The Good Daughter (33 page)

“You don’t seem happy to be here,” she said, after ten minutes of uncomfortable conversation.

“I’m not.”

She sucked in her bottom lip, chewing on it, trying to figure out what to do now. “What did I do, that night at my house, to turn you off this much?”

He was silent so long Kit didn’t think he was going to answer.
And then he stretched out his long legs, putting one boot over the other, and said, “Not turned off, Kit.” He dragged a hand through his thick black hair, drawing it back from his broad forehead. Muscles bunched in his quadriceps. “Not at all.”

She shifted in her chair, feeling a little hotter and a little more bothered than just seconds before. “What’s going on, then? It seemed like you liked me—”

“Oh, I do like you. I like you a lot. I like you so much that I’d love to take you back to my house right now and throw you on the bed and peel your pants off and take you all night long.” He paused, and his lips curled, but there was a dangerous light in his dark eyes. “And maybe that sounds good to you right now, but Kit Kat, that’s all you’re ever going to get with me. Hard sex, hot sex, a lot of sex, but no tenderness, no commitment, and no relationship.”

Kit stared at him, hearing him, but for whatever reason she didn’t believe him. Something else was going on here. “What if I was good with that? What if that’s all I wanted? Hot sex…frequent sex…and no commitments?”

“You don’t.”

“You can’t say that. You don’t know me. I might just be a sex addict.” She leaned back in her chair, gave him a cool look, the same kind he’d been giving her ever since he arrived. “See, that’s the thing, Jude. You just don’t know.”

Jude stared at her and it was all he could do not to crack a smile. He’d arrived here still really pissed off and yet she was making him want to laugh.

“Really?” he drawled, wondering just how far she’d take it. “Let’s do a quick recap to make sure we’re on the same page. You’re not into relationships. You don’t do commitments. You just like it raw. Hot. Hard. And sweaty.”

And oh, Kit, God love her, she blushed, from her delicate little chin to the roots of her dark red hair, and nibbled on her bottom
lip, making him rock hard. Not fair. He wanted to be the one nibbling on that lip. And then sucking her tongue into his mouth before taking her mouth—

“Yes,” she said firmly, her blue gaze locking on his. “Raw. Hard. Hot and sweaty. Couldn’t pick four adjectives that describe the way I like sex better.”

Jude bit down hard on his back molars, sucked in air, fighting with everything he had to keep from laughing. Felt like he’d explode if he didn’t laugh soon. Kit was perfect.

“This could work,” he said, when he trusted himself to speak. “I think we should give it a go. Anything else you want to tell me before our first hookup?”

“Such as?”

“Quirks? Preferences? Fetishes? Limits?”

She smiled serenely. “No. I like it all.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“So how old were you when you first had sex?”

Kit squirmed. “Why?”

“Just wanted to compare notes.”

She stared at him, blue eyes wide. Angelic.

“I was nineteen,” he said. “All my friends had been doing it for years. But I’d wanted to wait until I married.”

“Did you?”

His lips curved into a crooked smile. “I didn’t make it to my wedding night, but at least my first time was with my future wife.”

“You were married?”

He nodded. “Seven years. And I’ve been widowed eight.”

“How did she die?”

“Car accident. Died on the operating table.” He dragged his feet back under the table, miserable now, wishing he hadn’t brought Amy up. Talking about Amy never made anything better.

“How devastating.”

“I’m not playing a sympathy card here, Kit Kat. I was a shitty husband. I made her life hell.” He leaned forward, looked her in the eye. “And if you fall for me, I’ll make your life hell, too.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t back away. “What did you do as a husband that was so bad? Sleep around? Take drugs? Steal? Rob? Rape?”

He leaned even closer to her and tapped the back of her hand. “I worked ridiculously long hours. Took every promotion that came along. Put in so many hours at work that I began to sleep there at night, just so I’d already be there in the morning. And before you say anything, I want you to know that I knew what I was doing, and I knew it was wrong to Amy, to our marriage, to our future. I didn’t care. I didn’t care that she was lonely. I didn’t care that she felt like she was losing me. I took those promotions anyway. I wanted them. I needed them. It was all about me. It’s the kind of person I am.”

