Chapter 2
Penelope
Limping through the parking lot, I silently curse myself for choosing to wear my gorgeous heels for eight hours while rearranging the furniture in my classroom and putting up new posters that the kids will no doubt think are cringe-worthy instead of encouraging. I sigh when I unlock the door of my beige twenty-one-year-old Corolla and collapse in the driver’s seat. Leaving the door open, praying for a breeze, I sag and just…melt. It’s like Satan’s armpit outside, and I still haven’t gotten around to getting my car’s A/C fixed yet.
Though the last thing I want to do now is go out with the people I’ve just spent the entirety of the day making small talk about our summers, I need an ice-cold stiff drink to cool me off before going home. Or maybe it’s the draw of seeing Jacob again and catching up on what he’s been doing since we both left Tyler. It doesn’t have anything to do with his tight trousers. Nope. Nor the promise that I can have a hug anytime I want. Nope. Nope. Nope.
When I attempt to turn over the ignition, nothing happens. Not even a half-hearted sputter. “No, no, no, don’t do this to me, Betsy girl.” A few more attempts lead to fuck all, and I drop my forehead against the scorching hot faux-leather steering wheel. “Come on, baby, do it for Mama.” Big fat nothing when I try one more time.
“‘Mama’, huh?”
I scream and slam the back of my head against the headrest at the sudden interruption by the big bear of a man squatting next to my open door.
“Whoa, hey, you ok there, Mama?” Jacob palms and rubs the back of my head like I’d slammed it against a brick wall instead of a padded headrest.
“Jesus, Jacob, you scared the daylights out of me. Where did you come from?”
Jacob nods toward a shiny silver Audi SUV parked two rows ahead of me that I hadn’t noticed. “Saw you sitting here, banging your forehead on the steering wheel, and figured you might need some help.”
He’s still stroking the back of my head, and there I go, leaning into his touch with a full-body tingle when he unintentionally tugs on the strands. Damn , it feels nice to have someone play with my hair.
“Car won’t start?”
I groan. “No. Second time this month.” I dig my cell phone out of my canvas tote bag with Teaching is a work of heart screenprinted on the front—a reminder of why I became a teacher in the first place, despite the abysmal pay. “Thanks for checking on me.” I waggle the phone at him. “Afraid I’ll miss out on the bar since I have to wait for a tow truck. You’ll have to have fun for the both of us.”
Jacob plucks the phone out of my hand, drops it in my bag, and then scoops me out of my seat, making my stomach swoop and thighs clench when he carries me like a bride to his Audi effortlessly. Wow, wow, wow, so that’s what it feels like to be carried across a threshold. Yeah, he could definitely throw someone against the wall, which has me seeing green for anyone he’s done this to previously.
“What are you doing?”
He holds me with one arm to open the passenger side door, remote-starts the Audi, and gently sets me down on the seat sideways with my legs hanging out. I yelp when the hot black leather seat sears the back of my knees. Jacob grabs me by my calves and yanks me toward him so that I’m balancing on the edge with my skirt protecting the underside of my thighs, and I moan. Freaking moan! Oh my god. That hole I was thinking of crawling into earlier is looking better and better.
But then I swear I see a flash of desire in his eyes and promptly mentally smack myself. He’s at least a decade younger than me, and as grimy with sweat and dust as I am, there’s no way what I saw was real. The heat must be scrambling my brain and conjuring hallucinations where he’s concerned. Yup, that’s got to be it.
Jacob points the A/C vents toward me, drags my heels off, and sets them down with my tote bag in the footwell. He pinches the material at his knees and hikes his trousers up his thighs before squatting and massaging the bottom of my left foot with his thumbs.
“Dear god, that feels…” I moan again, resisting the urge to lose myself in the pleasure or tip my head back and let my eyes drift closed.
He narrows his eyes slightly when I attempt to pull my foot out of his grasp, and it doesn’t take more than that look for me to give up and allow him to continue the best foot massage I’ve ever had. I try to keep silent by rolling and biting my bottom lip as he works it over before switching to my right foot. The right hurts more than the left, and I gasp with instant relief when he digs his thumbs in.
“Oh wow, Jacob, you’ve got the magic touch.”
“Sure do, Mama,” he says, deep and low, and I’m sweating all over again despite the blast of frigid air.
I sigh and slump back against the center console. Feeling self-conscious after making that innuendo, I tug twice on my leg. “I’m good now, thanks.”
He reluctantly drops my foot. “Any time, Mama.”
I laugh. “Penelope. You can call me Penelope. And I might just have to take you up on that offer.”
“It would be my pleasure, Penelope.” He looks like he genuinely means it, too. I get caught up in his intense eye contact before he swings my legs to turn me to face forward in the seat and closes the door.
When he jumps into the driver’s seat and buckles himself in, I yell, “Wait! I need to call a tow truck.”
“I’ve got it covered.” Jacob connects his phone to his fancy car and makes the call. I openly gape at him when he directs them to take my car to a Toyota dealership.
“Wait, wait, wait. I can’t afford dealership prices. I’ve got a guy who’ll give me a discount if I pay cash.”
He huffs. “Your guy,” he says sarcastically, almost under his breath. “He must not be any good if you’re in and out of the shop. And don’t worry about the cost. I’ve got that covered, too.”
Stumped by his unexpected generosity, my belly flutters at not having to figure out how I’m going to pay what is bound to be a hefty bill from the mechanic all on my own. To share the burden for once. I cross my arms as we drive away from my poor, battered Betsy girl.
