silly thing to remember now, Eddie thought, pulling his car up in front of the modest looking two-story house. What his mind should be on now was doing a good job for this woman, getting paid and focusing any spare time he might have tonight and tomorrow night on getting fully prepared to take over Chelsea Jamison’s third-grade class.
He’d already done his due diligence as far as that was concerned. The moment he’d learned from the principal that he would be taking over the woman’s class, he’d requested a list of the students’ names and any sort of notes Chelsea might have made regarding the individual students.
Eddie prided himself on never going in cold or unprepared. This way, there would be no awkward period of adjustment. He wanted the students to respond to him immediately. To feel as if he was their mentor, or at least someone who was willing to listen to what they had to say—both in the class and privately, if they needed help with something of a more personal nature, like being bullied.
He loved teaching, and wanted to leave a memorable impression on the students he encountered. More than that, he wanted to, by his own example, encourage the kids he’d be dealing with to make the most of their potential. Had his fifth-grade teacher, Miss Nocton, not done that for him, not seen past his cocky bravado, he might be languishing in a prison somewhere right now, like some of the guys from his old neighborhood. But Miss Nocton, a dour-faced, straitlaced woman, had awakened a thirst for knowledge within him by challenging him. Every time he felt that he had done his best, she had told him he could do better.
And damned if he couldn’t, Eddie thought now with a smile. Granted, he had a great family and he loved his mother and his sisters, but it was that little, no-nonsense woman in the sensible shoes who was responsible for the fact that he was who he was today. He intended to make her proud, even if she was no longer around to see it.
Eddie took a deep breath. Time to get to work, he told himself.
Shelving his thoughts, he reached over and rang the doorbell.
Tiffany Lee was not fully awake as she stumbled down the stairs and toward the annoying noise. Her eyes were still in the process of trying to focus. It was the sound of the doorbell that had disrupted her sleep and eventually forced her out of bed to answer it—because it just wouldn’t stop ringing.
She had never been accused of being a morning person. She was especially not a weekend morning person. Five days a week, she resigned herself to the fact that she had to be up and smiling at an ungodly hour—and any hour before 9:00 a.m. was ungodly in her book. But her job called for her to be up and at ’em early.
Someday, when she became queen of the world, school wouldn’t begin until noon, she promised herself. But until that glorious day arrived, Tiffany knew she had to make every effort to turn up in her classroom before eight in the morning. That way, when her students marched in shortly after eight, everything would be ready and waiting for them—including her. Because she really loved teaching and loved her students, she went along with this soul-crushing arrangement.
But weekends were supposed to be her own. And in a perfect world, they would be. But in a perfect world, bathroom sinks and bathtub faucets didn’t suddenly give up the ghost and gurgle instead of producing water—and toilets would flush with breathtaking regularity rather than just 50 percent of the time. None of that was presently happening in the master bath adjacent to her bedroom, and she knew she needed help—desperately. It was either that or start sleeping downstairs near the other bathroom, something she had begun to seriously consider.
Her mother, for once, hadn’t somehow turned her current dilemma into yet another excuse to go on and on about how this just showed why Tiffany needed a husband in her life. A husband who would take care of all these annoying nuisances whenever they cropped up.
Instead of bending her ear, her mother, bless her, had not only volunteered to find someone to put an end to her master bathroom woes, she had even said she would pay for it.
The only catch was that the contractor had to come do the work on the weekend because he had a day job the rest of the week.
She hadn’t realized when she’d agreed to her mother’s generous offer that “weekend” meant the very start of the weekend—and that it apparently started before daylight made its appearance.
So okay, Tiffany thought, dragging her hand through her hair—as if that motion would somehow cause adrenaline to go shooting through the rest of her very sleepy body—technically “weekend” meant any time after midnight, Friday, but she’d figured she would have some leeway.
Obviously not, she thought with a deep sigh.
The ringing sounded even more shrill as she got closer. It felt as if it was jarring everything within her that was jarrable.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she cried irritably, raising her voice so it could be heard through the door. “Hold your horses. The bathroom’s not going anywhere.”
Glancing through the peephole, she made out what looked to be some sort of a truck parked at her curb. There was someone in dark blue coveralls standing on her front step.
The contractor her mother sent—she hoped.
The plot thickens, Tiffany whimsically thought. feeling slightly giddy.
“Good to know,” Eddie said the moment she unlocked the door and pulled it partially open.
Her brain still foggy, Tiffany blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
He grinned at her. She caught herself thinking that it was way too early for a smile that cheerful. Was there something wrong with the man her mother had sent?
There was something oddly familiar about that smile—but the thought was gone before she could catch it and she was way too tired to make the effort to try to place it.
“You said that the bathroom wasn’t going anywhere and I responded, ‘Good to know,’ since I’m going to be working on remodeling it,” Eddie told her, patiently explaining his comment. Teaching younger students had taught him to have infinite patience.
“Oh.” She supposed that made sense.
Functioning on a five-second delay, Tiffany opened the door wider, allowing the good-looking contractor to come inside. The rather large toolbox in his hand convinced her that he was on the level. Who carried around something that big at this hour of the morning if they didn’t have to?
“Sorry,” she apologized. “My brain doesn’t usually kick in this early in the morning.”
“Early?” he echoed in amusement. “You think this is early?”
“I don’t think,” she said, followed by a yawn she couldn’t stifle. “I know.” She started for the stairs. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the man with the toolbox wasn’t following her. “The bathroom’s upstairs.” She pointed for emphasis.
“Wait,” he called out, bringing her to a halt. The woman was either way too trusting or simply naive—and he had to admit that she didn’t look to be either. Especially if she turned out to be who he thought she was. “Don’t you want to see my credentials?”
Tiffany yawned again, not at his question, but because her body desperately yearned to go back to bed
