And bonus points—her hair actually looked halfway decent for once.

So, bam.

* * *

Used to be, going to get the tree with four kids meant choosing one as quickly as possible before a) Jules got bored, b) Bella had to pee, or c) the twins wreaked havoc, got lost and/or drove innocent bystanders
up
the trees with their antics. This year, none of that seemed to be an issue—although Jules's dreamy grin was worrisome. Huh. However, three children's loudly delivered opinions about which tree was
the
tree—three, because Jules was clearly Not There—were meriting pretty much the same askance looks from other shoppers as in years past. Meaning he was doomed no matter what. And yes, every year he tried to talk the kids into a fake tree, and every year they looked so horrified he reneged. Not that he didn't understand—Merri had loved everything about the real tree, from the expedition to get the damn thing, to its “character”—meaning, how lopsided it was—to how it made the house smell like Christmas. Like
magic,
she'd said.

Yeah, whatever. She'd never had to drag the dead, dried-up thing out of the house every New Year's or vacuum up a gazillion dropped needles. There was nothing magic about messes, Ethan thought as they all finally settled on one that would at least fit in the house.

Of course, even he knew that his Grinch mood had far less to the do with the tree, or Christmas, or any of it, and far more to do with his confusion about a certain drama/English teacher whose smile and laughter and stupid, adorable curly hair had invaded the already overcrowded space in his head and refused to leave. Like the crush from hell. At thirty-eight. So wrong.

Then again, since he'd done things backward, anyway—falling in love at fifteen, a thought that made him totally sympathize with his and Merri's poor parents—it only made sense that he'd be doing the schoolboy infatuation thing now—

If that's what you want to call it, knucklehead...

Yeah, well, since that's all it could be...

Great. Now he was arguing with himself.
And the loony bin gets closer and closer,
he thought as he pulled into the driveway and his phone rang. He answered without bothering to check the display while the kids all piled out of the car and raced inside the house. Except for Number One Daughter, aka Miss Nosybody.

“Ethan? It's Sandy. I got your number off Mom's phone—”

Sandy. His half sister. God, when had he last seen her? Ten, twelve years ago—

“I know,” she said, “it's been a long time, but—”

His heart stammering, Ethan got out of the car, motioning for Jules to follow. “Is Debbie okay?”

“Mom's fine. It's...it's my dad. He, uh, passed away a couple days ago. Heart attack.”

Ethan leaned one hand on the car's roof, breathing in the pungent scent of fresh Noble fir. “Oh, Sandy... Damn.” He'd been five when his birth mother remarried, had only met her husband once, when they'd come for his and Merri's wedding. But he'd liked him, was grateful to see how happy he'd made the woman who'd sacrificed so much. “You guys okay?”