Sunshine In The Morning (Spring-Summer Romance Book 1) (3 page)

The scent of bacon awakened her from a troubled sleep, and the demons that’d plagued her in the nighttime vanished in the light of day. A fresh wash of sunshine pressed through the dusty window glass, leaving an uneven square on the carpet.

Lying there, listening to the noises from the kitchen, Lydia wondered how she’d ended up here. The rain? Could she blame it on the weather? It’d not been that severe since she’d moved to Florida. But surely, she could have managed to escape somehow. She might have been wet, but she wouldn’t have to explain to her roommate where she was all night or look Mr. Kai in the eyes during his next class, knowing where she’d been.

Her stomach growled. One hand mashed over it, she kicked the bed covers away and pushed to her feet. A glance in the mirror hanging over the dresser confirmed she needed a shower and a change of clothes. But those would have to come later because first she must get past the ball of nerves rolling around in her gut.

Turning the knob, she exited and angled across the hall to the restroom, then shuffled toward the kitchen. Aarin’s tall, masculine form blocked the light from the kitchen window, giving him an unearthly glow. The spatula in his hand made him look triumphant.

She laughed once at the image, the sound drawing his gaze.

“You’re up,” he said. “I figured since I have a guest I should make something more substantial than a toaster pastry.”

“You mean you don’t start your day with a glass of raw eggs?”

He made a face. “Never. Back when I could work out more, I’d drink protein shakes. Some of them weren’t too bad, but I admit, the hand makes me lazy.”

“You don’t look flabby to me,” she replied, unthinking.

His gaze grew deep. “I do what I can.”

Looking away, Lydia stepped forward and took a seat on a bar stool. “I used to jog,” she said, willing the awkward moment to pass. “Hard to do that and juggle classes. Philosophy is going to kill me, I think, for all the same reasons you dislike those analogies … too much thought.”

He returned to the stove, his back to her, and the need to fill in the space between them lifted somewhat. Fitting the spatula beneath a pancake, he flipped it over, his weight slanted on one hip. He’d dressed partially, in tan slacks and a button up, but the tail untucked, his feet bare, had a bit left to do before he’d look like a professor.

“How’d you end up teaching here?” she asked.

He glanced behind. “Well, hockey fell through, so I leaned on my love of books to pay the bills. Have a degree in literature from Florida State and thought I ought to use it.”

“Does it feel odd being so young?”

He looked away, sliding the pancake onto a stack of others. Setting the hot skillet to the side, he shifted the stack to a spot near her, placing butter and syrup alongside. He pulled bacon from the microwave.

“You prefer coffee? Orange juice?”

“Juice is good.”

Again, he turned aside, filling two glasses and handing her an empty plate. “Help yourself.”

She took one, smeared it with butter, and a light dot of syrup.

“To answer your question,” Aarin said, taking a seat, “I’m used to being the wrong age. Graduated from high school when I was sixteen and went to college with kids your age a couple months later.”

Kids her age. Their age difference grew larger. “And hockey?” She shoved it aside.

“I detoured from my plans to play hockey, something I’d done growing up in Minnesota.”

“You’re from there?” she asked.

He shook his head. “California, actually. But I spent five years in the frozen north on a Junior League. Went back to Cali after, but missed hockey. So when I had the chance to play, I took it. I was forced to quit when I injured my hand.”

Her gaze strayed to his fingers.

“It’s better today,” he said, “more tolerable.”

They quieted, consumed for a while with eating their food, then Lydia rose and gathered the dirty dishes, setting them in the sink. She plugged the drain and filled the basin with soapy water.

“You don’t have to do that,” Aarin said to her back.

“No, I do. My mom once told me to show appreciation where it’s due, and I know you wouldn’t want to go against that.”

“I guess not,” he replied. “She raised a good daughter.”

Up to her elbow in suds, Lydia let his compliment hover in the air between them and heard him rise and put away the other things. She was struck in the silence by the domestic scene, that what should be difficult wasn’t, but had an easy contentment.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

After rinsing and drying the plates, she washed out the sink and wiped off the counter. She wandered into the living room and stared at the mess they’d left the night before. With time on her hands, she straightened that, too, and was facing away from him when he returned.

