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Her lonely expression softened him. Being surrounded by a large family—barraged by them, really—didn’t stop him from feeling alone, too. “What about your relatives? Friends?” He cleared his throat. “Boyfriend?”
Her laugh sounded as bitter as the coffee. “A boyfriend. Hah. That’d be the day.”
The weird tightness in Aiden’s chest loosened and he released a breath. He needed to get a grip. Her dating status was none of his business.
Rebecca brought her arm up to her mouth and coughed into it. “Laura’s gone, so that takes care of my close friends list. And as for my family...well...they’re, uh, not around much.”
He hung a mug and looked at the downcast woman, his sympathy about her family turning to guilt. Was this how his relatives viewed him? But to fill his father’s big shoes, he had to work sixteen hour days, seven days a week...and even that didn’t seem enough. How had his father managed the business and family so effortlessly?
“I’m sure lots of people care.” Aiden began lining up the wineglasses on a mirror-backed shelf, his gaze drifting to the beautiful woman’s reflection. “They just might be busy. Not have time to show it.” He peered into her eyes, then looked away, her sun-ray smile piercing his closed-off heart.
“‘How’s your day’ takes only a minute to ask.” She began sorting the remaining glasses on the counter according to size. “Maybe a couple more to listen to the answer.”
Aiden plucked a few mugs from the drier and stacked them below the bar. She had a point...only where to find those precious minutes when work demanded every second?
“At least you care,” she continued. “No one’s listened to me since my roommate Laura left.” Her brow furrowed and her smile vanished. “But that’s your job, right? To listen? So... I’ll take a—a beer.”
She swiped at her nose, then twisted her hands together atop the counter. With her eyelids drooping after drinking half a cup of coffee, she must be more intoxicated than he’d thought. And it looked like she was fighting a whopping cold. “I don’t think that’s for the best, ma’am.”
Her jaw clenched. “You said you were still open.” She glanced up at the wall clock, then pulled out a twenty.
He leaned forward. “My bar, my rules.” She might be used to giving orders wherever she came from, but this was his world.
“But the customer’s always right.” Her unsteady squeak tugged at him.
“When the patron acts appropriately.”
Suddenly her face contorted. “I just need to talk. Please.”
For the love of all—where was Mary Ann? The tear that rolled down the woman’s cheek broke through his resistance.
He poured himself another cup of caffeine and forced a weary smile. She was right. This was his job. Would always be, he thought with a pang. If given a choice, would he have picked it? He shoved down the image of the engineering school’s acceptance letter he’d received after his father died. “Fine then. Happy to listen, Rebecca. What’s the trouble?”
For the next few minutes, she unleashed a torrent of woes that ranged from problematic coworkers trying to make her lose tenure—whatever that was—to her out-of-control canine, her lost coffee shop job, not being able to make this month’s rent and, oddly enough, the torture of control-top hosiery. He struggled to keep his expression sympathetic as he nodded along to that one.
“You’re laughing at me,” she declared, her face scrunching.
“Only on the inside,” he said solemnly, then gave in and chuckled, pleased when her bell-like laugh rang out. He topped off her coffee and dodged her playful swat. “No, really. I’m listening.”
Despite Rebecca’s erratic rant, he found her charming and entertaining, even if she didn’t mean to be. Somehow closing up no longer mattered, and for the first time in a while he heard himself laugh. He enjoyed watching her large, mobile mouth, her expressive eyes, and the way she squeezed his hand for emphasis. It’d been a while since someone outside his family touched him and he was surprised at the feelings she stirred. Dangerous ones.
“Aiden,” Mary Ann called. “Connor won’t get off the Xbox, Mom wants to know when Dad is coming upstairs, Ella’s wet her bed and Daniel’s having those nightmares again. I thought you’d be up by now, and—oh...”
Spotting Rebecca, his sister pulled up short on the staircase from their upstairs apartment.
“Hey.” Rebecca waved, and then, with a clunk, passed out, her head hitting the bar.
Aiden rushed around the counter and Mary Ann flew to the girl’s side.
“Ouch. Why didn’t you cut her off?” Mary Ann scolded, her expert nurse’s hands—from training he’d made sure she received—running over Rebecca’s temples and prying open her shut eyes. As the second oldest, Mary Ann had always been one to challenge his authority...and the only one he could turn to when he dared admit to a problem.
