Blessed Twice Read online

  “Wow-wee!” he repeated. How could you not love a kid who says “wow-wee”?

  “We’ll start shopping at the end of the school year, ‘kay?” He nodded enthusiastically, eyes already designing his loft area.

  We headed back downstairs to rustle up some dinner. As we passed through the living room, he jerked to a stop in front of the mantel. Oh no! I’d forgotten about the pictures, having chosen to avoid this room all week.

  “Mom?” His eyes darted around, noticing the other missing items, then back over the few remaining pictures of him and our extended family up on the mantel.

  “Sweetie,” I started but didn’t know how to finish. I looped my hands around his shoulders and down onto his chest to pull him back against me. The top of his head just made it to my sternum. “I’ve put a few things away.” I twisted him around and bent down to be on the same level. “We can talk about Mommy any time you want. We can remember her whenever you feel like it. But I need, I had to…”

  “Don’t be sad, Mom. You’ve had enough sad.” He wiped his fingertips gently against my now wet cheeks.

  The wisest statement I’ve ever heard about grief, and it was issued by my own ten-year-old. “You’re right.”

  “I know. You should listen to me more.” I snorted a wet laugh through the diminishing tears. “I just might do that.”

  He glanced at the mantel once more, hugged me quickly then went to rummage through the refrigerator. With his little tush sticking out, he spoke into the fruit tray. “Does this mean you’re going to go out on dates now?” He asked it casually like he was asking where he’d left his baseball mitt. When he turned around he had an apple in his hand. “I think you should.” Oh, just brilliant. Dating wisdom from a ten-year-old.

  Timetogetadateville, population count: one more.

  Chapter 6

  Walking across the Darden compound, I waved at a few familiar students on my way into the classroom building directly across from mine. It had been two weeks since the departmental meeting assigning me to the venture project. We managed to get the project pitch up on the student intranet and iron out the syllabus, but who would cover what in the symposium and how we’d handle the venture coaching still needed to be worked out.

  None of these things could get done via the email exchanges we’d resorted to. I’d had to postpone our first meeting because Caleb had returned early. M took that to mean cancel, and we’d been corresponding by email ever since. When I say corresponding, I meant I’d write a succinct but friendly email with my ideas and suggestions for what we could tackle together in our next meeting. M would respond with an attachment of the project I’d been brainstorming. She’d combine my ideas with her own and work it out, down to the last detail. No text in the body of the emails, just a subject line and an attachment. She was certainly efficient. And smart. And avoiding me.

  As I approached the classroom where her last class of the day was being held, I heard a rumble of laughter, several different voices, then one clear, sure voice. The tone I thought I recognized, but the rush of words, conviction, and decibel level were completely foreign.

  Through the glass in the door, I watched the woman who’d somehow made herself invisible at the department meeting stalk confidently from the whiteboard to the edge of the tiered rows of desks. The room was packed with students seated on the steps of each side aisle and standing at the back of the top row, breaking all kinds of fire codes. No wonder some of the faculty were jealous. We all wanted this kind of hype generated around our classes.

  Students stared raptly at whatever she wrote then interacted eagerly when she asked questions. No, that wasn’t right. She didn’t ask them questions like they were students and she was grading them on their participation. She involved them in the topic she was teaching. They would discuss with her their opinions and answers as if they were all in this learning process together.

  Not that I didn’t have a good rapport with my students, but she managed to transform the classroom setting into a vital business meeting where all of its participants would be rewarded handsomely if they worked together. Amazing. And M, taking the stairs two at a time to address a student from the back row, or hustling along the back walkway to head down the side steps, her constant motion kept the students’ attention. Where was the painfully shy woman I’d witnessed at the department meeting?

  The one who could barely speak more than five words?

  As the bell sounded, other doors in the hallway crashed open and students surged out noisily. I stepped closer to the wall to let them get by. When I glanced back through M’s classroom door, not one of her students had moved. They waited until she finished her thought before they began packing up their bags and stepping down to the exit.

  When the last of them trickled through the door, I slipped inside. A cluster of students bunched around their professor, continuing the discussion from the class. This was always my favorite part of class time. Sure, some of them were just kissing ass, but the ones who asked thoughtful questions loved to learn.

  Those students were the reason I’d become a professor.

  “Hey, Prof,” the ever-present Avery called out from the ring of remaining students. “What brings you over here? In need of a little operational strategizing?”

  “Who isn’t?” I shot back as I walked up to the start of the tiered rows of long wraparound desks and attached chairs. Like me, M placed her desk up three tiers and to the left of the classroom. It tended to throw the students off if you were among them when they walked inside. It also tended to make them choose the front row more often to stay away from the instructor’s desk.

  At the sound of my voice, M shifted into a gap between two students. Her eyes widened before another student demanded her attention. When it seemed like the young woman was going to ditch her question because of the now divided attention, M encouraged her with a smile, opening her stance to invite whatever thoughts or questions this timid student had. I found myself stepping toward her, the invitation so compelling.

