Bake Sale Queen (Greenbridge Academy Book 6) Read online

  “Or,” I offered, “we could continue this somewhere else.”

  The look she gave me told me I needed to quiet my mouth immediately.

  “I’m sorry, Mal. I wasn’t meaning to be an opportunist. I’m just really enjoying spending time with you and I don’t want you to be alone right now if you’re sad. We don’t have to call it a date.”

  She gave me a small smile. “I appreciate that. But maybe another time.”

  I followed her delivery van down the road for about a mile, not because I’m a creep, but it turned out we live in the same area of town.

  At a stoplight, the weirdest thing happened. Mal got out of her van and ran back to my driver side window. I rolled it down and she handed me a slip of paper.

  “Call me,” she said, before leaning in and giving me the sweetest little kiss on the cheek.

  I don’t know how long we stared at each other, but it was long enough for the driver behind me to honk his horn when the light turned green.

  “Oh my God, go! Crazy woman!”

  She laughed and sprinted back to her van, finally allowing traffic to move.

  I haven’t been able to get that impromptu date and totally unexpected kiss out of my head. Although I don’t like to play the game of waiting to call someone once I’ve been invited to do so, I decided to wait. Mal was catching up on much needed time with her daughter, and I wanted to respect that.

  My dreams the past few nights have been filled with images of her beautiful smile, her laugh…the way her hips swayed when she was carrying all those boxes of cupcakes. I have no idea how I managed to teach class today.

  I don’t want to look like a total oinker in front of the PTA, so I wrap the extra cookies up in a napkin and stuff them into my jacket pocket for later, just like something my eccentric late auntie might do. I shake my head at myself. Concentrate, man.

  Studying my folded hands in my lap, I must look like I’m praying, or as if I’m hoping the backs of my knuckles will give me a clue as to the best way to ask this slightly scary crowd for money. It’s then that a familiar smell wrecks my concentration completely. Looking up, I see Mal seating herself next to me, her hair gathered up into a messy-but-pretty bun on top of her head, and her face beaming at me.

  My heart leaps for joy at my good luck.

  “Those are your cookies back there, aren’t they?”

  She nods. “I’m the cookie bringer. It’s about all they can get out of me at this school.”

  I. Am. In. Love.

  “Are you serious? Those are the greatest cookies I’ve ever eaten in my life.” I point at her while I say this, overemphasizing the word “life.” It’s possibly too aggressive. Calm down, idiot.

  The way Mal blinks at me squeezes my heart. “I get a lot of compliments like that, but I have to say, it feels extra special coming from you.”

  I give her a shy laugh, I crack a corny joke, and she chuckles and rolls her eyes. We continue in this manner much like we did the other night.

  “I had fun with you,” I say.

  “I had fun with you too,” she replies, her ears turning an adorable shade of pink.

  I get an odd feeling just then. I look behind me and I see another person watching us closely. “Oh, do you know her?”

  Mal follows my gaze and her face blanches. “That’s my neighbor.”

  A dozen follow-up questions pop into my head, but a commanding voice pulls me back into the business at hand.

  “Mr. Pope?”

  I swivel back to face the front and see a room full of eyes, mostly female, watching me with avid interest. I hear some tittering. I must look like a complete airhead right now.

  I stand up, apologize, say thank you, and walk to the podium.

  The PTA president, who introduced herself earlier to me as Bianca Rushmore, looks me up and down as I clear my throat and get ready to deliver my funding pitch.

  “Hi everyone,” I say, and launch into my story.

  I explain that as a brand new teacher I would not normally think of asking for money for a special trip, but that this event came up suddenly and the deadline to apply is coming up quickly.

  Mrs. Rushmore had previously assured me that the trip should not be an issue for the PTA. They’ve funded much bigger things for more money.

  “Should be a slam dunk, but we will have to vote,” were her specific words on the phone last week.

  When I finish my speech, however, the vote doesn’t go the way Bianca thought it would.