“She came here this way.” Aiden held up a mug. “And I’ve been trying to get her to drink this.” Luckily, she hadn’t hit the hot liquid. He should have noticed she was close to passing out. Mary Ann was right; he’d been distracted by Rebecca and had dropped the ball. “I was going to call her a cab.”
“In this condition? You can’t let a woman travel alone like that. Remember what happened to Gemma after the family reunion?”
Aiden shook his head. “I didn’t go to the reunion.”
Mary Ann’s harsh expression softened. “Right. You had to work. Sorry, Aiden.”
He shrugged. “Goes with the territory.” He’d spent so much of his life in the pub, it barely registered anymore. Though he would like to get out. Meet someone like Rebecca...
“Come on. Lock the door and help me.” His sister already had his client’s lolling head on her shoulder, her flame-red hair bright against Rebecca’s gold. “We’ll put her to sleep in the office. She won’t be any threat to the family in this state.”
Aiden turned the bolts, then scooped up Rebecca and carried her upstairs. She weighed no more than a crate of Guinness and felt as soft as a down pillow. For a moment he fantasized what it would be like to take her to his room, but swerved into the office and the futon that awaited.
“I’ll get some sheets to make it up.” Mary Ann shot him a narrow-eyed look as he sat at his desk chair and held Rebecca tight. He wouldn’t risk her slipping and hitting her head again.
“Who’s that pretty lady?”
He glanced up, hearing his youngest sister’s voice. “A new friend who’s not feeling very well. And you should be in bed, Ella. School’s tomorrow.”
“I had an accident.” Her thin frame was wrapped in a towel, her hair wet, her mouth trembling.
Aiden mustered a reassuring smile. “Well, you’ve gone a long time. It’s been months...so things are looking up, aren’t they?”
Ella’s dark hair, similar in wave and thickness to his, slid in a tangle as she bobbed her head. Her long face transformed into a relieved grin. “Not since February.”
Aiden angled his body around an inert Rebecca and held out an arm for the little one. “There you have it. I’m proud of you, Ella.”
She smelled of soap and toothpaste as she nuzzled her head in the crook of his neck. “I love you, Aiden,” she whispered, then took off in a flash, passing their wandering mother in a series of twirls.
“Ellison!”
Aiden flinched, hating it when she mistook him for his look-alike father.
“What are you doing with this woman?”
“Mom. It’s me. Aiden. And this is a customer who’s had a few too many.”
“Is it Mildred again?” His mother’s anger faded to confusion and her hand wandered up to tangle in her white, shoulder-length hair. “For an Irishwoman, she can’t hold her liquor. Your father adds water to her whiskey, you know.”
“Oh, there you are, Mother.” Mary Ann entered with linens, dropped them on the futon and put an arm around their parent. “Let’s get you off to sleep now. I’ve got your pill and no spitting it out this time.”
Their voices faded and Aiden shifted Rebecca on his lap, gazing down at her peaceful, angelic face. If only his life was as worry-free as she looked, and that he could get to know a girl like this. But no woman would ever take on his responsibilities, and he’d never give them up. Didn’t have time to pay attention to one more person in his life on top of his family. And families stuck together, no matter the sacrifice.
A nightmare-induced shriek, Daniel’s by the sound of it, made Rebecca murmur and twine a hand in Aiden’s hair, her body snuggled so tightly against him he couldn’t breathe. He stood and gently laid her on the futon, savoring this quiet moment before dealing with Connor’s Xbox defiance and whatever other family crisis-of-the-moment waited—the worst of which would come tomorrow morning at the hearing.
For this moment at least, he’d be selfish. It felt good to imagine what life with a woman like Rebecca would have been like, before reality’s undertow sucked him under.
CHAPTER TWO
“AHHH, THERE’S MY elusive tenant.” Rebecca’s foot froze on the top step to her loft’s landing. Darn. First she’d woken in a stranger’s apartment, realized her cold was replaced with a pounding headache only caffeine could cure, except that she’d boycotted JavaHut, and now this. Her landlord.
She turned and forced a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Trotsky. I’m actually running a bit late. School’s back in session today.” And she hoped to arrive early and speak to her principal about her tenure...