Kit stared at the back of her hand.

“I’m not going to change,” he added, leaning in even closer, his big shoulders square, practically pinning her to her chair. “It’s too late for that.”

Her head jerked up and she looked him in the eye, her gaze unwavering even though her cheeks were a dusky pink. “I haven’t asked you to change.”

“No, but you will. Or you’ll want to save me, because good girls like you try to save those that have fallen. But people like me aren’t worth your time, angel. Leave me where you found me and take care of those who can be helped.”

Her eyes searched his. He didn’t know what she was looking for, but he let her look. She had beautiful eyes. He could stare into her eyes all day.

“I’m not sitting here because I want to save you,” she said after an endless moment. “And I’m not here because I want to help you. I’m here for completely selfish reasons.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t think I can be selfish, too?”

“No.”

“You’re wrong. Because I’m not here for you, I’m here for me. I like you, Jude. I enjoy being around you. And I’m thinking, you just might be good for me.”

“And tell me how, angel, I could possibly be good for you?”

She got in his face then, her slim shoulders touching his, her breasts practically smashed to his chest. He could see the tiny purple flecks against the blue of her eyes and the scattered silver bits, too. “I need to have some fun, Jude Knight. I’m a little lonely. I work too much. My mom’s not well. And I really, really could use some of your raw, hard, hot, sweaty sex.”

He cupped the back of her head, angled his mouth over hers, and kissed her.

It wasn’t a hard kiss, or fierce. Had nothing raw about it. No, he kissed her slow and sexy and sweet, so slow and sexy and sweet that her mouth parted, and her lips trembled beneath his, and the air caught in her throat, and the kiss went on and on like that, the two of them making out like teenagers in Jump’n Java, as if there was no one else around, instead of folks at every table.

It was a long time before he lifted his head, but when he did, he looked into her eyes, and they looked like shimmering stars, all blue and bright like Fourth of July fireworks.

“Wow,” she whispered, blinking, dazed.

His heart turned over. Wow was right. She was making him feel so many things…making him want things he didn’t ever think he’d have again.

“That was really good,” she said, her voice husky and sexy and making him even harder than he already was. “Let’s get out of here and do that again.”

He slid his thumb over her quivering lower lip. “Don’t you want more out of a man than sex, baby?”

“Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I had great sex?”

He laughed softly and shook his head. “All right. I’ll make you a deal. You think about everything I’ve told you tonight. Sleep on it. Think about it some more. And tomorrow, if you still want to get naked with me, give me a call or shoot me a text, and we’ll hook up after school.”

K
it couldn’t sleep. How could she after Jude’s challenge?

And no, she’d never been into one-night stands. Nor had she ever dated a man for sex. But she liked Jude. Was drawn to him. And there was some serious chemistry between them. Why couldn’t she enjoy it—him—for whatever this was?

Kit showered and finished dressing for school and then shot him a text from her car:
Thought about it. Slept on it. So when do I see you again?

Arriving at school, she emptied the mail from her box in the office, greeted the teachers in the staff room, and headed to her class to prepare for the day.

She was greeted with stacks of papers all over her desk. Her sub had been able to grade quizzes and straightforward tests, but the short-answer questions, essays, book reports, and journals
were something only Kit could do and they were all there, piled high, waiting for her.

Fortunately, her students were happy to have her back, and her first period actually cheered when they filed into class and spotted her at her desk.

The day was busy and passed quickly, but Kit kept checking her phone for a reply from Jude. There wasn’t one. Disappointed, she headed to the gym after school and worked out, and it wasn’t until she arrived home that he finally responded.

Crazy day. Working tonight. Can I do you tomorrow?

Kit blushed as she reread the text, biting her lip. And it crossed her mind that maybe, just maybe, she was in over her head, but it was too late now. She was going for it anyway. Still smiling, she texted him back:
Only if you get a good night’s sleep. I don’t want to be disappointed.

He answered her immediately.
You won’t be.