  The woman who I now recognize as Mal’s neighbor says, “This is a brand new school year, a brand new teacher, an untested program. I don’t see why we should be just handing out money like this. We don’t even know this man.”

  Bianca looks confused but only very briefly. “Well, Meredith, as PTA treasurer, you know we have a history of funding trips like this. And besides that, we do, in fact, know who he is. He’s our newest language arts teacher. Fiction writing, which is a special privilege, a college-level course. He’s been vetted by the school board and human resources. I don’t see why this would be out of bounds for us.”

  Meredith then shifts her gaze to Mal, shooting her daggers for God knows what reason.

  I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t like it.

  And frankly I don’t want any money from these strange people if this is going to cause a problem for Mal or her daughter.

  Involuntarily, I pull myself to my full height to interrupt the proceedings. “What about a bake sale?”

  Bianca smiles indulgently at me. “It’s not that we don’t have this in the budget. And besides, bake sales are really just ways to give the children ownership of their activities so they don’t have everything handed to them. But it’s a nice thought.”

  I look straight into Mal’s eyes and she’s goggling at me. “Then let me do a bake sale and take ownership of my new class. Really show you how committed I am.”

  Bianca crosses her arms and sighs. “A bake sale for a fiction writing workshop trip to the middle of nowhere? There’s no reason why we shouldn’t fund this; it’s really a pittance compared to our theater department’s trips to New York City every year.”

  The scraping of a chair across the hardwood gym floor has heads turning. Mal stands and says, “I’ll do it. I volunteer.”

  “Mal,” Meredith says with a sneer. “Usually you just drop your cookies at our little meetings and skedaddle. So nice of you to stay. I know it must be difficult chasing that almighty dollar day and night. To what do we owe the privilege of your presence?” Meredith has the kind of saccharine smile that can make a person feel deeply unsettled. She’s talking to Mal but looking right at me.

  I have no idea what’s going on right now. I don’t know why she seems to have it in for me or for Mal.

  “I...” Mal starts. My new friend is now blushing in humiliation. A never-before-seen angry bear starts to awaken in my chest. No. I will not have someone talking to her like that, putting her on the spot.

  “Oh, that would be me,” I interject. All heads swivel in my direction like a game of ping pong. “I asked her to stay. The bake sale idea was my plan B all along because she’s a good friend of mine. Guess you caught me.”

  Chapter Three

  Mal

  The feeling that gave me, I can’t even explain it.

  Someone making up a story to keep me from being humiliated? Unheard of.

  Meredith knew I was lingering at the meeting for one reason only: Quinn. And Quinn saw that I was being called out for it, and he stepped up. I could kiss him.

  I don’t need dragons slayed or rescuing from a tower, but man, it feels good to have someone in my corner when I face the PTA.

  As I’m packing up what remains of the cookies I brought, I hear Quinn behind me. “We should set a date.”

  I spin around, dropping the cardboard box and watching the cookies spill out. “Oh no, what is wrong with me?”

  “Five second rule!” Quinn is already squatting and rescu
ing semi-broken cookies from the floor and tossing them back into the box.

  “Quinn. There’s no such thing as a five second rule.”

  He stands up and shoves a shard of cookie into his mouth. “Says who?”

  “You can’t prove a negative,” I say with a grossed-out expression, watching his sexy mouth devour my germ-covered cookie in a way that I wonder if he is intending to look provocative. He licks his lips and politely waits to speak until his mouth is empty.

  “That sounds like a science thing. I teach English; we’re experts in bullshit.”

  I exhale an exasperated laugh. “Then just come over and let me get you some cookies that have not been dropped on the sweat-stained gym floor.”

  Quinn, for the first time, looks me up and down, and when he speaks, his voice is low. “I’d love to see your place.” The tone sends hot, invisible tendrils across my skin. If we go back to my place, he’s going to want to make out with me.

