At The Millionaire's Request. Teresa Southwick

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      “Why can’t you? I would think your loss would motivate you, that you’d want to help injured children.”

      “You arrogant, pigheaded idiot. How dare you?” Anger flashed in her eyes and it was better than the sorrow. “What gives you the right to judge me?”

      “I’m not judging—”

      “The hell you aren’t.” She glared at him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s too painful to be around young children.”

      “So it’s self-protection?”

      “Partly. But there’s a clinical basis for my decision.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “It’s simple really. I hold back emotionally. It’s a response to pain, like pulling your hand away from fire. I can’t connect with kids anymore—” She swallowed hard. “Whatever made me a good SLP is broken.”

      SLP. Speech language pathologist. Gavin had done his homework on the subject. And Sean’s doctor had said she was the best. He needed her.

      Correction: Sean needed her.

      Gavin had seen her in action with teenagers. She’d found something positive to say about the two antisocial rebels. Whatever made her good with kids might be damaged, but he’d bet it wasn’t broken.

      But he noticed she was even more pale than that day in her classroom and more shaken up than she’d been after going a couple rounds with Evil E and hardware face. Her mouth trembled and her eyes were haunted, the bruise on her cheek standing out starkly against the fair skin. He’d stirred the pot of her feelings and should regret it, but guilt was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Still, desperate as he was, it was clear that he’d pushed hard enough.

      For now.

      “I’d like to see for myself whether or not you’ve lost your edge.” He slid his wallet from his back pocket and saw her gaze narrow as she frowned. After pulling out a business card, he dropped it on the oak table.

      “Do me a favor. Just think about it.” He walked past her and started toward the doorway.

      “Do you ever say please, Gavin?”

      “If it would change your mind I’d say it in a second.”

      “It wouldn’t,” she said. “I just wondered. Goodbye.”

      For now, he thought again.

      M.J. set her steaming mug of green tea on the kitchen table, then sat down, unable to suppress a tired sigh. “It’s good to be home.”

      Her mother set out three floral placemats followed by plates, napkins and utensils. While Evelyn set the table, Aunt Lil stirred something on the stove.

      “Rough day?” her mother asked.

      “Yes.” M.J. saw the frown and regretted her honesty.

      “You look tired, sweetie.” Evelyn’s mouth tightened with disapproval.

      “I am.” And not all of it was about the energy drain of educating teenagers. Some of it had to do with not sleeping well, and that was Gavin Spencer’s fault.

      How dare he dredge up all the painful memories? She’d worked hard the past two years, not to forget because that wouldn’t happen, but to make herself remember the good things. To keep Brian alive in her heart. But it wasn’t just about her memories. The dashing Mr. Spencer was disturbing, his intensity unsettling. He was alternately challenging and charming. But she refused to be charmed.

      Her mother set a trivet in front of her on the table. “M.J., I don’t know why you refuse to take a less stressful, permanent position. It’s not like the school district has an abundance of teachers.”

      “There’s a need for educators on every level,” M.J. admitted.

      She remained on the substitute list because the per diem scale actually netted her more money. The downside was a different classroom every day. Except she was a permanent sub until the teacher she’d replaced returned from maternity leave.

      “But sometimes I think the kids would learn just as well from a Sumo wrestler.” She remembered Gavin saying she needed pepper spray and self-defense lessons. Today she agreed with him.

      “What did the little stinkers do this time?” her mother asked.

      “The usual. Not turning off cell phones. Someone with a camera phone trying to take a picture underneath an unsuspecting girl’s skirt.”

      “Today’s technological equivalent of sticking pigtails in the inkwell?” her mother asked wryly.

      M.J. grinned. “Sort of. But what pushed me over the edge was the boy who jumped on his desk and let out a Tarzan yell during a test.”

      “It’s too bad they won’t let you smack knuckles with a ruler anymore. There’s something to be said for corporal punishment and the old days.” Evelyn nodded sagely.

      “Now we send them to the dean of discipline,” M.J. explained, feeling inadequate for not being able to deal with the situation. “But it’s not fair to the other students when a teacher can’t teach because one bozo disrupts the entire class.”

      Evelyn frowned. “I suppose. But I can’t help wondering if you took a job in a different school things might be better.”

      M.J. was grateful when she was spared the need to lie because Aunt Lil walked over with a big container of split pea soup. She was older than her sister, a shorter version with blond hair and hazel eyes. Both were technically spinsters since neither of them had ever married. But unlike Evelyn, Lillian had never had children. She’d been like a second mother to M.J., a more diplomatic, less judgmental version.

      “It’s soup weather. March comes in like a lion, out like a lamb,” Aunt Lil said. After setting down the large tureen, she automatically rubbed her wrist.

      “Is your arm bothering you, Aunt Lil?”

      The older woman smiled, a spunky look in her eyes as she held up her arm. “I could predict a cold front with these bones.”

      “I’m sure it’s arthritis,” her mother said.

      “You should have let me know you wanted the soup on the table,” M.J. said. “I’d have carried it over for you.”

      Guilt squeezed M.J. because she was responsible for the injury that had resulted in the arthritis. Years ago her aunt had tripped over something M.J. hadn’t put away as ordered, and fell, breaking her wrist. M.J. had never seen her mother so angry and still remembered the lecture.

      Good girls always clean up their messes. M.J. was doing just that as a substitute teacher. It was the best solution to her current financial mess because she simply couldn’t go back to her career. And she was getting tired of explaining herself. A little over a week ago, she’d had a similar conversation with Gavin Spencer regarding her substitute teacher status. He’d been curious about why she refused a permanent assignment, too.

      “There СКАЧАТЬ