The Audi’s engine is nothing but a purr, and to break the silence, I say, “I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth or be rude, but why would you offer to pay for my car repairs? How can you even afford it?” I wave my hand around. “Shoot, no, don’t answer that. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”
“You can ask me anything.” He takes a deep breath and drops a hand over his lap.
Testing him, I ask, “Ok, then, how can you afford this car? Teaching doesn’t pay much. Certainly not enough to afford an Audi and emergency repairs.”
“I do graphic design as well. It pays almost double my contracted salary at the school.”
“Wow. How did you get into that?”
“My older brother’s college roommate, Blake, started his own web design business. I ran into him a few years ago and told him I dabbled in graphic design. He hired me part-time after I showed him some of my work. It was an easy gig I could do from my dorm room between classes. Then, I went full-time during the summers and re-invested in the business, so I get paid out from that, too. It’s been quite…lucrative.”
“Wow. Sounds like I got into the wrong business.” In a joking manner so as not to seem any ruder than I have been, I ask, “If you’re making enough to afford this car, then why are you teaching?”
“Graphic design is just a hobby, but history is my passion.” He grins. “And what better way to make a living than getting paid to talk about the ins and outs of war with a bunch of bored teenagers?”
I can’t help but laugh because I feel the same way, but with physics. Keeping the conversation going until we get to the bar, I say, “So…college. When exactly did you graduate?”
“Four months ago.”
“Four…four months ago?” Doing the mental math, a flush colors my cheeks. “That would make you twenty-two or twenty-three? Is this your first year teaching?”
“Twenty-two, and yes.”
“Jesus Christ,” I exclaim under my breath. I’m going to be sick knowing I’ve had such perverted thoughts about a man so much younger than me.
“Tit for tat. How old are you?”
“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a woman her age?” He arches a dark brow, patiently waiting for my answer. “I’m thirty-seven. Old enough to be your mother if I’d been a teen mom,” I say, holding my breath until the nausea passes. “A very young teen mom, but still.”
Jacob flicks on his blinker and turns into Garfield’s parking lot, rapidly filling with cars as more people get off work. He motions for me to wait, then crosses in front of the SUV and opens my door. Before I can step out, he turns me in my seat, squats again, and helps me into my heels, making me feel like I’m Cinderella and he’s my young , hefty, history buff of a Prince Charming. Swoon.
We stop at the dimly lit bar to order our drinks before joining the rest of the group of teachers at a large U-shaped booth at the back. When I try to pay, Jacob takes my debit card, shoves it in his back pocket, and then produces his own to hand to the bartender.
“Hey, why’d you take my card?”
“I’m buying tonight, Mama.”
I groan. “It’s ‘cause I’m old, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“Why you keep calling me ‘Mama’.”
With Jacob’s Old Fashioned in one hand, he moves the other to my lower back and pulls me into his front. Dipping to whisper in my ear, he says, “You’re not old. I’d say you’re just the right age, Mama.”
Before I can think of how on earth to respond to that, Sandra stands on the booth’s dark red bench seat less than fifteen feet away, dressed in a highlighter-yellow flowy top and matching pants, puts two fingers in her mouth, and whistles loud enough to get the whole bar’s attention. She waves her hand in the air, drawing even more looks her way, then cups her mouth. “Yoo hoo, if you two lovebirds are done canoodling, we’re over here!”
Jacob smiles against my cheek, and I tip my chin up. His lips are nothing but an inch from mine. My core clenches, and I’m so tempted to lean in and find out what else he’s willing to generously give me. An exaggerated clearing of a throat has me darting my gaze away from Jacob’s lips toward Mr. Andrews, seated at the booth among the other three teachers who have joined us. His sweaty upper lip is curled with disdain.
Dragging my feet across the distance, I say low enough for only Jacob to hear, “Damnit. I didn’t know he was going to be here. I don’t want to sound like a baby, but will you stick close by?”
Jacob slides his hand around my waist to stop me right before we reach the booth. “How close do you want me, Mama?”
I gulp. “This…this is good.”
He winks, and when Sandra whistles again, he directs me to the other side of the booth, away from Mr. Andrews. He pushes me to sit first, then follows me in. Jacob doesn’t remove his arm from around my waist. In fact, he uses it to pull me closer to his side. Any further, and I’d be on his lap—a fact that has me chugging half of my Long Island iced tea and fanning myself with a drinks menu.
When I catch Sandra’s sea blue eyes, deeply creased with laughter, she grins like she’s in on some kind of secret as she flicks her gaze between Jacob and me. I give her a grimace. She winks—why is everyone winking all of a sudden?—and turns to pull Mr. Andrews into a conversation about retirement homes and his plans for his seventieth birthday.
Deeply offended, Mr. Andrews barks out, “I’m only fifty-nine. Still a young buck.” Oof. It’s a hard fifty-nine, seeing as he’s actually eight years younger than my dad.
Jacob’s body shakes with laughter against mine, and under the table, I lightly slap his thigh. “Don’t be mean,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.
He sets his drink down and slips his hand under the table, laying it flat over my hand to keep it pressed to his thigh. He readjusts in his seat, sliding lower so my hand is resting higher up his leg. He says equally as low, “Oh, I can be real nice, too, Mama.”
I drain the rest of my tea and press a hand to my cheek, then to my forehead, certain I have a fever. My cheeks are warm to the touch, but my forehead is fine. What’s heating me up from the inside out is Jacob’s presence at my side, the proximity of my hand to what I’m sure is a huge dick, and his husky voice in my ear. Oh yes, I’m sure he can be real nice .