Perfect Summer (2 page)

Pockets of laughter erupted from the reporters as their microphones moved even closer.

“It’s all about who you know.” Summer turned on the charm. If he wanted a media event, he’d get one. Not getting fired seemed like a great reason to smile for the cameras.

Clint laughed and his eyes twinkled. “If we make it through the next few months without killing each other, we’re both gonna need two weeks in Tahiti.”

“You’re coming too?” Summer cocked an eyebrow.

“You bet.”

A vacation with him…how would that work? Clint rubbing sunscreen into his tanned, sculpted chest while she flopped around in her black, skirted one-piece, her pale arms and legs blistering to a lobster red. Mr. September meets Shamu the Killer Whale—the ultimate dream vacation.

“On second thought, Tahiti’s a bad idea. How about the car?” Summer matched his cocky grin tooth for tooth. “I bet there’s a Prius with a big, red bow just waiting for me to claim it.”

More laughter from the peanut gallery.

“Greedy. I like that about you.” Clint snaked an arm around her and pulled her close for the perfect photo op. A cloud of soft, expensive suit and lemony, masculine cologne settled around her. She sucked in a long drag. All the estrogen in her body drunk-dialed her brain, urging her to return the half-embrace, but she didn’t want to wrinkle his suit, and she hadn’t showered this morning.

His fingers tapped her shoulder repeatedly. She glanced down at them. They weren’t drumming so much as shaking.

Shaking? Nerves? Was he nervous? The sweat on his upper lip and the vibrating hand at her shoulder certainly pointed in that direction. She’d never made anyone nervous before…angry, happy, uncomfortable, perhaps even nauseated, but never nervous. That was a new one. She prided herself on making others comfortable. It was her gift—some people could sing, others could paint, Summer was Chicken Soup for the Socially Awkward.

Grayson’s arm slid from her shoulder, down the lumpy back fat, and landed on what her ex-fiancé had called her muffin top. Summer went cold and dropped her arm. The lemon haze evaporated, and all that pesky estrogen lost phone privileges. When Grayson started the fat jokes, she had to be ready. Her need to please no longer involved humiliation.

A wiry brunette with a large CNN sticker on her microphone squared her shoulders and shot her D cups at Grayson. “It looks like Cutie Pie the Quarterback has finally met his match.”

Clint responded by running a hand through his sun-kissed golden locks, leaving a wake of sexy, tumbled hair. If Summer tried that with her own hair, they’d have to use the jaws-of-life to retrieve her hand.

She shook her head. “Cutie Pie? Really?” She just didn’t see it. Captain Hair Gel, maybe.

“And?” His smile didn't reach his eyes, but he put up the appearance of someone trying hard to convince himself he was having a good time.

“Nothing.”

“Why is mentoring so important to you?” Ms. CNN put on her serious reporter face but managed to slip in a couple of eyelash bats while the camera was on Grayson.

“As you know, Cathy, I’m committed to helping youngsters reach their full potential...”

Youngsters? Did he mean at-risk teens? Most of her students stopped being young right out of diapers. Teaching at-risk kids in an underprivileged neighborhood meant her students were the lost souls nobody wanted. And that’s why she loved them. It took one to know one.

She gave Grayson two weeks before he switched to the Advanced Placement kids, where he’d feel more comfortable.

Clint combed his fingers through his hair again. “Sports is an equalizer—”

“Are an equalizer. In that sentence, ‘sports’ is plural, as you are referring to all sports in general.” Summer bit the inside of her cheek. There she went again, open mouth and insert foot the size of the Prius she should have won.

Clint tossed his head like a model in a shampoo commercial and smiled charmingly down at Summer. “Sports are an equalizer.”

“Thank you.” She nodded. Maybe he would make it longer than her last mentor. She shrugged. Grayson hadn’t stared at her boobs, so he was already ahead of the game.

Clint turned back to the cameras. “On the football field, God created all men equal—”

“That’s not what you said about the Packers last month after you wiped the field with them in the Super Bowl.” A short, black-haired man wielding an ABC microphone stared adoringly up at Grayson.

He shrugged. “Can I help it if God’s not a Packers fan?”

More laughter from the press. If laughter really was the best medicine, these folks were the healthiest people on earth.

Summer studied the wall at the back of the room. The top left corner of her Literacy Now poster flapped in the air streaming from the AC vent above. Was this press conference going to last the whole day?