  And I want that, right? Wait, no I don’t. What did I decide earlier about Shelby? This won’t help her social life one bit if her mom hooks up with a teacher. That’s what I’ve decided, and I shall not waver.

  Although, Shelby is staying with her paternal grandparents for a couple of nights. You could just allow yourself to have a friend over? A friend who happens to be exceedingly attractive and looks at you like you’re God’s gift. Just this once?

  “Okay. Let’s go, we can hammer out all the details there, where it’s more comfortable.” What am I saying? All my life I’ve been using the word “comfortable” and only now it sounds like I’m suggesting sexy times.

  I glance around the room to pull my eyes away from Quinn’s heated gaze. Other parents are filtering out of the meeting. I can see Meredith by the door, nodding blandly at someone bending her ear about something, but her eyes are on Quinn and me. She does not look happy. Why in the world would she care if Quinn and I are flirting? Woman, you have a husband, for fuck’s sake.

  “Absolutely,” Quinn says. His deep voice snaps me back to the much more pleasant view of his smiling blue-gray eyes. His lips quirk up in a knowing half-smile. “Let’s go hammer things.”

  As we go over the plans for the bake sale, the sun begins to set and the light through my kitchen window plays with Quinn’s soft locks and eyelashes.

  I know he sees the way I’m looking at him; he’s staring at me with hooded eyes and licking his soft, tempting lips.

  I want to reach out and touch him so badly.

  “So,” I say, turning to stare down with more intensity at the sheet on my clipboard. “We’ve set the date, which I’ll have to confer with Headmistress Moody about. And we have our list of things I’ll be baking. The gym should be available, and if not, the dining hall renovation should be complete by then and we can do it there.”

  I look up and Quinn’s eyes are still trained on me. I start to squirm. He looks so serious all of a sudden, like a predator about to strike.

  My phone alerts me to a notification and I welcome the distraction. I check it, and it’s a text from a new client who ordered a baby shower cake for this weekend. She mentions some excuse about having found a baker to do the baby-popping-out-of-the-mommy cake, a design I had talked her out of. Too bad, I think. I was looking forward to impressing her with something different. I shrug and place my phone down, sigh and look back at Quinn, who hasn’t moved.

  I’ve never met someone who can stare this intently for so long without laughing.

  Finally, Quinn leans forward and plonks his elbow on the counter top and covers his mouth with his hand, staring at me. I hear the faint comment, “Beautiful.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard what I said,” he replies.

  I wag my head. “I need us to just be friends for now, okay?” Despite my baser instincts, my conscience wins out.

  He leans back and sighs. “Friends. That’s good. As a matter of fact, I could use a friend to help me navigate this political school stuff.”

  I arch one eyebrow. “But you’ve taught in a school before, right?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “Oh. Well, college?”

  Again, headshake.

  When I ask him what he was doing before this teaching gig, I’m not prepared for the answer. “Traveled, mostly. Worked odd jobs here and there to support my travels while I got my education online. Published some stories when I had the time.”

  I’m blown away by the idea of having the freedom to do all that. And I wonder silently how in the world he got a job at a prep school.

  He tells me he’s worked on all kinds of jobs from theater sets to construction crews. He tells me he was a personal assistant to a well-known reclusive author, who provided him with the best reference imaginable for his résumé. That explains how he snagged a teaching job at Greenbridge. Otherwise, no way would they hire someone with no teaching experience.

  “And I like to camp, which makes it easier and cheaper to afford to live different places for short periods. Do you like to camp?"

  I scoff. “Absolutely not. Why would I go to the woods and cook my food like a cave person when I actually have a bed to sleep in and a Viking stove?”

  “It’s about the fresh air,” he says, grinning, as if I haven’t lived without having experienced waking up in a damp and smelly tent. “And the quiet. There’s nothing like waking up with the sun in the desert.”

  “With a scorpion on your nose? Sounds delightful.”

  He laughs and I chuckle. “I’m giving you shit because I’m jealous. I’ve always wanted to travel Route 66 but I’ve never had the opportunity. And I’ve never had a friend to do those kinds of things with me; I could never do that alone, like you do.”

