Flint
She’s doing it again.
Maisey Spencer is making my life hell.
After a very long weekend of soccer games, working on clearing out the last of the dying vegetables at my own little garden at the Wit’s End gatehouse, ignoring the hints from Opal that if I’m attracted to a woman, I should see where it goes, and helping Kory with a couple of calves, I’m back at school Monday morning expecting the usual stuff.
And I get some of it.
One of my first-period kids catches me before I walk in the building and asks for an extension on the homework they were supposed to turn in this morning.
One of my fifth-period kids stops me in the doorway of the old brick building to ask for a college-application recommendation letter.
One of my third-period kids gets to me before I’ve made it halfway down the hallway to ask when they can go back out to ride horses at the ranch.
June Spencer is tagging along with two of my soccer players, and all three of them clam up and walk past me as they head toward the cafeteria, which is where most kids hang out before classes.
All normal.
UntilMaisey.
She’s taken over the teachers’ lounge, casually sitting on the counter next to the sink, and she’s charming the pants off my colleagues.
“I was so busy working the past few years, I didn’t even realize how much Junie loved to bake,” she’s telling Libby Twigg, the social studies teacher, as she waves a hand at the other half of the counter, which is covered in plates and platters of baked goods.
I know the plates and platters.
They’ve been in storage in Tony’s house for years. He’d use them whenever he’d pretend he baked the cookies he bought from the bakery to bring to cookouts and socials, and they were among the things no one wanted during the estate sale Maisey contracted out before she got here.
“We spent all afternoon yesterday with her showing me how much she’s learned about baking over the years,” Maisey continues. “Have you tried that oatmeal-cranberry-walnut cookie? It only has honey in it for sweetener, so it’s healthy breakfast food. Dip it in milk and you’ve hit all the food groups.”
My brainneedsto go to a place where I turn around, walk out of the teachers’ lounge, and head to my classroom to get ready for the day.
Instead, it continues the nonstop assault it’s been making on me since I found myself hosing mud off her Wednesday night and conjures images of her soaking wet, fresh out of the shower, barely wrapped in a black silk robe, feeding me oatmeal-cranberry-walnut cookies freshly drizzled with honey.
I wasn’t this horny back in high school.
Or maybe I was, and I was less sophisticated about it.
“Oh my God, Flint, try this muffin,” Libby says, turning to me and shoving a treat at my face. “I never understood why you loved banana-nut muffins before, but this—this is utter heaven.”
I grab the muffin just to get her hand out of my face, then take another cautionary step back.
As if that’s enough to stop the barrage of suggestions my hormones have for what to do with the muffin now in my hand.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Maisey says to her. “I had no idea Junie had this level of talent. And I still have half a trunk full of what she made yesterday, so I should head off to the hospital and drop those off too. Don’t want to make you all late for class.”
She’s dressed in jeans, a faded T-shirt, and work boots again today. No dress. No jewelry. No makeup. Her short hair is clipped back at the sides with barrettes decorated with tiny butterflies.
And she’s fucking gorgeous.
My brain is conjuring images of her soaking wet, her nipples straining her T-shirt, those jeans stuck to her curvy legs and hips, all that mud—
Nope.
Nope nope nope. Shut it off, brain. Shut it offnow.
She smiles at Libby again as she slides off the counter. “Don’t make a big deal in front of Junie in class today, okay? She’s already mortified that I’m bringing these in, but it’s you or Earl, and I’m pretty sure I’ve fed Earl enough lately.”