The man peered up at her with eyes as black as the mustache he smoothed. A nervous tick that she and Laura had nicknamed “the groom of doom.” Her heart pinched at the thought of returning to her lonely loft. Would she ever get used to her friend’s absence?
“Have you got rent for me?” His fingers glided over his top lip once more. When a door opened behind him, his comb-over lifted in the stale breeze.
“I have something better,” she temporized. How much money did she have? Her fingers delved into her purse. Twenty bucks from last night’s tip jar and her white envelope from the Rosellis. Not even close. And she didn’t dare sell her aunt’s latest gift. The purse would be expected to make an appearance at their weekly luncheon, its presence debatably more important than hers. “How about those raisin oatmeal bars Laura taught me how to bake?”
“So you have money for groceries and—” he gestured to her rumpled outfit “—going out all night, but nothing for Trotsky, eh?”
Perspiration beaded her brow as she remembered her wretched evening capped off by a surprisingly nice end. She’d opened up to a warmhearted barkeep, a man who’d listened to her rattle on for an embarrassingly long time.
She wished she was back at the White Horse, making a fool of herself in front of the overworked man who’d made time for her. Now, there was no more charming her landlord. If she confided she’d lost her second job and was in danger of losing her first, too, he’d probably evict her on the spot. Not that she could blame him. He was running a business, not a charity. And she never wanted to be considered that.
“When my paycheck comes on Friday, I’ll sign it over to you. So sorry for the delay.”
How many more paychecks would she get? If the board denied her tenure, she’d have to leave at the end of the school year and then where would she go? Tenure meant a permanent position. It safeguarded against arbitrary firing. She could stay on and hope they’d grant it to her in year four, but typically educators were either “counseled out,” meaning convinced to resign, or fired before another vote was ever taken. A chill finger-walked up her spine and she shivered.
Mr. Trotsky’s mouth twisted to the side and his narrow eyes studied her. After a long, breathless moment, he nodded, his teeth appearing in a beaver’s smile.
“You’ve always been a good renter, Rebecca. And I’ll have that check, and the cookies, by Friday. Good day.”
With a sharp turn on polished dress shoes, he disappeared in a cloud of Old Spice.
She sagged against her wrought iron railing. Phew. That at least settled the potential homelessness problem...for now. But how would she pay the rest of her bills or eat for the next two weeks if she didn’t find another job, stat? As if on cue, her stomach rumbled.
A scratch at her door and a low, wheezing woof had her scrambling for her key. Poor Freud. Eating would have to wait until she took care of her pug’s needs.
Minutes later she was out in the morning sunlight, its pale gold gilding the brick, pre-war era buildings on her cobblestone SoHo street. A stream of chatting customers flowed in and out of JavaHut, she noticed, her grip tightening on Freud’s lead. The aroma of hazelnut and cinnamon buns floated across the street and Freud began to pull, his nails scrabbling on the pavement.
“No more banana walnut muffins for you.” She gazed down at her pet’s wet, bulging black eyes and felt the familiar heart tug that’d made her snap him up at a pet-shelter street fair last year. “The doctor says you need to lose a few pounds anyway, though I think beauty comes in all sizes,” she added then clamped her mouth shut when a passing couple looked from her to her pet, agog. Oops. When would she learn to muzzle herself around her pug in public? At least she’d be with kids soon...no judging there.
And an hour later that’s where she found herself, in the middle of a group hug as students streamed through Washington Irving High’s front door after their week off.
“Ms. Day, what’s up?”
“Look, I got braces, Ms. D.”
“I went to band camp and almost drowned.”
“Do you have more Skittles?”
The bell shrilled and she herded the group inside, promising to set up this week’s lunch group visits and her candy jar right away. How good it was to be here. She felt warmed to her toes, her heart full. She was accepted. Loved even. She hoped, as a school psychologist, that she gave back a fraction of the happiness the children gave her. She could not lose this job.
This was what she’d wanted last night when she’d stumbled into the pub and lingered, reluctant to leave such an understanding listener. If Rebecca had waited, she would have found the understanding she needed right here at school.