He coughed, and she whirled.

“Look at you,” she said. “You’ve gotten your shirt done up crooked.” Walking up to him, she fixed his collar, adjusting it to hang straight, and his face creased with amusement and something else—well-being.

Her hand at the base of his neck, her palm warmed and, in a flash, her face as well. “I … I should go.” She reversed, not bothering to look behind. Her knees bumped the arm of the couch, and she crumpled. Sitting there, one leg propping her weight, she followed his gaze down her extended limb. His jaw tightened, and he made of fist of his good hand.

“Let me help you up,” he said. He stood her to her feet, holding onto her fingers. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

A spark lit in her brain, a glimpse of something she shouldn’t entertain.

See him in class, where she’d have to pretend none of this had happened, that she hadn’t spent hours in his house, slept in his spare room, that he hadn’t made her breakfast. Nor held her hand, however brief. Nor stared at her like he was now. Where she’d have to deny she’d considered him someone other than her professor.

“Tomorrow, yes,” she said, reclaiming her fingers. She curled them into her palm.

“I think, for our next meeting, we’ll discuss what order the subjects should go in. I’m pretty set, but there’s a few places where I could shift things earlier or later. I’m free Friday if you like. I have some late night meetings and can’t get free until then. Unless you have a date?” he asked.

Lydia swallowed on a dry throat. “No,” she shook her head. “I’m all yours Friday night.”

CHAPTER 3

The leftover disorder of the previous day welcomed Aarin into his classroom, the imprint of his students evident in scuffed tile, smeared hand prints, and the presence of a dropped pencil. He surveyed the scene, a king in his kingdom, then proceeded forward, dropping his briefcase in his desk chair. The cushioned seat released a whuff of air and the seat rolled backwards a few inches.

“Mr. Kai, I was hoping to catch you before your first class.”

Aarin turned his gaze toward the college dean. Augustus Bloom was exactly what you’d expect to find working college admin. Slim, dressed crisp, his thinning hair brushed long over his exposed skull, he gave the impression he spent every waking hour considering his next supervisory duty.

His black brogans contrasting sharply with a pair of khaki pants, he stopped short in front of the desk and cleared his throat. “It’s about the curriculum change. We were talking …”

Aarin stiffened, aware his rigid response had caught the dean’s eye.

“We feel it’s a needed change, but the structure of it should be approved by the board.”

“Approved?”

He’d worked long and hard to acquire permission to work on the curriculum. To have to fight for that all over again smacked of arrogance.

“Yes, this is such a drastic change that we’d feel better if a trained group looked over your suggestions. We’re sure that you mean well, but cannot let such an important change be placed solely in the hands of students.”

Aarin inhaled, willing his anger to weaken. “It isn’t placed ‘solely in the hands of students,’” he replied. “It’s in my hands, and I am pleased with our progress.”

Giving another cough, the dean tugged at the neck of his sweater vest. “Yes, well, and that’s the other thing … No offense meant,” Augustus said, “but we must take into account the image you’re displaying. We don’t want anyone to think us unproficient at accomplishing our duties.”

A flash of heat swamped Aarin’s cheeks, and, temporarily overcome, he ground his teeth together. That anyone would question his competence upset him beyond words. Swallowing his anger, he did his best to compose himself. He’d convinced them before; he could do so again. They really didn’t have any idea what the effort entailed, and they’d never understood his disability.

Not the first time. He’d fought to be understood as a teen in a twenty-something world. On the ice, he’d felt equal for the first time. But after injuring his hand, the frustration he’d suffered before had returned.

“While I appreciate your concern, I have done my best to prevent any talk,” he said. “I did, after all, bring the idea to you and describe it in detail. If you prefer, I can keep you apprised of our progress. I will also submit the changes to the board if you’d like. But …”

Aarin left the place beyond the desk, closing the distance between them. Turning his hand over, he extended it well into the dean’s view. “I cannot fix what is broken. Someone must write things down. You were made aware of this when I was hired, and that has not changed. Or do I need to contact my union representative?”

