The Principal's Office Page 2

  Nathan didn’t seem to understand how tight things were.

  “Come on, Mom. All the other guys are getting their permits. It’ll be six months before you have to start paying insurance anyway.”

  “Nathan, you can wait a little longer.”

  “Mom—” he started.

  “Let’s have a nice breakfast,” she cut in. “Who wants another slice?”

  “I do,” Justin piped up.

  Nathan simply muttered something unintelligible. She made him one anyway.

  “I won’t be able to hold my head up if I start my junior year without a license.”

  Rachel sighed. He got his drama from his father. “Why don’t you get a summer job to help pay for it, then?”

  She could hear his teeth grinding all the way across the kitchen. “I can’t get a job if I don’t have a license to drive there.”

  “There’s the bus,” she said calmly. “Or you can look for something close by. You could even do some yard work for the neighbors.”

  “Do I look like a gardener?” he muttered.

  The egg coating sizzled in the pan. She didn’t answer his question, sure it was rhetorical. When she was his age, she’d done babysitting, hours and hours of babysitting, to be able to afford extras. Saying that, though, was tantamount to the old I-had-to-walk-five-miles-through-the-snow-to-get-to-school story and meaningless to kids these days.

  “We’re living in the dark ages,” he went on. “I can’t even text, and I have to watch every minute I’m on my cell phone. You know, that’s why Dad bought us these phones for Christmas, so we could use them.”

  They had a family plan. She believed cell phones were for keeping in contact with family, making arrangements for pickups, and yes, so she knew where her boys were. They didn’t have unlimited minutes or unlimited texting or Internet access, and thank God they didn’t or everyone would be texting at the dinner table instead of talking.

  Since the divorce, everything was her fault because Gary promised them things for which she couldn’t afford to pay her share. There was polo for Nathan and soccer for Justin, the cell phones, the this, the that. Gary’s stock phrase was “If you can convince your mom.” She always ended up being the bad guy.

  She didn’t, however, spew any of that. “Here you go.” She slid their plates onto the table, too tired to prompt for a thank-you.

  “Everything’s about money with you, Mom. You make me crazy with it, just like you did Dad.”

  It was the closest Nathan had come to saying the divorce was her fault. But he thought it, oh he thought it, every day.

  “Let’s be pleasant at the breakfast table, Nathan.”

  “I’m not hungry,” he muttered, shoving his plate away. He stomped out of the kitchen and half a minute later, the slam of his bedroom door rocked the house.

  Across the table, Justin shoveled another bite of French toast slathered with maple syrup into his mouth. At least he swallowed before he said, “Can I go over to Martin’s house?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say they should spend the day together, doing…something. But the fact was, her sons didn’t want to spend time with her. They were pissed that she’d driven Gary out of the house, that she nitpicked about every dime she had to spend, that she denied them unlimited texting, and that if they went over on free minutes, there was hell to pay.

  “Sure,” she said, hearing the weary edge in her voice. “Go to Martin’s.” She didn’t tell him to be home by lunch. Martin’s mom would feed him.

  Alone in the kitchen, she gathered the plates, scraping the wasted French toast into the garbage.

  Maybe she was a hard-ass. Maybe she should work harder to pay her portion of the things they wanted. She hadn’t gotten her driver’s license until she was eighteen, but it was different for a girl. The other boys at school would make fun of Nathan, call him a kid, tease him. He deserved a mother who understood those issues.

  “What happened to us?” she whispered.

  For Christmas, the boys had gotten her a dress from the local thrift shop, the tags still on it. She’d loved the leopard print. She’d liked that they were learning the value of money. But there’d been something in Nathan’s eyes. Something that wasn’t…nice. As if the gift was a punishment. She’d pushed the thought out of her head, but sometimes, like this morning, it came back. Her eldest boy was starting to hate her. Her heart turned over in her chest every time she thought about the widening gulf, but she had no idea how to breach it.

