Bliss and the Art of Forever (A Hope Springs Novel) (25 page)

After yesterday’s phone conversation with Callum, Brooklyn wasn’t sure what mood she’d find him in when she arrived with her boxes. In order to get to Artie’s books, she’d needed to move her keepers out of the way. Those would be staying with her, not traded in or donated, and she liked the idea of storing them at Callum’s. She was trusting him with something important, something valuable, even though he wouldn’t know.

She’d almost backed out. Almost called this morning to gauge his frame of mind; if she found him short-tempered again—Was that what he’d been yesterday? Had she caught him at a bad time? Had he not wanted to hear from her? Was he regretting the kiss and the candy? Or had he indeed simply been worried about Addy?—she would cancel. But she hadn’t called. And she hadn’t canceled. She’d come here as if yesterday hadn’t happened at all because she wanted to see him.

It was as simple as that.

Instead of pulling to the front of his house in the circular drive, she’d stuck to the driveway’s extension that led to the storage barn at the back of the lot. It sat next to a second barn that was used to keep lawn and pool equipment, and from the outside didn’t look any different. But this one, Callum had told her, was insulated, temperature-controlled, hardwood-floored, and appeared to have been used in the past as an office or a study. Even as small as Hope Springs was, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever known who lived here before.

She imagined it as a library, walls of shelves with the very books she’d brought over, and the hundreds more she had left to pack. The idea of having all of her books in one place, organized, any title she wanted at her fingertips . . . heaven. When she pulled to a stop, she glanced in the rearview mirror to see if the smile on her face looked as big as it felt.

The door to the storage barn opened, and Callum stepped out just as she shut off her car’s engine. As always, he wore jeans and boots, and this time, instead of a ragged T-shirt, an oxford shirt left untucked, with his hair pulled back in a knot. Stuffing his keys into his pocket, he stepped out of the building and walked toward her, his expression worrisome.

Her smile faltering, she opened the door and climbed out. “Thanks for this,” she said, and waved an arm. “How’s Addy feeling?”

“She’s fine.” He wrapped his hand over the top of her door. “Sorry for being short yesterday. When you called. I was afraid I was going to end up at the clinic with her today.”

“No need to apologize,” she said, the pressure in her chest easing. “Is she with your mother?”

“She felt better today. A good night’s sleep. A dose of meds. So yeah. Easter-dress shopping as planned.” He ground out the words, nearly pulverizing them.

“You don’t sound too happy about that.” Talk about an understatement.

He lifted his gaze, staring into the distance. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing except you wanted to be the one to buy her a dress.”

Responding with a humored huff, he said, “And here I thought I had a handle on that being so transparent thing.”

She liked that he was human, vulnerable. A dad with feelings. “The fact that you don’t makes it a whole lot easier to read your mind.”

He brought his gaze back to hers, beginning to grin. “You been doing a lot of that?”

She shrugged, reaching into the car to pop the trunk and unlock the back door. “I try. I don’t always succeed. And you can buy her a dress, too, you know.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.” He glanced into the backseat as she opened the door, then followed her around to the trunk and stared at the boxes there. “You know today’s the last day of February, right? That tomorrow it’ll be March?”

“I stayed late yesterday afternoon to hang shamrocks and leprechauns above the classroom cubbies. So, yes. I’m well aware of the date.” But she knew what he was asking. Knew, too, that he probably saw through her ruse of needing to get boxes out of her way. She wasn’t particularly thrilled at the deception, but was even less thrilled that she hadn’t pulled it off.

He looked at her, back at the trunk, then at her again, and arched a brow. “Since you’re leaving in a little over three months, and this is all you’ve brought over, I wasn’t sure if you’d lost track of time.”

Not likely. She was leaving on June 5, five days before the second anniversary of Artie’s death. Two years. He’d told her no more than two years. He’d made her promise not to become Queen Victoria. “No. I know how much time I’ve got to get everything done. This will help. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, reaching for the first box, labeled “A.” Not “A-C,” or even “A-B.” Just “A.” “Let me guess. Margaret Atwood. Isaac Asimov. Jeffrey Archer. Aristotle.”