“Sports build confidence. They strengthen bodies and minds. Football, in particular, teaches teamwork…”

Summer glanced at the clock above the whiteboards as the quarterback’s obviously rehearsed speech droned on. It was almost eight o’clock. The buzzer for first period would be sounding soon. As far as she was concerned, it couldn’t come fast enough. Grayson eye-flirted with the cameras and continued the Look-What-A-Humanitarian-I-Am speech. For some reason, her students were the lost cause he needed to champion.

“Hola, Ms. A. What’s with all the cameras?” Mario Sanchez’s accented English made Summer turn around.

Mario was one of her favorite students. Well…they were all her favorites, but Mario was dyslexic in addition to learning English as a second language, which made him that much more special. The electronic ankle bracelet courtesy of the Travis County Juvenile Detention Center hidden under his gangbanger jeans might deter another teacher, but Summer only saw his sharp mind and hunger for knowledge. He stepped through the door, his heavy-lidded, dark-brown eyes narrowed in suspicion at the unknown people.

“We have a new class mentor.” Summer moved aside, giving Mario access to the NFL player.

“Holy sh—”

“Mario.” Summer eyed him over the top of her glasses. Manners mattered.

“Sorry.” A rare smile lit up his face as he stepped in front of Clint.

Maybe Mr. September had potential if he could get a normally defensive kid like Mario to drop his guard.

“You’re Clint Grayson. I can’t believe it. I’ve seen all your games. I’m the Travis High quarterback—not a first-stringer, but I play when we’re up against a crappy team. Got any tips for me?” Mario finally took a deep breath. “Still dating that swimsuit model?”

Summer didn’t have the heart to tell Mario that the only reason he was still on the team was because Coach Atan believed all of Mario’s bullshit and swagger was gang-related. Atan was an idiot, but he knew not to piss off the Texas Syndicate.

“Not anymore.” Clint shook hands with Mario and smiled for the cameras. “I look forward to working with you. Anything you need—”

“Now that you mention it, we could use some new training pads and cleats. And Ms. A has been paying for our copy paper out of her own pocket.” Mario flashed his innocent, soulful eyes at the cameras.

If Grayson thought these kids—her kids—were amateurs, he had another thing coming. Mario had grown up on the streets—the art of manipulation was right up there with survival.

“Done. You’ll have them tomorrow morning.” Clint’s eyes hardened. He’d recognized the scam.

Summer nodded. He wasn’t the easy mark she’d thought. She smiled at him and really meant it. Was there genuine kindness lurking behind all that perfection? She turned to Mario. “If you’re done shaking down our mentor, take your seat.”

Mario grinned, and a dimple dented each cheek. “Just watchin’ out for you.”

“Thanks. We’re still having that quiz.”

“Worth a try.”

The reporters laughed.

“That’s why you’re going to be president some day. You don’t give up.” Summer nodded. Every one of her students had potential, no matter what the rest of the world thought.

Kesha Thomas, her black hair spiked out like a pineapple, waddled into the room and headed toward her desk. Her round, eight-month-pregnant belly was hard to hide, not that she tried. “Rihanna buries Lil’ Kim.”

Right behind her, Kesha’s best friend, La Shay Smith, also eight months pregnant, burst into the room, her round, ebony body testing the limits of hot pink Lycra. “Oh yeah? I don’t think so. Lil’ Kim is hardcore. Went to prison, not that county shit—”

“Ladies.” Summer stepped in between the two girls before things turned to bitch slapping and hair pulling. These BFFs bonded over arguing. “In case you didn’t notice the big, bright lights and all of the people, we have company.”

The girls looked around, and both sets of brown eyes went cow-sized. “Damn.”

La Shay smoothed down her tee shirt. The word “sexy” spelled out in purple sequins across the bust was stretched to exaggerated proportions. “Why didn’t you tell us yesterday we was gonna be on TV? I woulda had my hair done.” Her eyes landed on Summer’s hair, and La Shay’s mouth twisted in horror. “I guess you didn’t know either.”

“Life is one big surprise.” Summer nailed VP Evans with a big, fake smile. The bell rang for first period. “Wouldn't you and Mr. Grayson prefer to continue this press conference in the gym or teachers’ lounge where you'd be more comfortable? My class has lots of territory to cover today and a quiz.”

Surely Evans was smart enough to pick up on her dismissal of him. Then again, he’d been Coach Evans before his elevation to vice principal-dom.

“Absolutely.” Evans turned to her new class mentor. “Follow me to the teachers’ lounge. We have coffee.”

