Bliss and the Art of Forever - Alison Kent Page 0,3

always miss him. She would always love him. But he’d made her promise, should anything happen to him, that she wouldn’t stop living her life because he’d lost his. That was the last thing he’d wanted. And she’d done her best to respect his wishes, but once in a while, just every so often, she had to give grief its due.

Anyway, she mused, crossing from the classroom’s cubbies to her desk, a Friday spent with Bruce Willis and brownies required she do something on Saturday to counter the calories and sloth. Most of her friends would be busy with their significant others, leaving her on her own. Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing if, since Artie’s death, she hadn’t fallen into a rut.

It hadn’t happened overnight. But it had happened. She’d initiated fewer outings with friends—dinners, shopping, shows—and turned down more and more invitations. It was easier to stay in and read her medieval romances or watch her Bruce Willis films than feel like a third wheel—or like a walking reminder to other firefighters’ wives of what they and their men faced daily.

She had coworkers to whom she was close, and friends she’d met in yoga class, and neighbors, sure, but a rut being the dull and boring routine that it was, well, not to be defensive, but books and movies did make for great company. Though, she mused, a cat might be even better. Two cats. A clowder of cats. A glaring of cats. A whole freaking clutter of cats.

Thankfully, she’d be on her way to Italy soon, and seeing Artie’s family there, because knowing that many terms for a group of said felines was a pretty good sign sloth was the least of her worries. This trip, as hard as it would be, was going to be good for her, because honestly, she needed to remember how to have fun.

Reaching for her trash can, she dusted her hands free of used staples and bent tacks. “Maybe I’ll do something outrageous tomorrow. Like buy myself chocolate for Valentine’s Day.”

“Valentine’s Day isn’t Valentine’s Day without chocolate.”

At the deep male voice, she spun, reaching for her scissors, yet realizing instinctively she wouldn’t need them. What criminal sort announced himself before committing his crime? Also, after today’s story hour, she knew that voice well. She imagined she’d be a long time forgetting it.

She turned from her desk, forgoing the weapon. Callum Drake stood in her doorway, wispy twists of hair hanging loose from the knot on the back of his head to brush his cheeks. He had a forearm on either side of the frame, his feet in the hall as if he were a vampire awaiting an invitation.

For a very long moment she wondered how safe it would be to offer him one. “Mr. Drake,” she finally said. “You scared me.” She brought her hand to the base of her throat, less frightened than . . . other things. Things that had no business in this classroom. “What’re you doing here?”

“Callum,” he said, his shrug careless and lazy, but also hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure, or was having second thoughts about whatever he’d come for. “Or Cal. Or C.B.”

“C.B.?”

“Bennett,” he said, and grinned, a devastating flash of teeth and charm. “My middle name. Friends used to call me that, but it’s been a while, so . . .”

Callum Bennett Drake. Irish biker. Candy maker. Daddy to a six-year-old moppet. Deep breath, Brooklyn. Deep breath. You have plans and no room in your life for a rogue. “Callum it is.”

His grin deepened. “Addy told me you’d been staying late all week. I was hoping you might still be here.”

Addy. She’d forgotten his daughter telling her he used the nickname. She’d also forgotten telling the class she’d be preholiday cleaning after school, using the chore as a lesson in rewards. All she had to do was put in the time, and voilà, she had the long weekend free.

She waved him inside, wondering what he wanted. She preferred to discuss her students’ progress during official parent-teacher conferences. “She told me she’d be at her grandparents’ this weekend because you were working.”

He pushed off the frame, seeming to gain six inches of height as he did, though at least some of that was due to the biker boots he wore. Black leather, silver buckles, tough stitching. “I dropped her off earlier, and I’ll pick her up Sunday morning. Shop’s closed the rest of the long weekend, so she gets two days with my