“Try Jane Austen,” she said with a laugh, adding, “And more Jane Austen. Louisa May Alcott. Lara Adrian. Cherry Adair. Michele Albert. Judith Arnold. Shana Abé.”

“Got it,” he said. “I guess you’ve got at least twenty-six of these then.”

No. She had a whole lot more. She followed with a second, smaller box, also labeled “A.” He took it from her before she could step into the building, realizing when she did that he’d already turned on the air conditioner.

“We haven’t talked money—”

“No money,” he said, straightening from where he’d stacked her box on top of his. “I’m not using the space, so it’s no inconvenience.”

Not the point. “You’re paying for the electricity and you’re not even living here yet. I’m going to reimburse you for that at least.”

But he shook his head. “I’m not going to figure out the square footage and kilowatt-hours just so I can take your money.”

“Then I’ll pay you what a comparable storage unit would cost me.”

“You say that like you could find another place with the same amenities. Trees, a swimming pool, a killer kitchen.”

She waited for him to add
me
, but he didn’t, which was probably for the best, so she said, “A killer kitchen would have food. And dishes for eating. Chairs for sitting. A corkscrew.”

He chuckled and came toward the door where she stood. “I was thinking of doing some shopping for this house this weekend. Tomorrow, actually. Addy’s going to a craft show or carnival thing in Gruene with my mother. Face painting, cotton candy, animal balloon races or some crap.”

“You don’t sound too excited about that.”

“It’s just the usual,” he said, hopping back to the ground and offering her his hand. She took it and stepped down, then reluctantly pulled away. “All these plans get made while I’m working, then when I decide I want to do something, Addy’s already excited about what my mother has going on.”

“Have you asked your mother to check with you first?” Surely he had. It seemed so obvious.

“Only once every week at least. I don’t get it. She gets in my face about my responsibility, then she schedules things for the two of them to do, knowing I won’t want to disappoint Addy.”

“Your daughter will forgive you, you know. Eventually.”

“Yeah. Then there’s the part where balloon animals sound like a whole lot more fun than furniture shopping, even to me.”

“So go with them.” Because that seemed obvious, too.

“I really need to get this done. I just don’t want to do it alone.”

“Misery loves company?”

He frowned as he asked her, “Do I make you miserable?”

“You? No. You dragging me to store after store after store . . .”

He laughed, then he groaned. “You mean we have to go to more than one?”

“Do you want to get it over with?” she asked him as she headed back to her car, ignoring his use of the word
we
. “Or do you want to do it right?”

“Depends if you’re talking about shopping,” he said, following her, reaching her, leaning close as she reached for a box in her trunk. Nearly brushing his mouth to her ear when he said, “Or sex.”

That damn kiss. The way she’d climbed all over him. The way she’d let him see how hungry she was for what she knew without a doubt he could give her. Even thinking about it now . . . his arms, his legs, his chest pressed to hers, the hair on his very flat belly . . .

She cleared her throat, wishing for a big glass of water. Or a big glass of wine. “I’m beginning to wonder if shopping’s really what you’ve got on your mind.”

“Unfortunately, it is,” he said, taking the box from her. “But sex is there, too. Trust me on that.”

Now she was going to spend the day wondering about the things he was thinking. “If you say so.”

“Curious?”

She stacked a third box in his arms, her hands trembling, heat pooling between her legs until her skin flushed. “Or about what it would be like to have sex with you?”

He laughed. “Brooklyn Harvey. I think you just surprised me.”

And now she needed to change the subject. Talking about sex with Callum Drake was probably the worst idea in the world. “Well, it’s not like I can surprise you with a chocolate that tastes like me kissing you . . .”

“I wondered if you’d figure it out,” he said as he turned for the barn.

“Not at first,” she said, following. “But then I caught the scent of my shampoo. Thank you. It was lovely. And such a great combination of flavors. Surprising, really.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. I had another one to give you today,” he said, from inside the building before returning to the door, “but I was in a rush this morning and forgot to bring it.”

“You need to stop with the candy,” she said, lifting the box she held for him to take inside with the rest. “Really. I sit at a desk too much to make your chocolates a regular thing.”

“They’ve got about fifty calories each. I think you can afford it.”