“Sure. I’ll be right there. I need to pass these out first.” Grayson reached inside his suit jacket, produced a handful of tickets, and positioned himself so that the cameras got his good side. “I thought y’all might like to come to next season’s opener.”

Rapid-fire digital cameras worked overtime getting the perfect shot. Grayson soaked up the good PR like a sponge.

He was a publicity hound. She hated it when she was right.

“Oh, thanks, man.” Mario leapt in front of his classmates. He looked ready to genuflect and kiss the papal Super Bowl ring.

The rest of her class rushed the quarterback, trying to get their golden tickets. If it had been anyone else, Summer would have reminded her students to mind their manners, but the quarterback was parading around her poor, inner-city kids to make himself look good. Did the man have no conscience? Next he’d be organizing a telethon to feed them on twenty cents a day. The scrap of respect she’d had for him went up in flames. Pulling out a fingernail file, she faked a cuticle emergency.

“And one for you.” Grayson and the cameras turned to her.

Summer stopped in mid file. How fast could she get that ticket on eBay?

“Thanks.” It fell into her open palm, but she turned away from the cameras. She was over the limit on photo ops this morning.

“I can’t wait to get started.” Clint waved to her students, turned on his Armani-clad feet, and sauntered out, followed by the horde of press.

Summer raised an eyebrow. For someone who couldn’t wait to get started, he’d sure hightailed it out of the room ASAP. She crumpled the ticket in her palm and shook her head. Being teacher of the year was a dubious honor. So far, all it had gotten her was a publicity-hungry class mentor and a football ticket. Tomorrow would tell if Clint Grayson really kept his promises. If he thought for one minute her class was nothing but one big media event, he had another thing coming. No one used her students. Summer might have a hard time standing up for herself, but where her kids were concerned, she was hell on heels. She glanced down. Hell on Birks.

Two hours later, Clint stifled a yawn as he sat in the back of the class. This morning had gone well, for the most part. Ms. Ames was funny, and he hadn’t had to resort to the note cards tucked in his breast pocket. Growing up in the spotlight hadn’t made public speaking any easier, but no one seemed to have noticed his near panic attack. At one point, he’d thought Ms. Ames had felt his sweaty palms, but she hadn’t said anything. She was witty, and the media had lapped her up, taking some of the scrutiny off of him. Their banter would play well on Entertainment Tonight.

Thank God, no one knew he’d been up most of the night memorizing his speech and agonizing about the casual nature of today’s announcement. He’d had to pull over twice this morning to vomit. Talking in front of people was fine as long as he had the proper equipment—note cards filled with topics, lots of antacids for the esophageal reflux, and a cocky grin that made him the life of the party.

Ms. Ames didn’t have trouble talking in front of people. He studied the teacher as she addressed the class.

In that huge tee shirt and those baggy jeans, her short, compact body looked about as shapely as a refrigerator. The only thing remotely girly about her was an Angelina Jolie mouth that curled up in the corners suggesting the teacher had a naughty secret or two.

As she wrote furiously on the board, he swallowed another yawn and counted the white ceiling tiles in an effort to fight off catatonia.

He yawned again and counted the twenty-seven ceiling tiles for a second time. If he didn’t have a hundred million reasons for good publicity, he’d have fallen asleep an hour ago. He rubbed his eyes. Staying sharp and keeping his head in the game was harder than he’d expected.

Winning Summer Ames over was paramount because there were no points for second place. Living in the shadow of his father, Big Billy Grayson—the winningest quarterback in NFL history—meant Clint had to work hard and play even harder. After a couple more Super Bowl wins and landing the largest endorsement deal in history, maybe the world would stop comparing him to his old man.

At the back of the classroom, a poster was coming off the wall and flapping rhythmically in a calming, white-noise sort of way. Clint hid another yawn behind his hand.

World Wide Athletics wanted a golden boy, but Clint's reputation was more than a little tarnished. Truth was, his professional life was stellar, but his personal life was in the toilet. An arrest for assaulting his ex-girlfriend had rightfully turned him into the devil incarnate. Only the charges were bogus and had been dropped. But the media didn’t care about the truth; all they wanted were the strategically leaked photos of a bruised and battered Cornelia Stanhope. Supermodel with a drug problem was headline news, not the ex-boyfriend who’d flushed her cocaine, paid off her dealer who was on his way to beating her to death, and tucked her away in a discreet treatment facility. Doing the right thing wasn’t newsworthy.