First Kiss at Christmas by Lee Tobin McClain
CHAPTER TWO
THENEXTAFTERNOON, Meg returned home from errands to see Finn sitting on the front porch, laptop awkwardly perched on a coffee table. Just looking at the tall, lanky man bending over to type made her back hurt. Made her heart pound a little harder, too, but that wasn’t important.
It was eighty degrees and humid. What was he doing outside?
She set her grocery bags inside her front door and called over. “Is that comfortable?”
He stood and laughed ruefully. “Not really, but I don’t like being cooped up all day. I’m trying to capture the sights and sounds, you know.”
“Your book is set here?”
“In the general area.” He waved a hand like he didn’t want to talk about it. “Speaking of writing, I thought you said you were working on your thesis today.”
She made a face, annoyed with herself. “I’m supposed to be, but I decided I couldn’t live another minute without oregano and paper towels.”
“Procrastination.” He nodded as he stacked the papers he’d had strewn out on the table. “I’m very familiar with it.”
“If you only knew.” She was embarrassed to confess to him how uncreative she really was. Part of the problem was her subject: kids with disabilities in literature. It hit a little too close to home.
“Happens to all writers, from time to time,” he said.
“But what do you do about it when it happens to you?”
He tilted his head to one side, shrugged. “Take a break or a walk.”
“Done both.”
“Sometimes I talk things through with my editor,” he said. “Do you have a thesis advisor?”
“I’ve burned her out with all my questions.” She lifted her hands, palms up, trying to make a joke of it. “I’m a hopeless case.”
He leaned against the porch rail and studied her, all long, loose limbs, genuine interest in his eyes. “What’s your thesis about?”
“Children’s literature. I focus on kids with disabilities, how they’re portrayed.”
“Interesting. You have part of it done?”
“Most of it, but I’m stuck on the creative part. I have to write either a short story or the start of a longer work, kind of putting the principles I’ve learned into action. I don’t know where to begin.” She shrugged, self-deprecating. “I just don’t have the imagination.”
His eyebrows came together and he shook his finger at her, mock scolding. “Sounds like an excuse. Have you tried brainstorming with someone else?”
She shook her head. “Pleasant Shores isn’t chock-full of writers.” Goodness, she sounded whiny. She’d have chewed out her daughter if she came up with that many excuses.
Hands on his hips, Finn pinned her with an intense gaze. “I’m a writer. I’ll brainstorm with you.”
Her heart gave a flutter. What was this vibe she was getting from him?
Most likely, she was just imagining it, and that was pathetic. “You’re a famous thriller writer. I’m a nobody.”
“It’s the least I can do for keeping you awake all night.”
She blushed at the image his words evoked, other reasons a man like Finn might keep a woman awake all night. She waved a hand and turned back toward the house. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Wait, Meg.” He walked over to the divider between their two porches. “I’m serious about that offer. I would be happy to help you brainstorm, especially if you’d let me do it over dinner.”
His words made her feel breathless. “I don’t... Well.” She’d been about to say she didn’t want to do it, but she’d be lying. “That would be a wonderful help, but I at least ought to cook. If you take me out, and brainstorm with me, the transaction’s unequal.”
A car drove by, windows open, country music blaring. From the bay, a breeze chilled her sweaty skin. She looked into his amber eyes, eyes she’d always found interesting.
He studied her. “Is that how you look at it, a transaction?”
She shook her head rapidly. “I don’t know.” Restless, she took the broom propped against the wall and brushed a few sticks and leaves off the porch. She felt like a frumpy old lady, wearing her faded jeans, sweeping her porch, complaining about her woes. “I’ll be fine, but thanks for the offer.”
“You don’t have to cook. I’ll pick up pizza.” He hesitated, then added, “You don’t know me all that well, despite the past. Maybe working at your place isn’t the best idea. Do you know of any place where we could use a whiteboard or chalkboard? That always helps me capture good ideas.”
