Nick smiled. “I often did.”
I groaned. “Yes, and me the daughter of the literature scholar. I think that’s why my dad always liked you so much. You were the daughter he always wanted.”
Nick tossed a ball of frosting at me and I laughed.
But the laughter died quickly as I thought about JT. “What if he’s failing?”
“Then you let me have a talk with him. I’ll straighten him out.”
“We tried that last month when he was failing geometry.”
I pressed the last layer of cake down on the supports and stepped back to look at it.
“I don’t know what to do with JT. I’m not a parent, never really wanted to be one. Especially not to a teenager.”
“JT is basically a good kid. He’s just going through that thing all teenagers go through: adolescence.”
“I wished I believed that’s all it is. But I’m afraid there’s more to it than that. I don’t know what he’s doing half the time. He barely talks to me. What do I do if he gets arrested or, God forbid, something worse?”
“Take it one step at a time, Penny,” Nick said, coming to stand beside me. “It’s only a teacher calling for a conference. Do you know how many times my mom had to go to the school to talk about me?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t all bad.”
“Then you’d be surprised.” He kissed my cheek gently before returning to his flowers. “Don’t worry until you have a reason to worry.”
Much easier said than done.
~~~
I walked into the school still brushing flour from the front of my pink t-shirt. I hadn’t had time to go home and change. After delivering the wedding cake, we had three orders of cupcakes that had to be prepared, decorated, and delivered. And then the sponge cake for two cake orders had to be baked before tomorrow. I still had to go back and finish the last set of cakes.
So, I brushed flour from my shirt, hoping the white splotches didn’t show too much. I paused outside the classroom and tugged at my hair, making sure my ponytail was still fairly straight and ran my hands over my jeans, wiping away imaginary frosting, food coloring, and anything else that might have been stuck there if I hadn’t washed my hands twice before leaving the bakery. Then, with a deep breath and a feeling that I’d somehow stepped back into time and become an awkward teen again, I stepped into the classroom.
“Mr. James?”
He was sitting behind the generic yellow desk that adorned the front of most high school classrooms, his head bent as he looked over a student essay. He was wearing jeans and a white dress shirt, a tie loosened at the collar. His hair was dark, a mass of curls that reminded me of the unruly disaster that was JT’s hair when he let it grow out. Thank goodness it was cut short right now, a requirement set by the football coach.
And then he looked up and my heart skipped a beat.
He was…his eyes were dark, a deep brown that was like caramel that was just on the verge of burning. He had a heavy jaw and full lips, a long patrician nose that somehow worked with his face, and a subtle dimple in his left cheek when he smiled.
He stood, so tall I had to lift my chin a little to meet his eyes. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his chest straining against the front of that well pressed, linen shirt. His sleeves were rolled up and I could see tattoos on his inner wrists and one halfway up one forearm. I’d never met a teacher with tattoos before, but I supposed it was a reality of the modern world.
He crossed his arms over his chest and studied me for a moment.
“Can I help you?”
That caught me off guard. I’d thought he was expecting me.
“I’m Penelope Monroe,” I said slowly. “JT’s sister.”
I thought I saw surprise dance in those dark eyes for a second. He stepped forward, holding out one hand with impossibly long fingers.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Nice recovery, I thought as I shook his hand, trying to ignore the little tingle that rushed up the length of my arm at his touch. When he released my hand, I crossed my own arms over my chest and studied him as he studied me. If my high school teachers had looked like this…
“Have a seat, Miss Monroe,” he said gesturing toward one of the student desks. “This shouldn’t take but a few minutes.”
“Has JT been acting out in class?” I asked as I slid into the narrow seat.
“No. In fact, it would be preferable if he did. But he’s actually sleeping through most of my class.”
I bit my lip, thinking about an argument JT and I’d had just a few days ago.
You have to go to bed earlier. You’re never going to be able to concentrate in class if you’re not getting enough sleep.
I get plenty of sleep.
No, you don’t, JT. Going to bed at one o’clock and then getting up at seven—
You’re not mom. Stop acting like it.
That always stopped me cold in my tracks. And JT knew it.