The dean took a quick breath. “No, no. And no offense was meant. Of course, you need someone.”

They stood face to face a moment longer, then the dean gave a nod. “Very well. I will relay the message and trust you to work out the details.” He circled around and shuffled up the aisle. The metal door shut hard on his exit.

Aarin exhaled, his shoulder slumping under the weight of the dean’s words. With his good hand, he massaged the back of his neck and slid down into his chair. He loved his job, enjoyed teaching, but hated spending any time tolerating the adults. It was people like Augustus Bloom who made him rethink his life. What if his hand hadn’t been injured, then where would he be? Not here. Not doing this.

Leaning back in the seat, it creaked with his weight, and his gaze moved to the ceiling. Maybe he wouldn’t be alone either. He’d had a girlfriend when it happened, but she’d withdrawn, repelled, he supposed, by the extent of the damage. He stretched out the offending limb, turning his palm upward, and pictured her face. Horror, revulsion, she’d wanted the perfect guy, the sports superstar who could carry her places. She’d never really cared for the thoughtful side of him. She’d not listened when he talked, not offered him any compassion. Not that he’d been craving it or so shallow he’d break up over that. But she’d acted like his hand injury was contagious.

Her face changed to that of another girl, one younger with dark hair and a studious expression, one who’d massaged his fingers as if it were no big deal, stepped in to help him when he struggled. Why couldn’t he find someone like that? Someone who made him feel better, like Lydia did, who he enjoyed talking to? Why did he have to remain locked inside his own head, unable to express his frustrations about it all?

Talking to her had been the easiest thing. Surely there was another such person out there somewhere, and, maybe, eventually, their paths would cross.

Aarin released a breath and sat forward, reaching for his briefcase at his feet. “The day must begin,” he said to himself. Moping around wouldn’t help, nor get his classwork done.

But as he began, taking out stacks of students’ papers and selecting a pen from the cup straight ahead, he couldn’t help but look forward to Friday. At least, for a few weeks, a month or so, he had this time with Lydia. It was always so fulfilling to see knowledge light up someone’s face, but especially hers.

“Hey, I’m so glad you could meet me here.”

Lydia smiled back at Karen, who slipped into a library chair, the flimsy pink plastic stretching with even her small amount of weight. “No problem.” Lydia adjusted her grip on several folders beneath her palm.

“I have this psych class …” Karen blew out a breath. “Already, it’s killing me.”

“Professor Monroe?”

“Yeah. Have you had him?”

“Heard stories. Friend of a friend said he was ‘brutal’. I believe that’s the word.”

Karen sagged in her chair. “I’ll say. I am definitely not cut out to be a psychologist.” She held herself supine for a moment, then popped upright. “I am thinking about writing a book, however.” She leaned forward over the table and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think it’ll be about a sexy teacher who falls in love with his student.”

Karen’s words, although meant in jest, smacked Lydia in the face, and she blinked. Karen didn’t appear to notice.

“I will, of course, model the student after myself. The teacher …” Karen’s smile widened and a spark lit in her eyes.

“Do you … think that’s so wrong?” Lydia asked.

Karen sat upright again. “A student-teacher relationship?”

Lydia nodded.

“I don’t know,” Karen replied. “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s certainly happened before. I guess it depends on a lot of factors … ages, marital status. Schools are really defensive about their image, you know.”

“Sure.”

Karen twisted around, unzipping her book bag from where it hung on the seat, and pulled out a notepad, a pen hooked on its seam, and a slender handbook. She stared down at it, silently. “On the other hand …” she continued. “You can’t help your heart. If you fall for someone and the only issue is his profession, that’s not enough to throw the relationship away. But people will talk, and you’ve got to know that.” A knowing look crept over Karen’s face, settling between her eyes. “Heard you were helping Mr. Kai rewrite curriculum.”

She sounded neither judgmental nor nosy with that remark, but Lydia figured she probably did want to know. She couldn’t deny it, had realized the fact she and Mr. Kai were working together would come out soon enough. She hadn’t chosen how to answer yet.