His thoughtfulness touched her. “There’s my school, but—”
“I’ll knock on your door with a pizza, and we’ll take it to your school.” He held up a hand, stopping her protest. “Six o’clock. See you then.” He turned and disappeared into his side of the duplex, leaving Meg to wonder what had just happened. Had she agreed to a date or a work session?
And which did she want it to be?
WHATHADHEbeen thinking, asking Meg to dinner? Actually insisting on it.
Shortly after six, Finn followed her toward what looked like an old house converted to a school. He knew what he’d been thinking, or rather feeling: lonely. His usual active dating life had paled lately, and most of his friends had families to keep them busy.
Plus, Meg was pretty. He looked at her now, punching a code into the keypad lock at the door of the big old house, which according to the sign was the Coastal Kids Early Learning Center, and admiration filled him.
She was competent and successful, here in her element. That alone drew him to her. Of course, she was attractive in other ways, too. Right now, she wore a skirt made of some kind of athletic material that flared out around her pretty legs. Just a plain red T-shirt, but it showed off her figure. And those flat sandals that all the young women wore now.
Toenails painted red. Nice.
She’d always been a pretty girl, but she’d blossomed into a beautiful woman.
And he didn’t need to focus on that. “So this is your school,” he said as they walked in.
She flipped on the lights and gestured toward the glassed-in office. “Yep. My joy and my frustration. I’m not even going into my office, because I know there’s a ton of paperwork waiting for me there.” She sounded a little breathless, and he wasn’t sure what that was about. “We’re getting ready for a new school year. Come on, we can use my daughter’s classroom.”
They climbed the central staircase. Kid-friendly pictures and posters decorated the walls, and when they went into the classroom, he was taken with the bright primary colors and tiny chairs. He put the pizza down on the big teacher’s desk and walked around the room, looking at everything—the different play areas, the easels, the bright carpet with a rocking chair in front of it for story time.
Meg rummaged in the cupboards until she found paper plates, forks and napkins. She brought them to one end of a long table and served up pieces of pizza. “Dinner’s ready,” she joked.
He started over and then a bulletin board of photos caught his eye. One was labeled Miss Kayla, and he studied it for a moment. “She’s really grown up, isn’t she?”
“It happened too fast.” Meg looked wistful as she handed him pizza and one of the sodas they’d picked up. “She was the center of my world for so long. I miss having that closeness, that sense of purpose.”
He wanted to know whether she dated, whether there’d been anyone serious since she’d been widowed. She was the kind of woman who should have a boyfriend at least, maybe a husband.
She touched his back as she moved past him to grab a soda for herself, and the heat of her hand traveled right through his shirt to his skin, and then to his heart. What was wrong with him?
“You never had kids, did you?”
He shook his head. “I’m not the fatherly type.”
“Any regrets?” She was looking at him, really looking. Like she cared about the answer, and it was refreshing. He hadn’t realized how bored he was with his usual young, self-centered dates until this moment.
“Sometimes I have regrets.” And he didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to feel this warmth in his chest, this out-of-breath sensation. He took a bite of pizza, still standing, and scanned the room. “Let’s use this big whiteboard. You have markers?”
“Um, sure.” She handed him one.
He’d go into the teacher mode he used when he taught creative writing. That was the way to do it: keep things impersonal, professional. “Now, tell me anything you know about your story.”
“I know nothing,” she said, setting her plate aside and slumping, crossing those pretty legs. “I’m never going to be able to finish this thesis, especially in the short time I have.”
He wanted to put his arms around her, comfort her. To clasp her against him and see how well they fit together. “Don’t think about the time. Not to be all Zen about it, but just be here now with me.” He stood at the board, marker poised. “Just one thing you thought you might not mind putting into the story.”
“Don’t you want to eat your pizza?”
“You’re stalling.” He took another bite and wiped his hands. “I’m used to eating and working. Tell me one idea.”