  Justin called out indistinguishable words, maybe a good-bye, then slammed the front door on his way out. Two minutes later, it slammed again. Nathan. She’d have to call his cell and find out where the hell he was going. He’d been hanging around some guys from the basketball team, going to the games with them. He’d tried out but hadn’t made it onto the team. He was determined to give it another shot next year. Rachel hadn’t managed to meet these new friends yet, so she didn’t have a home number to call just in case.

  Sometimes she wondered how much more she could take. Everything was falling apart. Nathan hated her, and while Justin didn’t seem perpetually angry, she felt him drifting away during the weeks they weren’t at home with her.

  For a moment, standing at the kitchen sink, a dirty plate still in her hand, she thought about the man in the grocery store. She thought about what it would be like to drop everything, right this very minute, and sneak out to see him. To see a lover. To have hot, fast sex in the backseat while parked in the far corner of a shopping mall lot. Then dashing back home to finish the cleaning before the boys got home. How utterly sexy. How perfectly delicious. Like running away from it all. Even better for relieving stress than soaking in the tub.

  Inside, she felt warm and liquid. She’d never been one to daydream a lot, but right now, she sure could use a fantasy Prince Charming to take her away for a little hot nookie. Just like kids needed treats every once in a while so they didn’t rebel, she needed a treat, too. An orgasm. More than one. A lot of them. The Viking had certainly awakened her. She could definitely go for having a vibrator in her drawer for moments like this, when she was suddenly, unexpectedly very much alone.

  Hmm, was a sex toy in the budget?

  THE WEEKEND HADN’T IMPROVED. THE ANGRY SILENCE CHILLING the house sent Rachel’s blood pressure soaring. So yes, in the night, with the boys at Gary’s and the house empty, Rachel had resorted to fantasy to take her mind off everything. Otherwise her thoughts just went round and round and round.

  Was it bad to start craving a fantasy?

  By Monday morning, the result was extreme sexual frustration. One orgasm simply made her crave more. At lunchtime, she decided to go for it, dropping by Santana Row just to see how much a sex toy could actually cost. There was an elegantly disguised shop there that would have just what she wanted. In days of old—i.e., before the divorce—she’d been invited to a pleasure party given by a friend, and the saleslady had worked for the shop. Of course, Rachel hadn’t gone to the party. Gary hadn’t been feeling well that night and didn’t want to be left alone with the boys, especially not for something as debauched as a pleasure party. Not that she’d told him. Hell no.

  By God, the cheapest model was only fifteen dollars, batteries included. It didn’t cost much more than the real maple syrup she bought for the boys. She deserved it. The salesclerk bagged it up in a pretty pink tote, and Rachel stepped out into the bright noon sun.

  January was just about to turn into February, yet the day was actually hot, an unheard-of seventy-five degrees, which was relatively cool in the summertime but overheated her now. Looking down to snap her purse closed, she slammed into a solid stalk of human male.

  “Oomph.” She dropped the pink bag, which landed with a thunk on the sidewalk. Dammit. Had she broken her vibrator before she even used it?

  “Sorry. Let me get that for you.”

  Rachel couldn’t breathe. That voice. It was him. The Viking. And he was touching her bag, the shop’s name, Pleasure Time
, clearly printed on it in fancy red scroll.

  He rose until he towered over her, and God, her heart started to race.

  “We meet again.”

  “Yes.” Did that come out as a squeak? At her back, the shop’s window was ablaze with red thongs, sexy brassieres, barely there lingerie. Thank God there were no sex toys on display, but still, her cheeks were as red as the thong panties.

  “Buying something for a special occasion?” His voice burrowed deep inside her as he handed over the bag.

  He’d realize it was too heavy for lingerie. Did he know the additional merchandise the store carried in a tastefully appointed section in the back? “A gag gift,” she said quickly.

  He didn’t back off, and his heat singed her, a tactile reminder of the way his body had slid along hers as he’d rescued the juice for her in the grocery store. She thought of all the fantasies she’d woven around him, the Viking raider carrying her off, how she’d wanted to touch herself that first night, but she hadn’t because the boys were home. But last night, oh yes, last night, she’d succumbed to those fantasies. It wasn’t enough. She needed more. She needed the vibrator. The one in the bag he’d retrieved for her.

