Spying Under the Mistletoe (Love Undercover #2) - Stina Lindenblatt Page 0,10
kids answer “H”—with a few other letters called out.
“That’s right,” she says. “For the next few minutes, I want you to practice writing the letter H.” And like magic, the rowdy bunch of kids hustle to the small, colorful plastic drawers, pull out their writing books and pencils, and march themselves to their seats and sit.
Chloe winks at me and escorts the two soaked kids into her classroom.
“I’m going to clean up the mess,” I announce to the class, “and then we’ll get started. I don’t want to hear any talking while you practice. Capisce?”
“What does ka-peesh mean?” Pigtails asks.
“Do you understand.”
She shakes her head. “No, that’s why I asked.”
“No, that’s what capisce means. Do you understand.” And because I want to show who’s in control of this pony ride, I walk away, having the last word.
Five minutes later, the two soggy kids are in dry clothes, the entire class is busy practicing Hs in their workbooks, and I’ve taken attendance.
Chloe is back in her classroom with her own kids. The morning goes by relatively fast, once I get the general gist of what the hell I’m doing. It’s pretty easy actually—walking-through-a-pit-of-hungry-alligators-without-getting-eaten-alive kind of easy.
But I’ve got this. I didn’t survive the SEALs just to be taken down by a bunch of kids.
Chloe and I are assigned the first recess duty. We get the kids dressed for outside and funnel them out the rear door of the building. The other two kindergarten classes join us, but the teachers stay inside and shoot back whiskey—or whatever they do to get through the day with the incessant questions and fidgeting.
“You seem to be doing okay so far,” Chloe says as we watch the kids run around the field. Some of them are chasing soccer balls. Others are climbing over the playground equipment like ants on a piece of pastrami. “Kindergarteners must be quite a shock to the system after working with high school students.”
“High school?”
“Principal Woodnut mentioned you used to teach high school, but then decided to be an elementary school teacher. That’s why she asked me to help you. She figured you might feel a little overwhelmed at first by how different this age group is compared to what you’re used to.”
Well, isn’t Principal Woodnut the crafty one?
“Right. But I’ll admit I like this age. They’re fun, and they ask the funniest questions.” All the truth.
They also asked questions that thank Christ Chloe didn’t witness, like “Why do I have a penis but my sister doesn’t?” and “Where do babies come from?” and “What does intercourse mean?”
Seriously, what kid knows the word “intercourse”?
“So, what about you?” Chloe asks, looking adorably sexy with her rosy cheeks and the end of her nose pink. Her hands are hidden in her coat pockets. “Do you have any pets? I never had the chance to ask you before you had to go to your classroom this morning.”
“I kind of have a puppy.”
“How do you kind of have a puppy? Does your wife or girlfriend half own it or something?”
“Nope. I’m single.” I slide a glance at her to check her reaction and catch her studying me. She shakes her head as if mentally answering a question I’m not privy to. “I found the puppy outside my town house yesterday morning and took him to the vet because he was injured.”
She gasps, and her eyes fill with concern. Like she wants to march down to the clinic and give the puppy lots of hugs. “Will he be all right?”
“He should be. So now I’m looking for a home for him. You don’t by any chance know anyone who would like a dog, do you?”
“Sorry. I wish I did. You could ask the staff here. They might know of someone.”
“I’ll do that, thanks.”
“Is he staying with you while you find him a new home?”
It would seem so. The clinic called last night to let me know that there are currently no foster homes available to take him in until a forever home can be found.
“I’m picking him up at the clinic after work.”
Chloe looks at me as if I’m her hero. Guess she must really love animals.
“What kind of dog is he?” she asks.
I show her the photo on my phone.
“Oh, God, he’s so cute. What’s his name?”
“He never mentioned it to me. Maybe he told the vet technicians.” The corner of my mouth slides up to one side.
“You have to give him a name. You can’t just call him The Puppy. It might give him a