“The books they want him to use were printed in nineteen forty-two,” she said.

Karen’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow.”

“Exactly, but he said the college won’t do anything about it. Anyhow …” She waved one hand outward and flipped open her folder. “He doesn’t seem to need much help. He’s certainly very capable.” She hoped, with that remark, to play it off. She really didn’t want to reveal how … private it’d been either.

Karen’s gaze rested on her for several more seconds, then she exhaled. “He’s amazing,” she said. “I’d help him do just about anything, and I envy you.”

Envy? Though she pretended to do her assignment after that, Lydia couldn’t remove the word from her mind, nor the embarrassment it caused. The fact she was embarrassed by Karen’s opinion gave her perspective. Mr. Kai had never implied there was anything to this past working on the books. He’d seemed happy for the company, but made no move in her direction, nor said anything out-of-place.

She was being a silly, empty-headed female. That was all.

Somewhat comforted, she bowed her head further toward her page. Entering his class later, she was more confident still. He made no particular look in her direction, as class unfolded, speaking only of their current assignment. He did seem harried, but perhaps, it’d been a particularly taxing day.

The next day and most of Friday were taken up with classes, laundry, and catching up on her sleep. She’d forgotten about her and Aarin’s plans until he called. Not having looked at the number in advance, she startled at his voice.

“Lydia?”

A smile rose on her face, unexpected. “Mr. Kai.” Her pencil fell loose in her hand.

“I know we’re supposed to work on curriculum tonight,” he said, “but I thought it more appropriate we should meet on campus. I’ve secured us a conference room in the Harold Dooley Center. I’ll bring something to eat … if … if you’re still coming.”

The phone at her ear, she straightened, leaning back in her seat. Why would he doubt it? She’d promised to help. “Of course, I am.”

“Good. I’ll be in room two.”

They disconnected, and with a more relaxed frame of mind, she tightened her grip on her pencil and bent back to her homework. At six forty-five, she made her way from the girls’ dorm across campus. A moderate number of students walked the passageways for evening classes. There was also a good crowd inside the Center. She paused, scanning the faces for anyone familiar, then aimed toward the conference rooms in the rear.

At room two, she paused, her gaze focusing through the glass onto Mr. Kai. He was seated, the books spread across the table, his head bowed over a paper pressed beneath his crippled hand. Concerned, she entered, and his head lifted toward hers.

She pulled the door closed behind her. “Are you okay?”

He nodded toward the vertical blinds spanning the wall. “Can you close those? No need to create any talk.”

She obeyed, then turned on one heel to face him. She made her way around the table, taking a seat at his side. Unthinking, she reached for his hand, carefully straightening his fingers.

His eyes closed, he sighed. “Thank you. Now if I could get rid of this headache.”

Releasing his hand, she reclined. “Turn off your head and don’t think for a moment. Picture something peaceful and happy instead.”

He didn’t speak, but gradually, contentment formed on his face, the lines on his brow fading away. He opened his eyes again and exhaled long. “You are a godsend.” He reached on his good side and raised a paper bag to the table. “Dinner.”

Lydia inhaled. “That smells wonderful.”

Mr. Kai smiled wide. “I confess that I splurged and had something special delivered.” He set the bag between them, tapping it in her direction. “Go ahead. Take a peek.”

Uncertain, she stood and reached into the bag, pulling out two lidded foil trays and a third smaller one. Popping the lid on the first tray, she glanced in his direction. “This is … too much, but thank you.”

“Shrimp scampi from one of my favorite places, LaSalle’s. The other is tossed salad, and the dessert …” He paused. “Their molten chocolate cake.”

“Wow.” Lydia reseated herself. “You really didn’t have to.”

He shrugged. “I figured you were tired of things involving ramen and besides …” He paused. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

His tone softened, and her heart skipped a beat. Praise from him meant so much, more, probably, than it should.

He furthered it, just then, raising his crippled hand. “I shouldn’t say this, but your personal attention has made me almost feel normal again.”