A Year of Love Read online

  And once I step under the spray and inhale a deep breath, I know I’m exactly where I need to be.

  Yep. I’m pretty sure this is heaven.

  Mack

  With the wind of the open road still burning on my cheeks, I turn my Jeep into one of the open parking spaces for the condo complex I’ll be calling home for the next few days and shift the engine into park. I’ve made good time, after getting a later start than anticipated thanks to my neighbor Mr. Lanahan’s bird, but the stiffness in my legs still screams at me to get out onto the beach and work some motion into these muscles.

  Soon.

  I know, I know, how can I leave an aviary cliffhanger just dangling like that, but trust me, it’s a long, boring, repetitive story I’ll have to tell another time, when a three-day vacation on the beach doesn’t await.

  The Florida sun is bright and beautiful, bouncing its rays off everything around me and heating the air to a perfect eighty degrees.

  There are a ton of other cars here, but with forty other beachfront condos and a weekend as beautiful as this, it’s no shock that it’s starting to fill up on a Friday afternoon.

  My loud music cuts off dramatically with a turn of the ignition key, and thanks to riding topless with no doors, jumping out is a breeze. I reach easily into the open back and grab my overnight duffel and my surfboard before bleeping the locks with my key fob.

  I know it’s pointless in a completely open vehicle, but I swear it never stops making me laugh to do it anyway. Mostly because I love the confused looks it gets from bystanders.

  The sidewalk through the center of the condo complex gives a view to the beach ahead, and the smell of the salty ocean air beckons. I don’t get to the ocean nearly enough, but when I do, everything else disappears.

  Though, if I’m being honest, I live a pretty stress-free life, and I do it with intention. Too many people get caught up in the peskiest little day-to-day shit, and I don’t have time or energy for it. I’m a man who’s determined to enjoy his time on this earth and to live each day with a fervor for things that provide happiness not stress. At least some of that, I’m sure, is because of the way I was raised.

  As a “surprise baby” that came fifteen years after my sister, I had a fifty-fifty chance of being my family’s greatest joy or biggest resentment. Lucky for me, my family went with the former, putting me at the center of their world and finding absolute elation in all my growth and milestones. My sister Lizzy was like a built-in second mother when needed, and the rest of the time, a champion and friend.

  Of course, this also means my parents are forty years older than me, and they’ll be gone a lot earlier than I’d like, but I choose to be thankful for each and every moment life provides instead of dwelling.

  Frankly, my family is the reason I teach music. They didn’t complain when I picked up an instrument and taught myself to play. And let me tell you, in the beginning, my musical aspirations were to the detriment of their ears, but they somehow managed to handle it all with kid gloves.

  And they didn’t balk or judge when I said I wanted to make a career out of music. They made it fun, and they made an effort to encourage, which shaped me into a teacher who wants to be a support system for his students. A teacher who keeps an open mind and always tries to inspire a love for learning. So many of my kids who show a real interest in music and the arts don’t have the kind of support I did growing up, and I feel it’s my duty to give them that when they’re in my classroom.

  Once I reach the end of the sidewalk, I stop at the front door of my condo rental, set my surfboard against the outside wall, and punch in the code from the emailed rental instructions.

  After the knob clicks open, I cautiously push my way inside.

  I wouldn’t say I’m a cautious kind of guy by nature, but over the years, I’ve learned to hasten my bull-in-a-china-shop ways. Basically, there’ve been a few occasions I’ve gotten a little overzealous in an environment I didn’t know and knocked over a valuable or two, and it goes without saying that no one wants to take the chance on having to pay damage fees on a rental.

  Clear of hidden dangers, I step through the rest of the way and close the door behind me, tossing my bag on the floor and strolling inside. The kitchen is big and inviting with bright white cabinets, and the light marble countertops are sleek and clear of clutter. Only one vase of flowers sits on the corner and a bottle of wine on the island.

  I step forward to the bottle, checking out the label and whistling audibly. The price sticker is still on the bottom, proclaiming a cost of $59.99. Dayum, that’s a pretty good bottle of fermented grape juice.

  Right beside the wine sits a note scrawled in black Sharpie that reads, Enjoy your time!

  Well, well. I think I will. When in Tokyo, you know?

  I scoop up the bottle from the counter and round the island, opening each of the cabinets until I come to the one with the glasses. I don’t bother holding out to find a fancy wineglass—it won’t hold nearly enough anyway.

  I only have to dig through three drawers before finding a corkscrew, and the sound of the cork popping is so satisfying, my smile climbs all the way to my eyes. Oh yeah. The sweet sounds of vacation.

  Once crimson liquid rises up the sides of the glass and reaches three-quarters of the way full, I place the bottle back on the counter and take a swig. “Ahh,” I hum. It’s a little too rich for me, but seeing as I’m not that big of a wine guy, I’m not going to be picky. It’ll do just fine for getting me in the mood to relax.

  Boozy fruit juice in hand, I stroll away from the counter to the living room and admire the view of the ocean through the windows. It’s amazing how expansive the world seems at the coast. How much it reminds you of your exact insignificance in the universe.

