Too bad Rose Owens didn’t seem interested in any overtures of friendship.
He shook his head, impatient with himself. Give her time, man.
“I think the storage areas you indicated will fit more than enough of my supplies.” He rested a hand on the cabinet she’d designated as his. “Thank you. And thank you for all your help.”
“You’re welcome.”
No expression whatsoever. That might as well serve as his signal to go.
“I’d better get—” he started to say, just as his daughter walked into the room.
“Hey, Dad. There you are.” Bea pulled out one of her earbuds, letting it dangle against her faded Where Are We Going? And Why Am I in This Handbasket? tee. “You ready to head out?” Turning to Rose, she offered a shrug and a smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m hungry enough that the guidance counselor started to resemble curly fries.”
Good timing. “Ms. Owens, this is my daughter Beatrice, who’ll be a senior here this year. Bea, this is Ms. Owens, who teaches U.S. history. I’ll be sharing her room for two of my classes. And we’ll get out of her hair now, so she can get home or…” What did a woman that gorgeous, that statuesque, and that chilly do in her spare time? Freelance ice sculpture impersonation? “…or whatever.”
Then the miraculous happened.
Rose swiveled toward his daughter and…Jesus.
She smiled.
Black clothing be damned, everything about her—everything—illuminated. That flawless pale skin transformed from opaque to luminescent. Her wide-set eyes crinkled at the corners, and for the first time, he noticed they were lovely. Not just brown, but the translucent, rich amber of dark maple syrup. And that mouth…
He’d vaguely registered her lips as pale and pinched and thin. But now he knew better. Her mouth was generous, her lips glossy and pink, as plump and stunning as the rest of her.
None of that—none of the warmth, none of the liveliness—was for him. It was all for Bea, his sweet girl. And he couldn’t have been happier.
Because this meant Rose probably didn’t treat her students the same way she treated him. Plus, anyone who smiled like that at his daughter couldn’t be too unforgiving.
“I love your shirt,” Rose told Bea. “Do you know whether it comes in black?”
His daughter had been wearing that tee on an almost daily basis for months now. At some point, he’d inquired as to whether it indicated her state of mind since the divorce, and Bea had scoffed at him.
“It’s just comfortable, Dad. And I wash it between wears.” She’d flicked her fingers in the direction of his head. “I’m not traumatized and stinky and subtly revealing my pain through overuse of quippy tees, so stop with the proctologist face.”
Such an adorable smartass.
He loved having her in his new house every other week, even when she talked enough for three people, ate all his favorite Pop-Tarts, and clogged the shower drain with long, soggy strands of her blond hair. How she wasn’t bald when she shed like that, he had no idea. And when she left for college, he didn’t know what he was going—
No. He wouldn’t think about that. Couldn’t think about that.
Bea removed her other earbud and beamed at Rose. “I can check. If it comes in black, I’ll have Dad send you the link.”
“That would be amazing. My wardrobe was clearly missing a key element. Snark.” Rose gestured at the brochures in Bea’s grasp. “You’re deciding on colleges?”
“Yup. Dad’s car is in the shop, so I drove him here and looked at a few options while I was waiting.” She shook the stack of papers. “I’ve split them into three piles. Really expensive, prohibitively expensive, and I’d-better-see-about-cashing-in-Dad’s-life-insurance-policy expensive.” Her voice lowered to a faux-whisper. “I’m leaning toward the latter.”
At that, Rose actually snorted, and he would have hugged his daughter if he hadn’t known she’d shove him away and tell him he was being gross and mushy.
“We’re touring UVA this weekend.” Bea’s elbow jabbed his ribs, and he smothered a grunt. “I know he looks like he’s about to deliver a fatal prognosis most of the time, but Old Sobersides here is actually pretty fun on a road trip. We do taste tests of gas station snacks.”
At the mention of his ex’s other favorite nickname for him, he shifted his weight, and his daughter shot a glance in his direction.
He didn’t mind the sobriquet. Not usually. Not when it was said with such obvious affection.
But a part of him wished Bea hadn’t used it in front of Rose.
“Gas station snacks? Really?” Rose cast a skeptical—but not unfriendly—glance his way. “He doesn’t seem like someone who consumes a lot of Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pies.”
She knew about Little Debbie? Enough to name a specific product? Odd. He’d have bet a good chunk of his inadequate salary that she’d never stepped impeccably shod foot in any store less highbrow than Whole Foods.
Bea grinned, her blue eyes bright. “Don’t let the lean frame fool you. He can pound the Ho Hos like nobody’s—”
Okay, enough about pounding Ho Hos. “All right, Beatrice. Off we go. Say goodbye to Ms. Owens.”
“Goodbye to Ms. Owens,” Bea parroted.
Rose met his eyes, and for the first time, he saw warmth—at least a little of it—directed his way. “You’ve done well with this one, Krause.”
When he laughed, she stilled for a moment, her smile dying.
He didn’t understand what had happened. But he wanted that smile back, so he worked for it. “Funny. I was just thinking I should return her to the cabbage patch and tell them there’d been a clerical error.”
And there it was again. That incandescent curve of her lips. This time, because of something he’d said. Him, Old Sobersides with the Resting Proctologist Face.
Why that made his shoulders straighten a fraction, he couldn’t have explained. But it did, and the adjustment felt…different. Good different.
His daughter poked him again. “You’d miss me, and you know it.”
He would. He already did, every other week.
“Possibly. But your college fund would buy a lot of therapeutic Ho Hos.” With that, he aimed for the door. “Thank you for all your time and help, Ms. Owens. I feel much more prepared for the school year after having talked with you.”
“That was the intent.”
A cool dismissal. But when he glanced over his shoulder, she was studying him with his daughter, her brow creased in an expression he had no way of interpreting correctly.
“Good night, Ms. Owens,” he said.
Bea paused in the doorway and looked at Rose. “See you when school starts. I’ll let you know about the tee.”
“Thanks, Bea. Come by anytime.”
Rose, still and silent, watched his daughter disappear into the hallway. The setting sun bathed her skin with rosy light, but that light wouldn’t last much longer. And if something about leaving his new colleague alone in the gathering shadows of her classroom tugged at his chest, he wasn’t paying the pull a bit of attention.
“Good night, Mr. Krause.” With Bea’s departure, Rose was opaque again. Still lovely, but a definite chill had descended. “See you in a week. Please close the door behind you when you leave.”