  Yet, in this moment, even that wouldn’t do. She needed him. She could feel her pulse beating at her throat, her breath quickening, the heat burgeoning down low. She’d never been highly sexed—too many other things to worry about, like kids and a depressed husband and money—so why did this man suddenly set her on fire?

  “A second accidental meeting deserves a coffee. Join me?”

  The sun was hot on her hair. She felt people scurrying around them, heard voices, the traffic on the road, distant honks, the roar of a jet overhead from nearby San José Airport, but it all receded as if suddenly they were alone in the bubble of her personal space. She wanted to say yes so badly that she even opened her mouth. Then she thought of Nathan’s anger. She thought of how it would only grow worse if she started dating. God forbid she should ever bring a man home. It wasn’t worth it. When she considered the consequences, the vibrator was a steal at fifteen bucks.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t date.” Then her face flamed anew. It was coffee, not a date. She’d made too much of a presumption.

  “I don’t date either. Tell you what,” he said, his voice quiet, his lips curved in a slight smile. “If we meet again, you’ll say yes.”

  He didn’t date? What did that mean? Whatever. The chances they’d meet again were exceedingly low. Twice was coincidental. It was actually a bit freaky that she’d seen him here, since she hadn’t been to Santana Row since it first opened. “I really don’t think—”

  He cut her off with his finger to her lips. “Then don’t think. Say yes.”

  His touch actually made her feel faint with a flare of desire. She’d been married so long, seventeen years, she could barely remember what lust felt like. She’d had two lovers before Gary, but it had all seemed to be fast, unsatisfying fumbling. Even with Gary, had it been like this, a burning need deep inside? They said some women burned hotter as they got older. Only months away from her fortieth birthday, maybe she was one of them.

  “Move your lips,” he murmured, “and say yes.”

  What was the big deal? It was just coffee. “All right. Coffee. If we meet again.”

  He smiled, two sexy dimples appearing at the sides of his mouth. “Done.” He stepped back, and she missed his warmth. “It’s when, not if, because we will meet again.” Then he turned.

  “Wait.”

  He waited, without a word.

  “You’re not married, are you?”

  “No.” He looked at her hand. “And neither are you.” Then his stride ate up the sidewalk. His black slacks seemed form-fitted to his butt. His muscles rippled beneath his white shirt, and even without a suit jacket, the tie had declared him a businessman. A CEO? Yes, he’d be in charge.

  Someone knocked into her arm, apologized, a woman who’d been trying to squeeze past her and a man coming in the opposite direction. Rachel was just standing in the middle of the sidewalk watching the Viking’s ass as his tall figure receded.

  She hadn’t even asked his name. He hadn’t asked hers. He was leaving it to chance.

  Suddenly Rachel wasn’t so sure she wanted to leave everything to chance. Maybe the vibrator wasn’t going to be enough. Maybe she was going to need the real thing.

  2

  “DO YOU WANT TO GO OUT FOR HAPPY HOUR?”

  Rachel could only stare at Bree Mason. She was pretty, with long black hair and a tall, slender figure. Bree was DKG’s accountant, and she’d just finished checking Rachel’s work on the payables and receivables input. It was one of the new skills Rachel was picking up to make herself more marketable.

  “Um.” For a moment, it was all that came out. Rachel was rarely at a loss for words. Some might even say—like Yvonne Colbert, their inside sales manager—that Rachel talked too much. But not now. It was shock. Because Bree had never wanted to go out after hours. She was quiet, kept to herself, and after work, she vanished like a puff of smoke. She didn’t socialize. In fact, she didn’t talk much at all, and the several times Rachel had asked if she wanted to go to lunch, Bree had always said no. That didn’t hurt Rachel’s feelings; it was Bree’s nature. Rachel accepted that.

  At five to five on Tuesday, the factory was quiet; the techs started early and left early. Yvonne was talking softly on the phone in her office. Erin was in Dominic’s lab with the door closed. A husband-and-wife team, they’d owned and operated DKG for ten years.