Of course, then she would have missed out on a surreal encounter with a man whose hazel eyes had hijacked her thoughts all morning... Her disorientation on waking earlier had turned to horror when she realized she’d passed out at the bar and slept in the pub owner’s apartment. Luckily, it’d been an early enough hour to escape without running into anyone.
Her principal’s unmistakable heel clack sounded in the now empty hall ten minutes later. The diminutive woman, whose teased brown updo strategically added a few inches, appeared. “Rebecca, I know this is early, but we have a readmit hearing in five minutes. Can you pull Connor Walsh’s file and join us in the conference room?” Mrs. Carpenter made a face, her bright red lips twisting. “The superintendent’s already here,” she whispered in warning, then clattered back down the hall before Rebecca could request a meeting about her tenure.
Whoa. So much for easing back into her routine after working double shifts this break. Rebecca hustled to her office, breathed in the clean scents of freshly waxed floors and polished counters, and crossed to her file cabinet. Connor Walsh...he’d caused trouble the day before their break. A fight, if she recalled...
She’d been working with the bright loner on his impulse control and anger issues for a few weeks prior to the incident. When he’d failed to make progress with the other school psychologist, Mr. Miller, they’d transferred Connor to her. Despite it tipping her strained relationship with the traditional-minded, senior therapist into cold war status, she’d been proud and excited to see what she could do with the boy.
In three weeks...not much. Not yet, anyway.
Some of the teachers tossed Connor out of class at the first sign of trouble, but she liked the kid. Saw some of herself in him, especially when he’d admitted to being on his own a lot at home, his guardian mostly absorbed in his job. Since the man had evaded her recent attempts to meet with her, claiming work obligations, she imagined him to be some career-obsessed suit. Definitely not a fatherly type. She already couldn’t stand him.
She scooped up a mug of coffee she’d made earlier in the teacher’s lounge and gulped. Not bad. Not latte. But it was better than supporting JavaHut. As for Connor, he deserved better, too. If the school didn’t grant readmission, she wouldn’t be able to help him with his disruptive behavior and make him discover his self-worth the way she had.
In fact, she and fellow area psychologists had designed an innovative intervention program that’d be perfect for him and other students with behavioral issues—if only he’d have the chance to take part. She wished she had time to peek in his file and familiarize herself again with his background specifics, having met with him only a few times prior to his fight. But with the superintendent already here, Rebecca had to rush.
She grabbed his folder, tucked it under her arm and speed-walked as fast as her narrow heels allowed. “It’s nice to see you, Rebecca. How was your vacation?” boomed the superintendent, Mr. Williams, as she took her seat at the conference table. He smoothed his red tie over a trimmer waistline than she remembered, his gray goatee also new.
The narrow room overflowed with staff members, paperwork and coffee cups. To her left sat Connor’s guidance counselor who advised on academic rather than behavioral issues. To her right sat Mr. Anderson, the math teacher who’d broken up the fight before vacation. Both looked at her with barely disguised disapproval, judging her, as they sometimes did, when one of the students she counseled acted out.
Did they think she had a magic wand hidden in her desk? A Taser? As for the inconvenient, first-day-back-from-vacation timing of the meeting, she had no control over that, either. Another black mark. Would it tip the scales about her tenure? She knew the board strongly considered the staff’s opinions when they made such decisions. Could her disapproving colleagues be part of the reason it hadn’t been granted in January? Was a plan in place to let her go at the end of the school year?
Given that schools typically did their firings over the summer, to minimize any disruptions to students, it was a possibility.
“Great,” she fibbed, as a flashback to double shifts at the coffee shop and the calluses left on her feet came to mind. Not to mention getting laid off... “And yours?”
“We vacationed in Hawaii,” piped up his wife, the high school’s assistant principal. Her clipped hair looked freshly frosted at the tips, though her green eye shadow sparkled as bright as ever. “And put away your iPhone, Jim. Rebecca doesn’t need to see you dancing with hula girls, for heaven’s sake.”
Her superintendent slipped his phone into his suit pocket just as a knock sounded on the door. The secretary’s short perm peeked around the frame.
“The family is here. Shall I send them in?”
“Please, Martha, before Jim starts showing us more video of his dolphin swim,” sighed his wife.