  She wore wool slacks and a sweater set similar to my own attire on this still chilly spring day. The cut and drape of her clothes camouflaged her diminutive stature and screamed refined chic. Clearly, she subscribed to the same thoughts as I had on appropriate dress code for instructors. Not only did I think dressing up showed respect for my students, I felt it was important to dress in a fashion consistent with what these students would find in the business world after graduation. So many of my colleagues dressed in khakis or even the same style of jeans that their students wore. How could they hope to command respect when their super low-rise, tight jeans afforded a peek at their thong underwear? Did students really need to know if their professors wore thong underwear?

  “Hi, Professor Gatewood,” Cecily, another of my second-year students, greeted as she and two of her friends made their way down toward the exit.

  “Hello, Cecily.” I looked back up at the third tier landing where the group was finally breaking up. They all nodded to me on their way out.

  “Can I get another day on my case study analysis, Prof?” Avery angled with a sly grin as he passed by me.

  “Sure.”

  He halted and swiveled back around, shocked by my unprecedented reply. “I can?”

  “Of course you can.” His jaw popped open. “You lose a half a grade point for every day it’s late. Like always.” I wiggled my eyebrows. They had to learn that their clients wouldn’t give them an extra day, all part of the teaching process.

  “You’re tough,” he accused. “Hey, Professor D, you’d give me an extra day, right?”

  “Every leap year,” she quipped back, drawing a chuckle from me.

  I watched Avery’s mock dejection vanish with his parting wave. Left alone, I turned back to face M. “You go by Professor not Doctor?”

  “As do you.”

  Yes, I did, and as far as I knew, we were the only ones. “But Gene called you Dr. Desiderius.” Instead of answering, she turned and shuffled
some papers on her desk. When the shuffling turned to packing up her bag, I took the steps up to her platform. “Why?” She spun around to face me and pressed back against the desk, creating more space between us. The open, inviting posture gone now, replaced by guarded steel. The momentary surprise in her expression at my proximity receded behind an impenetrable mask. “I don’t control that.”

  Interesting choice of words. Not can’t, but don’t. Like she knew she could control it with extra effort and probably exasperation, but she chose not to. Or maybe she just didn’t care.

  “And you use an initial for your last name, too?” I remembered how Avery had addressed her. I’d checked the faculty directory, the webpage bio, and the class record. All showed only the letter M but without a period that would be commonplace with the use of an initial. Even her textbooks, both the cover and copyright page hadn’t been any more informative about her full name. They did, however, tell me that she was a talented educational writer. If I were really nosy, I’d call my friend Beverly in payroll and ask her to peek at M’s file, but that would cross a line. It didn’t matter how engrossing the quest or captivating the photo posted on the online bio, I wouldn’t go around her to get the information I wanted.

  She shrugged. “Kids.” Like that explained everything.

  “Well, I thought I’d stop by to see if you had some time to coordinate the lecture portion of the symposium.” She narrowed her gaze. “Didn’t I initial the topics I’d cover on the syllabus I emailed to you?”

  “You did, but some of the topics overlap. I thought we could sit down and go through what we would cover during the lectures.” A long moment passed with her gaze darting around the room, seemingly searching for a response. “If now’s not a good time…”

  Without glancing at the tasteful watch on her wrist, she gestured to the classroom desk behind me. I edged back behind the desktop and took a seat. As I brought up my laptop, she grabbed hers and chose to take a seat one away from mine.

  Resisting the urge to check my breath, I glanced down at the empty seat between us and up at her while she booted up her laptop. She seemed oblivious to her very telling choice of seat.

  Could I let it go for the sake of this project? No, I couldn’t.

  “M?” I drew her gaze from the screen and made a point of dropping mine to the empty seat between us. “We’re going to have to work closely together to make this new venture a success for the university. So if you have a problem with me, I’m sure I could talk to Gene and have him volunteer someone else. As much as I disagree with Dr. Wagner usually, what he said about this course fitting within the entrepreneurship division seems right. I’m tied to this thing, but you don’t have to be.”

  “No.” She shook her head then tapped a password onto her laptop.

  That’s it? “You disagree about where the class fits in the catalog?” I could see how someone might think it belongs in operations or perhaps finance because of the outlay of start-up capital, but since the class was going to launch businesses, it was the very definition of entrepreneurship.

  She turned from staring at her computer screen after several clicks. “No, I don’t have a problem with you, and no, I don’t want Dr. Goudy to volunteer someone else.”

  “Huh,” I voiced my amazement before I could stop the reaction. That almost sounded like she was already invested in this project and that, well, she didn’t not like me. Almost better than I could have hoped for when I’d crossed the compound earlier on my mission. “So if I took this seat right here,” I pointed at the empty seat between us, “will you be playing musical chairs?” Her response was to slide over into the seat next to me.

  Carefully, I noticed, making sure not to bump up against me as is so often the complaint I get from my students about the proximity of these attached chairs. “Shall we get started, Briony?” She pulled her laptop over one space and flicked a peek at me.

  “Sure, M,” I agreed, typing in my password. “Or is that Millicent?” My guess brought out the briefest of smiles. Maybe she really didn’t have a problem with me.