And then a second text arrived a few minutes later.
It’s supposed to snow tomorrow. Be careful driving to school.

Snow? Jude was joking, right? Kit opened her laptop, and typed in Oakland weather on the Internet, and was amazed at the report. Temperatures were dropping rapidly and there was a chance of snow for the morning.

She couldn’t believe it. She’d never even seen snow in San Francisco, so even the suggestion of it was enough to get her excited.

The first thing she did the next morning after waking up was go to the window and pull back the curtain. No snow. Not even any rain.

Arriving at school, Kit heard lots of snow talk, even among the teachers, and she didn’t blame them. Snow was rare in the Bay Area. According to Paul Moran, one of the social studies teachers, it’d only snowed a half-dozen times in San Francisco in the past
hundred years, the last four times being in 1887, 1951, 1962, and 1976, and so for the students and faculty alike, the idea of snow was thrilling.

But first and second period passed without any flurries, and Kit put her third-period English class, her excitable freshmen, to work writing in their journals.

The room was silent with everyone writing and then suddenly someone exclaimed, “It’s snowing!”

Immediately the class was on their feet.

“Snow! It’s snowing!”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. Look.”

“Snow.”

“Miss Brennan! It’s snowing!”

Kit left her desk in the back corner of the room and walked to the window, where students were crowding, everyone craning to get a glimpse of this miraculous snow.

Outside, tiny flecks fell, so small they looked like white ash. But it was cold enough for the snow to stick, coating the red-tiled roof overhang below them in the thinnest layer of white.

As they watched, the flurries thickened, the flakes becoming fatter and lusher.

The kids were all murmuring, their voices hushed, even reverent.

“I’ve never seen snow before,” Delilah whispered, and when Kit looked at her she saw the tears in her eyes.

Kit moved to her side. “You okay?” she asked.

Delilah didn’t take her eyes off the swirling, falling flakes, just nodded.

“Five more minutes of watching snow, and then we’re getting back to work,” Kit said.

Five minutes later she spent five minutes getting the kids settled,
and once they were quiet, she read to them one of her favorite Wallace Stevens poems:

She finished, lifted her head, looked out at her students, who were unusually quiet as the last words drifted down, much like Stevens’s wind and leaves and snow. For a moment she said nothing, just looked at them, and they looked back at her, and she couldn’t help feeling blessed, looking at their suddenly thoughtful faces.

Thirty-four bright young minds.

Thirty-four lives in the making.

How lucky she was to be here, doing this. How lucky she
could
do this.

Her mother was right. Teaching kids, sharing with them her love of words, of books…it was a gift. A passion. Not everyone had a passion. Kit was lucky she did.

“The poem is like the snow,” said Andrew, one of the jocks in the back of the room. But he, like Damien, enjoyed her class, and consistently made an effort. “The poet…she made the words sound like snow. You know, soft, slow, like snow falling.”

Kit smiled. “That’s right. But the poet is a he. Wallace Stevens. Stevens was born in Pennsylvania in 1879 and is today regarded as one of America’s greatest twentieth-century poets, but wasn’t fully appreciated during his lifetime.”

“Which probably means he didn’t make much money doing it,” Merrie said, unimpressed.

“Poets in general don’t make a lot of money.” Kit closed the book and held it to her chest. “And in the spirit of today’s snow, I’m changing your homework for tonight. You still have to read
the final scene in
Twelfth Night,
but you can wait on the comprehension questions. Instead, I want you to find a poem about snow, read it, analyze it, and then write a five-hundred-word essay on it…” She paused as they groaned. “I want to know why you chose that poem…what it means to you.” As they continued to groan, she shook her head. “Come on, it’s not that hard. You can write about poetic devices, symbolism, meaning, personal experience, whatever works for you, but proper formatting, of course. Typed, double-spaced, heading, intro, conclusion, you know the rest.”

She glanced up at the clock, saw they still had nine minutes. “You can have the rest of the period free to either start your homework or watch the snow. But if you’re talking, keep it down to a dull roar. We don’t need Mrs. Adams in here reporting me to Sister.”