  Bree didn’t look eager, her expression flat, as if her invitation was completely normal. A couple of times in the past few months, Bree had opened up about her father’s illness. He’d passed away a short time ago. Maybe she needed to forget her sorrows for a little while. It certainly wasn’t a usual request for her, but it wasn’t a usual time either. She needed a friend, and Rachel figured she was the closest thing to a friend Bree had. Yeah, that was it, Bree finally needed her.

  Rachel wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass by. It might never happen again. “I’m free. My ex has the boys this week.”

  “Good.” Bree started shutting down her computer. Then, her hand hovering over the mouse, she turned.

  Rachel suddenly felt nervous under her dark stare. “What?”

  “You should go to night school and get your AA degree. You’re good with accounting.”

  It was Rachel’s turn to stare. Go to college? She didn’t have a moment to spare.

  “More money,” Bree answered as if Rachel had actually said something.

  “I don’t have time. The boys. Plus it costs money for books and classes and all that stuff.”

  “Erin pays educational fees in the line of duty.”

  “But I’m a receptionist.”

  “You’re my accounting clerk, too.”

  Bree was helping her acquire some accounting skills, but that didn’t make her an accounting anything. “I just don’t think—” What? That she wasn’t capable of it? Rachel admitted to herself that she wasn’t the college type. She’d married Gary early, and that was that.

  Bree shrugged. “Just a thought.” She started closing all her open windows on the computer.

  Could she do it? Maybe. Yes, probably. If Gary was good enough for accounting, so was she. But now wasn’t the right time, the boys, getting settled, yadda, yadda. It wouldn’t solve her immediate problems anyway; Nathan would have a fit if she spent money on school before she paid for his driving lessons. Maybe later she’d think about it, and she pushed the idea aside. “I’ll get my purse,” Rachel said.

  Bree merely smiled and nodded.

  Twenty minutes later they were seated in a booth at a nearby restaurant that served happy-hour drinks and provided a free appetizer buffet in their bar area, which was amazing in today’s economy where nothing was free anymore. The bartenders were pouring drinks, the music was playing, and the bar was absolutely packed. Thank God they’d gotten the last availa
ble booth, even if it was in a corner by the restrooms, because the place was now standing room only. Maybe the restaurant made up for the free food with the amount of alcohol that was flowing. Rachel had elbowed her way through the buffet line, figuring the appetizers could pass for tonight’s dinner, and she’d ordered the half-priced white wine.

  Their drinks arrived, and Rachel raised her glass. “I want to make a toast,” she said above the din. “Here’s to how well you handled Denton Marbury.”

  Even in the bar’s dim lighting, Bree’s blush was obvious. “Thanks.”

  Marbury was their outside accountant, a CPA, who did the taxes and other governmental filings. He and Bree had had a little run-in. Even Rachel had heard that blowout, with Marbury doing all the blowing, right out of his—Oops, language.

  “And you actually called him instead of sending an email telling him his services were no longer needed.” Rachel marveled. She knew it took a lot of courage, especially since it meant Bree would have to handle the IRS audit coming up in a couple of weeks.

  Bree dipped her head, studying the tabletop. “Don’t you think I should have done it face-to-face?”

  Rachel snorted. “Drive over there? What a waste of time. No, a phone call is as face-to-face as you needed to be.”

  Bree nodded, looking up again. “It was important for me to say it. And not let him steamroll over me.”

  “Well, then, you should be really proud of yourself.” Rachel knew all about not sticking up for yourself, wishing you’d handled it differently, et cetera, et cetera.

  Finally meeting her gaze, Bree nodded. “I am.”

  “Good,” Rachel said. “Anyway, I know you’re going to be taking on more stuff, so anything you need to off-load on me, I’d be happy to do it.” It was win-win; Bree got help, and Rachel got clerical accounting experience she could use to beef up her resume.

  “I’ll find some more for you, don’t worry.” Bree tucked her hair behind her ear, her face still slightly flushed from Rachel’s praise.