  Chapter 7

  The lone figure moved stealthily through the corridors. Very few students occupied this stretch of tiled floor spanning out to the Entrepreneurship, Marketing, and Global Business faculty offices. It was ghostly quiet since students usually showed respect on faculty territory. It probably helped that most of the doors were closed—the opposite of what she thought office hours in an educational environment should be.

  When she turned the corner onto the right hallway, she stopped dead in her tracks. Quinn Lysander, head coach of the women’s basketball team, and Jessie Ximena, owner of the best health club in town, waited patiently near the end of the hallway.

  In their hands were flowers, champagne, cupcakes, and balloons.

  All very colorful, all very embarrassing.

  Jessie stood out like always, that tall frame beautifully muscled and long, with black hair surrounding a face that could make anyone suck in a gasp. Yes, that was how she’d reacted the first time she saw Jessie at her gym and every time thereafter.

  The one time she’d spotted her in the D/s club, she’d done everything she could to disappear within the swallowing crowd. It was the first time she’d ever seen someone from Charlottesville in the Washington, D.C. club. She couldn’t help stalking her, watching what she’d do, whom she’d approach. She’d watched a lot of people at that club. None of them reacted like Jessie had, especially not on their first time. And she was positive it had been Jessie’s first time. Yet the way Jessie moved so easily, interacted so confidently, garnered attention so effortlessly, there wasn’t a woman in there that didn’t want her. Subs pressed insistently for her affection, and Dommes offered to switch for the chance to be with her. She’d never seen anything quite as fascinating as this anthropological display of behavior surrounding the gorgeous woman.

  When one of the rebuffed subs walked over to her instead, she lost focus on Jessie. For the next two minutes, the exchange told her that this sub wouldn’t be right for that night.

  As she was turning back toward the last place she’d seen Jessie, a voice sounded in her ear. “You’re different.” Vertebra popped in her neck with the sudden twist to face this woman who’d managed to sneak up on her. Jessie stared down at her from that impressive height. Her heartbeat sped up to a rhythm that actually caused pain. This was only the second time she’d interacted with Jessie. The first was much more casual and completely innocent at Jessie’s gym.

  Would she be recognized? Her disguise was intact: hair slicked back in the style she only wore at this club, gel darkened it several shades, dark red painted her lips making them appear larger, and the wrap around eye mask cloaked her features. Still, she couldn’t be sure of her anonymity. Her stomach clenched at the thought.

  “Let’s play,” a sexy brunette offered herself to Jessie. Her sheer bodice covering left nothing to the imagination.

  “Not tonight,” Jessie brushed off the brunette, turning her attention back. “Your mask is intriguing. Enough to hide the shape of your nose, cheekbones, and eyes, not like the others in here.”

  No, it wasn’t very similar. Breathe in.

  “You wear it to disappear.”

  Yes, she did. Hold four seconds.

  “Just enough left of your face to entice.” No, not quite. Breathe out.

  “I’m enticed.” Jessie’s simple statement nearly knocked the wind from her. She’d noticed Jessie in town, and when she’d met her at her club, she’d given a fleeting thought as to what kind of relationship she might have with a woman like this. It would be exciting. It would be fulfilling. It would be normal. Exactly what she wished she could have. Exactly why she always found herself coming to this club. Normal was an unattainable dream and had been for a while.

  When the overture didn’t garner a response, Jessie scanned over her, taking in her leather tank, leather pants, and motorcycle boots. Lust flared in Jessie’s eyes, bringing a wash of heat equal to s
tepping from frigid A/C into hot summer sunshine. Her lips, though, tightened in disappointment. “You’re not a switch?”

  “No.” Never.

  “Too bad,” Jessie murmured seductively. “We wouldn’t have to use restraints or…implements?”

  Yes, they would. “No.”

  Jessie’s enthralling brown eyes blinked slowly before taking another stroll over her body. A confident smile pulled at those kissable lips. “You sure?”

  She stared up at this gorgeous woman, heartbeat clattering to the point of near dizziness. She wished she could have her. She wished she wanted to have her. If anyone could ever break through, Jessie might just be the one to do it, especially with the anonymity of this club. “I’m sure.”

  “Okay, doll.” Jessie smiled wistfully and started to turn away but stopped. “I really like your mask.” Her fingertips were suddenly sliding along the wide strap of leather at her temple and around to where it knotted in the back. Every instinct screamed to pull back or shove the hand away, but as if sensing her discomfort, Jessie dropped the fingers from their exploration. Never once did the fingertips touch her skin, not even her hair. Boundaries had been blurred but never crossed.

  That had made the biggest impression, even after becoming better acquainted with her. It was often her first thought whenever she spotted Jessie, like today. Seeing their purpose at the office door, she decided to slink away before the two women noticed. Surely, they’d be gone by the time she returned later.

  Footsteps clacked loudly around the corner and the tall duo spun in her direction. Damn! She’d been caught.

  Chapter 8

  "Happy birthday, Briony!” Jessie and Quinn exclaimed, filling the quiet corridor with boisterous and highly embarrassing noise.