She laughed. “Well, sure. But there’s afford, and then there’s
afford
.”

“Anytime you’re in the mood for one, swing by the shop.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, turning back for the car. “Right now I’m in the mood to get these boxes unloaded.”

“And tomorrow?” he asked, hefting the largest box out of the trunk. “You think you’ll be in the mood to go shopping?”

She did not need to be spending so much time with him. She did not need to be looking to him for her fun. “Sure. I’d love to.”

“You want me to swing by and pick you up?”

“On your bike?”

“Absolutely.”

Meaning every one of her neighbors would know who she was with, and she did not need that bit of gossip spreading, though after his help in her garage it was probably too late. “It’s better if I come to you.”

“You want to do breakfast first? Malina’s? Or we can eat once we get to Austin.”

Neither of his suggestions gave away what he was thinking, but she couldn’t help feeling uncharitable when she said, “Let’s do that.”

“Right.” This time his tone was caustic. “Less chance we’ll run into anyone we know.”

And now she’d hurt his feelings. That was the last thing she’d wanted to do. “Callum—”

“No. It’s okay,” he said, carting the final box to the barn. “Hope Springs is a small town and teaching puts you in the public eye. I get you not wanting the scrutiny.”

“I wouldn’t think it would be good for you, either.” Though really. Did it matter what Shirley Drake and the residents of Hope Springs thought about her personal life?

“Are you kidding?” Callum asked, on his way back to her car, his dimples cutting deep as he grinned. “To be seen with the teacher everyone loves? My reputation could use a little of that juice.”

“How long have you been here now?” she asked, swallowing the flutters tickling her throat. “I’ve never heard a bad word spoken about you. Curious words, yes. But nothing I can see doing your business any harm. In fact, I’ll bet some customers want to see the big bad biker for themselves.”

“And you wondered about the one-way glass,” he said, slamming the lid of her trunk. “So, eight o’clock? Or maybe eight thirty would be better, since my mother’s coming for Addy at eight.”

“Eight thirty. I’ll do a slow crawl past the alley and make sure the coast is clear. Ooh, we could have a signal. You could text and say that Elvis has left the building. Or Operation Buy-a-Bed is a go.”

“All this mocking,” he said, shaking his head. “Keep it up, and I might just think you want to be seen with me.”

Strangely, no matter her protests, she wanted exactly that.

BROOKLYN’S BANANA BREAD SPICE CAKE

For the cake:

2½ cups all-purpose flour

1¼ teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1½ teaspoons cinnamon

¾ teaspoon nutmeg

1 teaspoon cloves

1⅔ cups sugar

⅔ cup shortening

2 large eggs

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1¼ teaspoons baking soda

⅔ cup buttermilk

1¼ cups ripe, mashed bananas (about three medium)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees (F).

Grease and flour three 8-inch cake pans, or one 13 x 9-inch baking pan, and line with parchment paper, coating with nonstick spray.

Sift into a large bowl the flour, the baking powder, the salt, the cinnamon, the nutmeg, and the cloves.

In another large bowl, cream the sugar and the shortening. Add the eggs and mix well. Add the vanilla.

In a small bowl, dissolve the soda in the buttermilk. Stir the buttermilk/soda mixture into the sugar/shortening/eggs/vanilla mixture. Add the bananas and mix well.

Add the flour mixture a little at a time until well mixed and pour into pan(s). Bake 25–35 minutes or until inserted tester comes out clean.

For the frosting:

1 stick butter

1 packed cup light brown sugar

¼ cup milk

1¾–2 cups powdered sugar

½ teaspoon vanilla

Melt the butter in a large saucepan over low heat. Add the brown sugar and cook until the sugar is dissolved, beating together the butter and the sugar well. Do not allow to boil. Remove from heat. Add the milk and the vanilla. Gradually add the powdered sugar until frosting is of a spreadable consistency. Beat until smooth and cool. Spread over cake.

Being seen with Callum would’ve been a whole lot more fun, Brooklyn decided, had they taken her car or his truck. Instead, they’d ridden his Harley from Hope Springs to Austin, then from store to store, her hair looking worse with each stop. Putting the helmet on, taking the helmet off, the wind blowing as they rode. Then there were her aching legs . . .