She sipped her soda and traced lines in the condensation with the tip of a finger. “Well... I thought of writing about a girl with scoliosis, like Kayla had.” She looked at him quickly and then went back to the finger painting, as if she was scared to know what he thought.
“Great idea.” He wanted to encourage her, and would have tried to be positive about anything she said, but that was a great idea. Straight from her warm heart. He focused on writing it down, because he didn’t need to be thinking about Meg’s warmth and all her other assets. “What interests you about that?”
She was watching him, studying his face, and her own cheeks went pink. Like she’d forgotten what she was about to say. Like he had an effect on her, similar to the one she was having on him.
He restrained the yes! and the arm pump he felt inside, stood still, looked at the whiteboard. Like a teacher, waiting; not like an average ordinary guy who wanted to take her out on a real date.
She cleared her throat. “I’m not sure exactly what happened to Kayla, but middle school was a misery. Peer pressure and bullying. She’s never opened up about it.”
He wrote all that down. “Would she tell you if you asked?”
“I don’t think so. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“Would she do a sensitivity read?” He saw her puzzled look and explained. “That’s when you’re writing about someone different from yourself, usually someone of a different race or age or ability level. You get someone who’s in that group you’re writing about to read it and tell you what you got wrong.”
“You know... I bet she would do that.” Meg sat up straighter. “Maybe that’s why I’ve been so blocked. I didn’t want to make her feel bad or infringe on her territory or be a helicopter mom. And I want to get it just right.”
She cared so much, and he admired that about her.
He couldn’t resist walking over to rub her shoulder a little. Just to relax her, he told himself, but the feel of her arm underneath his hand made him want more. A lot more. He covered his totally inappropriate feelings with a chuckle. “Yeah, an idea that close to home would be enough to block anyone. But if you don’t have those things in the way, what could be elements of the story?”
The ideas poured out of her then. A dog, a mean girl, a support group. Coming of age, dealing with puberty at the same time you discovered you’d have to wear a brace for several years.
They carried on brainstorming until the whole whiteboard was covered with notes. At some point she grabbed another marker and stood at the board with him, adding lines and arrows to link ideas.
It was good working with her, fun. More fun than he’d had in a long time.
When they finally wound down, she studied the whiteboard and then reached over and patted his arm. “You have no idea what this means to me. You’ve fixed it!”
She was standing right in front of him. If he stepped forward a couple of inches, he could pull her into his arms, embrace her from behind.
With iron control, he took a step backward. Another. “Don’t be premature. You still have work to do. You brought your laptop, right?”
She looked over her shoulder at him, nodded. Her eyes were half-closed. Had she been thinking about him the way he was thinking about her?
“Get it out.” He kept his voice steady. Be professional. “We’ll put things in order now. Then we can give you a task for each day.”
The dreamy look fell from her face and was replaced by anxiety. “I have two weeks.”
“You can do it.” They kept working, and by the time he handed back her computer, there was a rough outline of the story. Which made him happy, because he’d helped her. For other reasons, too, reasons he didn’t want to name, so he stood and started cleaning up the remains of the pizza. The feelings he was having about Meg were disturbing. He wanted, no, needed, for them to stop.
She studied the screen, her earlier anxious expression replaced with relief. “I can do it. You’re a miracle worker.” She stood and threw her arms around him.
He hesitated, then returned the hug, then wished he hadn’t because of how great she felt in his arms. He loosened his grasp quickly, leaned back with his hands still on her arms and studied her happy face. “Glad to be of help.”
Her color was high and her eyes went dark. He expected her to push him away, but she didn’t. Instead, her gaze dropped to his lips for the shortest instant.
His chest felt tight. Up this close, he could see her thick lashes and the gold flecks in her green eyes. His pulse hammered.
He leaned forward. It would be a mistake, but he really, really wanted to kiss her. He couldn’t fight it anymore.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. “Who’s there? The school is closed. I have the police on speed dial...” A silhouette appeared in the door, then the overhead lights switched on. “Mom! What are you doing?”