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Simone taps the side of her nose. “Welcome to Heart’s Cove, honey.”
I just laugh, and Dorothy lets out a loud squeal of her own. “I almost forgot! The pottery master class is going ahead on Monday.” She looks me, Fiona, Simone, and finally Trina in the eyes. “You’re all coming. Monday, eleven o’clock in the morning.” She points a finger at Trina. “And I know the kids will be at their day camp every day next week, so you have no excuse.”
Trina’s shoulders drop. She bites her lip. “Look…pottery? I’m not artistic. That was Kevin’s thing.”
“Oh, puh!” Dorothy bats the comment away. “You will be there and you will enjoy it, if only for the fact that Mr. Blair is easy on the eyes. His pieces sell like crazy, you know. He’s a big name in the pottery world. Did you hear about the big pop-up gallery opening happening in January?” She doesn’t wait for anyone to answer. “Mr. Blair agreed to show a few pieces.” Dorothy beams. “It’s going to be great. And”—she leans closer to the two of us—“he has the hands of a god.”
For some reason Trina’s eyes glaze over for a brief moment, and color sweeps high over her cheeks. Then she blinks it away and lets out a breath. “Fine.”
Dorothy just grins and winks at me. “I’d get him to do classes here year-round, but he works at—”
“Dor! Come taste Jen’s new recipe,” Margaret calls from the kitchen.
“Can’t resist a demand like that!” The older woman laughs and sways her hips toward the kitchen. “See you all on Monday.”
I exchange a glance with my sister, who just blows out a breath.
“Guess I’m doing pottery then, huh.” Trina shakes her head, resigned, then moves to give Fiona her congratulations.
CHAPTER 4
Mac
I ride for over an hour, but it still doesn’t cool the embers burning on my skin. I feel her everywhere. Pressed up against my back, wrapped around my waist, her thighs plastered against mine. I feel the memory of her silky, soft skin against my fingertips.
Trina.
I’ve been wanting to learn her name for weeks. All summer, I’ve spent more time than usual at my father’s bar in the vain hope that she’d show up again. It’s pathetic, really.
But she came back. She has my number. I felt the sharp intake of her breath when I started the bike. I know she’ll want more.
Or at least, I hope so.
The engine cuts as I pull in next to my father’s bike in the parking lot of the Cedar Grove. Then I groan as a minivan door opens, and a tall woman with chocolate-colored hair and a sultry smile slides out.
“Well, if it isn’t Mac Blair. Funny seeing you here.” Belinda sways her wide hips toward me.
“Were you waiting for me to show up?” I jerk my head to her minivan.
She rolls her eyes and lets out a coquettish laugh. “Of course not. I was just stopping in. I haven’t seen you in so long, and you know, the kids are in junior high now, so…” She lets the words hang, and I don’t take the bait.
Belinda was a mistake. A big, big mistake that I do not intend to repeat. Ever.
See, I’m a teacher at the local elementary school. I teach second grade, and I’m damn good at it. But—not to sound like an arrogant jackass—there are certain mothers who tend to be interested in me beyond my role as their kid’s teacher. They see the motorcycle, they see my age, my body, and they think I can give them a good ride.
It’s inappropriate.
Belinda and I…
I hate admitting this, but it’s true. I slept with her. Her kid was in my class, and on the last day of the school year, she showed up at the school with a bottle of whiskey in her hand and fuck-me shoes on her feet. I took her home and obliged. I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it.
If it had happened even a day earlier and people caught wind of it, I could have been in big trouble. There’s no explicit rule against parents and teachers seeing each other, but it’s highly, highly unprofessional. It was a mistake. Inappropriate, obviously, and the only thing that saved me was that I was no longer teaching her child.
The problem is, I ran into her all the time for the next four years. School drop-offs, pick-ups, theater nights, sporting events, science fairs…she was always there.
And now she’s here.
Four years, this woman has been batting her lashes at me. And she’s not unattractive—not at all—but it’s just not something I want to do again. I can’t handle the whispers, the looks from other mothers, the stain on my reputation.