“I’d like to see it later, Mr. Williams,” the principal, Mrs. Carpenter, said, then nudged Rebecca’s toe beneath the narrow table.
Rebecca fought back a smile that faded when a tall, dark-haired man with broad shoulders and hazel eyes filled the doorway. Eyes she remembered...
She nearly spit out her coffee. Last night’s handsome bartender. Her cheeks warmed as she took in the muscular forearms exposed by the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt. He’d carried her upstairs; she remembered it vaguely now, along with the fairy-tale feel of his heart against hers. What must he be thinking as his gaze traveled the room and stopped on her, his eyes suddenly wide?
“Welcome, Mr. Walsh. Connor.” The principal smiled and gestured, her long, French-tipped nails pointing to empty seats in the middle of the conference table. “Please sit and we’ll begin with introductions.”
As the staff took turns giving their name and position, Rebecca ducked behind the file. She perused the cover sheet, noting with disappointment that this was Connor’s guardian, his older brother, Aiden. The neglectful workaholic. Not the sympathetic man she’d imagined him to be last night, after all.
If she’d been in a better state, she would have thought to ask for his last name. Connected him with Connor. Known who she was dealing with and not opened up so much. Now that she thought about it, hadn’t Connor mentioned his family owned a pub in SoHo?
“Ms. Day.”
The silence pressed around her and she lowered the folder, her eyes leaping to Aiden’s. How humiliating. After last night, he must think the worst. Given his flinty expression, his disapproval came across loud and clear. Parents and guardians also had the right to speak up during tenure hearings...
“Sorry about that.” She pulled her chair closer to the table with a scraping sound. “I’m Rebecca Day, school psychologist. I’ve had the privilege of working with Connor these last couple of weeks.” Mr. Anderson scowled at her and she smiled nervously. “Hi, Connor.”
He returned her wave with a slight nod, his frown temporarily disappearing as his rounded eyes flashed from beneath overgrown bangs. Looking at his defensive body language and frightened expression, Rebecca felt her heart go out to him. She knew how it felt to be on the receiving end of negative attention...the only kind he probably ever got.
The principal cleared her throat. “Yes, well. We’re here to discuss readmitting Connor to school after his altercation. Connor, would you care to share with us what happened?”
“No,” the teen muttered. He lowered his head to the table, his vertebrae showing through his worn shirt.
Rebecca looked over at Aiden. To her rising irritation, his thumbs flew across what must be a cell phone screen on his lap. Didn’t he care at all?
“Tell everyone what happened, Connor,” Aiden commanded without looking up, his voice low and authoritative. Even Rebecca’s spine straightened. But the youth only slid lower in his seat and shook his head, his eyes on the floor.
Did Aiden actually think his directive would work? Of course Connor would defy an inattentive guardian. Rebecca ran her eyes over the file again, taking in that Aiden indeed ran the White Horse Tavern and was raising six siblings after his father had died of a heart attack and his mother became afflicted with early-onset Alzheimer’s. On paper, he looked like a sympathetic figure. In person, not so much.
“Sorry about that, everyone. An urgent supply order mix-up.” He pocketed his phone. “Connor...” Aiden prompted, staring at his silent brother for a long, uncomfortable minute.
“Yes. Well,” Mr. Anderson interrupted, clicking his pen impatiently. “Clearly this is a waste of time, as Connor has no intentions of cooperating with us, the school or Ms. Day’s—shall we say—unique therapy approach.”
His pointed glance at the clock spoke volumes. He wanted swift judgment—as did many of the old guard teachers, who’d vocalized their frustration with her positive rather than punitive approach to behavior modification. She’d heard some had even vowed to request the superintendent not recommend her for tenure this year, a move that may have worked so far, though she had no proof that they’d gone through with it. Just whispers.
Why couldn’t they see that she gave kids chances, not free passes, and stop whispering about her inability to discipline and control students? After her own straitjacket of a childhood, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—be a negative force in their lives.
Her gaze slid to Connor. Surely she was right not to be tough on him...
She stopped chewing the tip of her pen and tucked back a strand of hair that’d escaped her bun. Her rewards-based system might take more time to show results, but the effects lasted longer and had the best chance of becoming permanent. Implementing the progressive program took patience, however, something the overtaxed staff seemed to have in short supply.