  Quinn lets a moment pass, his eyes assessing me. I don’t know where to look. He’s so good-looking it’s like staring into the sun.

  Finally, he says, “Tell you what. You let me take you to the desert and I will find us the fanciest, safest kind of camping accommodations I can find.”

  I nod and have to roll my eyes. “Good luck with that.”

  “Well, now that I have a friend, I wouldn’t want to go alone either,” he says. When he says the word “friend,” it communicates way more than friendship.

  I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands. I touch my cheek; it feels scorching hot.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot. Where were we? In the planning of the bake sale?”

  Quinn leans forward. “That’s not it. You were about to tell me your story, Mal.”

  I shrug shyly. “Not much to tell. I never went to college. I started baking with my grandma. Dated a guy, Brendan, when I was 15, and he got me pregnant when I was 16 and he was 17. He was my first. He wasn’t much interested in raising a baby. He was on track to win a scholarship to play baseball for state.

  “My grandma saw potential in me so she took me in and helped me raise Shelby, and put me to work at her bakery. I learned everything I know from her.

  “Brendan went on to coach college baseball. Now that Shelby’s 15 and making waves in field hockey, he’s taking an interest. Now that the years of diapering are over. How convenient, right? His parents have always been very interested in Shelby, though. A little too interested. A bit overbearing and judgmental. But they are overall pretty good to her. In fact, she’s staying over there right now, and I kind of miss her already. She takes better care of me than I do of her. Is that pathetic?”

  Quinn shakes his head “no” but remains quiet, just listening. I continue, taking a risk at oversharing. “It may sound odd, but I decided a few years ago I didn’t want any more kids after Shelby, so I had my tubes tied. It’s not the same for everyone, but I felt like I missed out on so much at such a young age. I didn’t want my responsibilities to multiply by having more kids. Not that I allowed myself another relationship. At some point, I’d love to travel without having to worry about young children. It’ll happen eventually. Anyway, that’s my sad story.”

  Quinn lea
ns forward. “Look at you. You’re amazing.”

  Why do I feel a lump in my throat right now?

  “That’s sweet.”

  He reaches over and takes my hand, sending waves of electricity all through me.

  “I don’t do sweet, I do the truth.”

  Unexpectedly, my face crumples in overwhelming sadness.

  Chapter Four

  Mal

  I have no idea why I’m crying. I feel so stupid right now.

  Quinn must be ready to run for the hills.

  “Hey.” But Quinn’s voice is soft and reassuring as he hands me a handkerchief.

  Normally I am not one to use handkerchiefs. In fact, I think the whole concept is disgusting. What do you do with a handkerchief after you use it? Give it back to the giver so he or she can stuff a soggy cloth back into their pocket?

  But now is not the time for your inner monologue, Mal.

  I wipe my tears, which keep coming. I dab at my nose, too. Good grief, I’m really letting loose now. My shoulders are shaking. I’m in full-body heaving sobs.

  What is happening? I try to ask out loud, but no words comes out. I only sob louder.

  I hear a chair get knocked to the floor. Next thing I know, Quinn’s big arms are around me and I’m folded into his chest.

  “Come here,” he whispers. I can feel his lips on the top of my head. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong and I’m grateful for that because I barely know the answer.

  He gives me a squeeze and my eyes leak some more. We stay like this, me sobbing, him stroking my hair and giving me small squeezes until my tears finally dry up and my breathing goes back to normal.

  Without a word he lets go and brings me a glass of water.

  “Thank you,” I croak. “I’m sorry, I don't know what happened.”

  “Drink your water,” he urges gently.

  “Okay,” I say, thinking I sound like a small child.

  I down all of it, suddenly realizing how thirsty I am. It’s no wonder, how much coffee I drink. I basically go around dehydrated most of the day. It’s amazing I had anything in my body to produce tears.