Heartland Heroes: The Men of Rebel Autos: A BBW Romance Collection (Curvy Collections Book 9)

Chapter 1

Ican”t believe a man hasn’t snapped you up yet, Marsha,” my best work friend, Helen, says as she unboxes her lunch and unfolds her napkin.

I roll my eyes, but I smile anyway. “Maybe I”m too much of a handful for them.”

Helen chuckles. “Or maybe they don”t appreciate a strong, independent woman who has standards and knows what she wants.”

“That”s nice of you to say, but I”m okay with not dating right now.”

Helen gives me the side eye as she picks up her sandwich. “You say that, but I don”t believe it’s true. We”ve got a veritable stream of handsome single men coming through the school with their children. Why not date one of them?”

“Oh, no,” I say, holding up my hands and leaning back in my seat. “I don”t think so. You know my rule – no dating single fathers. I don”t want a man with the baggage of an ex-wife or a widow. And I”m not sure I want to date a man with a child. I”ve seen friends try to navigate that, and it never seems to go well. I don”t think I have the stamina for it.”

“You”ve got a fair point about the excess baggage,” Helen says with a nod. “I still think you should give some of these men a chance. I bet there’s a diamond in the rough out there. You can always find enough good qualities in a person to make up for bad habits or things that aren”t ideal. Just this morning, I saw a father dropping off his daughter. No wedding ring, but he looked like he could be a model, especially dressed in the sharp suit he was wearing.”

I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t think a man like that is going to be interested in me. I’m not sure I’d be interested in a man like that.”

“Then who would you be interested in, Marsha?” Helen narrows her eyes.

I know I’ve given away that I’ve actually considered this, even though I say I won’t. “I’m not sure, but certainly not someone who thinks everything has to be perfect. I’d love a man who works with his hands. There’s something pure and honest about work like that.”

Helen arches an eyebrow. “Well, there are plenty of blue-collar men here in Jefferson. I bet my Victor knows someone he could introduce you to.”

“No!” I exclaim. “No offense, but blind dates don’t work for me. Men see I have,” I gesture down at my large breasts and wide hips, “and they immediately tune out. Either that or they think I’m easy and can just use me and toss me aside.”

“Pssh. They’re fools if you ask me. Real men like a little meat on their ladies.” Helen shakes her head at this like she doesn’t believe me. I love that she thinks it would be so easy for me to find a man to love and let into my life, but I don’t think she understands the reality of dating these days.

“If I can find a single dad like that, I’d consider it,” I concede. I’m not sure I believe I would actually do this, but I can’t deny that I would rethink my rule if a man came along and just swept me off my feet.

Even though I only started teaching at Jefferson High this year, Helen and I have had this exact conversation more times than I can count. I’ve learned that giving slight concessions or appearing to is the best way to stop her from setting me up on a blind date.

“Would you date these fathers if you were single, Helen?”

Helen has been happily married for twenty years. Sometimes I think she doesn”t realize what it”s like to be single anymore, especially these days. I’m not even thirty yet, but it seems like all the men on apps are looking for someone younger – and thinner – to start a relationship with. Even older men, who I generally prefer, want the same type of women. It’s challenging and disheartening, to say the least. I don’t like being single, but right now, it’s the best option for my sanity.

“Of course I would,” she says, though I see uncertainty in her eyes.

“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll think about it.”

Helen looks at me, and we both know I”m fudging the truth, at least a little bit. The thing is, I don”t know if I could handle a man”s baggage if he had an ex-wife, especially if it was a vindictive divorce. Or if he was a widow. I mean, how do you step into the shoes of a dead woman? Especially if it was someone he really loved? I”m not sure I”d want another woman”s ghost to be the third person in a relationship or marriage.

Right now, the children I teach are standing in for the children I don”t have, and that”s perfect. I get to help shape these kids” lives, and hopefully, they”ll help the world be a better place. For now, that”s enough.

Or at least this is the story I tell myself.

* * *

“Tessa,can you stay after class, please?”

A chorus of oohs echoes in the classroom as the other students tease Tessa for being asked to stay late. I smile at Tessa as she walks toward me to let her know she”s not in trouble. Not that she ever would be, because she”s probably the most talented student I”ve ever had.

“What”s up, Miss Andrews?” Tessa asks, her eyes wide as they meet mine.

“Have you given any more thought to applying to the summer writing program I mentioned? I think you”d be an excellent fit for the program. Your last story was amazing.”

“Thanks, Miss Andrews,” Tessa says.

She looks down at the ground, but I can see her smile, and I know she”s proud of what she”s done. She”s shy, but writing is where she shines, and it”s where she lets her personality and her soul come through.

“I don”t know about the program. I mean, it sounds good, but I don”t know.”

When I look at Tessa, it”s clear there”s something she”s not saying. I”ve seen this in a lot of students because they don”t have confidence in themselves. Sometimes it”s because of other reasons.

“Why not, Tessa? We”ve talked about this before. Your writing is exceptional. A program like this will push you further, and the people you meet can help open doors for you in the future.”

“I don”t know, Miss Andrews. The thing is, I”m not sure my dad would agree.”

“What do you mean? He must be so proud of you. Haven”t you shown him your grades and my comments on your work?”

“I have,” she sighs. “But he”s not supportive of me wanting to be a writer.”

“That’s nonsense,” I say before I can check myself. I try not to comment on parents and their parenting styles. But parents who say creative writing or the arts aren”t worthwhile tick me off. Life isn”t worth living unless we have art.

“Why don”t you let me talk to him?” I tell Tessa. “Sometimes, if they hear from a teacher, it can make more of a positive impact.”

“I don”t know. He can be a hardass.” She covers her mouth, latently aware she’s just sworn in front of a teacher.

“It’s okay. I’m not going to punish you for language. Just don’t make a habit of it, alright?” I smile kindly at her.

Helen says I give my students too much leeway with language, but an occasional outburst in private isn”t a big deal as long as a student isn’t swearing in every class.

“Okay, did you tell him about the writing program?”

“I did. He said absolutely not. No effing way would he let me go to a program like that in the summer.”

I sigh in frustration, and my fingers grip my pen so hard that my joints ache. “Did you tell him I recommended this for you?”

“I did,” Tessa says, her voice wavering again. “He said it doesn”t matter. He said that writing is a hobby, not a career. And that it”s foolish for me to get my hopes up by going to some fancy writing program.”

“Tessa,” I say, working hard to keep my voice level and professional, “can I speak with your father?”

“Miss Andrews, I don”t think you want to do that.” I hear the concern and weariness in her voice, but it only makes me want to stand up for her even more. I can”t stand by and watch a parent kill the creative life force in another student. It never ends well for anybody, especially the student.

“Are you sure about talking to him?” Tessa repeats as if trying to give me a way out of talking to her dad.

“Yes, Tessa. I”m sure. Can you call him?”

“Okay,” she says slowly and pulls out her phone. “Hey, Dad. No, everything’s fine. I’m with one of my teachers. She wants to talk to you,” she says, her voice muffled.

A masculine voice grumbles something in the background, and Tessa hands me her phone.

“You the teacher?” he barks without saying hello. Great. Just what I need – another father who clearly thinks he knows my job better than I do.

“I’m Tessa’s writing teacher, yes. Are you Tessa’s father?” This isn’t the first time I’ve been on the other end of a phone with a father who sounds gruff and intimidating, and I know it won’t be the last.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Will you be attending the parent-teacher conference tonight?” I ask, doing my best to control my voice.

“I wasn’t planning—”

“Change your plans. We need to talk.”