  Using my toes for leverage, I kick off my Converse and dig my bare toes into the plush carpet. It feels like a sensory tease for the sand that’s to come.

  Moving along, I make my way down the hall and stop at a closed door.

  Immediately, I’m intrigued, so I test the knob. It turns with ease, and I grin as I push my way inside. Bright-yellow walls give way to a daisy-comforter–covered bed and a bench seat window with a view of the beach. It’s a cute little girlie setup, and my gaze travels the space smoothly, but a pause is all but inevitable as I reach a wall of much…interest.

  Trophies, medals, and photos of fellow Savannah High School teacher Kimmie Ward in some sort of manly-looking leotard litter the space, and my eyebrows shoot up to kiss my hairline.

  Oh, man. Talk about a weird and wonderful discovery.

  Kimmie is at least twenty years younger than present in the photos, but that doesn’t do anything to lessen my enjoyment.

  Good God. I cannot fucking wait to razz her about this shit.

  I don’t even pause before taking my phone from my pocket, snapping a quick photo of the wall of Kimmie, and sending it off with a text message.

  Me: Sweet unitard, girlfriend. I’m going to suggest Principal Walker relaxes the dress code on Fridays even more so you can wear what you’re comfortable in.

  Her response is instantaneous and only heightens my enjoyment.

  Kimmie: SHUT UP! Why did I forget you were going to my parents’ house this weekend?

  Me: Because you foolishly removed me from the center of your world? Understandable, I guess, given your relationship with Jim and all, but still…

  Kimmie: Jim is my husband.

  Jim is, in fact, Kimmie’s husband, and he’s an awesome, big-ass burly dude whom I’ve gotten to know over the years while attending various school functions.

  Me: Exactly. And it really unbalances the universe when more than one spouse loves me, and since Jim’s already called dibs on fanboying, I figure this is for the best.

  Kimmie: You’re ridiculous.

  I tuck my phone back into my pocket with a laugh and smile, but not before snapping a couple more pictures of the Kimmie Shrine for, you know, future reference and such.

  Well,
hell, I guess staying at a friend’s family’s house is going to be even more fun than I thought it was.

  I walk back into the hall, leaving the door open to let some of the beach light into the hallway and peek briefly into a bathroom. A final closed door sits at the end, beckoning me, and I take a swig of wine from my glass as I open it.

  The bedroom is big and sunlight shines in through every window, and I silently hope the curtains have enough blackout properties to keep me from waking up at the crack of way-too-early. Pretty nice digs, though, even if they’re bright.

  After a couple moments of no movement, the sound of rushing water makes my eyebrows pull together, and a sudden sense of urgency lights a fire under my feet.

  Shit. Did a pipe burst or something?

  The previously cracked bathroom door bangs open with a crash when I hit it at a run, and a shrill, frightening scream shatters the air.

  “Ahhhhh! Oh my God!” a wet woman cries from the shower at the top of her lungs. “Who are you?!”

  It’s uncontrolled chaos for several moments as she gets louder and louder, and my body fights to make sense of what’s happening. My defenses are alert, and my grasp on reality is shaken.

  Is that…could that be fellow teacher Katy Dayton…naked?

  The very woman whose classroom is right-next-door to mine?

  No fucking way.

  Her hair is wet and soapy, and her body is covered in a sheen of water as the showerhead continues to spray toward her.

  I mean, it really looks like her…but how?

  She turns and whips her arms across her chest, and her forehead creases in the center with uncontrolled disgruntlement. It’s a look I know well from experience and one I can’t mistake when it comes to her. She’s the only woman I know who can make a stink-eye look downright beautiful.

  Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, it’s her. And she is, in fact, naked.

  Holy shit. My eyes threaten to bug out of my fucking head.

  “Why are you in here?!” she screams again, and the shrill volume is enough to yank me out of my dazed state of mind.

  I turn around as quickly as I can, but I have to admit that the vision of her bare—perky and perfect—right breast will likely be burned into my brain forever. If it weren’t for the tile half-wall on the bottom of the ornate shower blocking my view of the lower half of her body, I might be dead right now, in all honesty.

  “Katy, it’s okay, it’s okay, calm down, it’s me. Mack. Mack Houston,” I ramble, my back still to her, and I hold my hands up above my shoulders in some sort of weird message of innocence.

  “Mack?!” she shouts at the top of her lungs, louder than she did when she reacted like I was an ax-murdering intruder.

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “What in the h-e-double-hockey-sticks are you doing here?”

  I almost laugh over the fact that she can’t even say hell under these circumstances. Always proper and professional, that’s Katy Dayton for you.

  “I’m—”

  “You know what?” she cuts me off before I can explain. “Never mind. Just get out. Get out. Get out!”

  I throw a thumbs-up over my shoulder. “Getting out right now. I swear. You come find me when you’re done, and we’ll sort this out.”

  “Get out!” she shrieks again, making my feet fall into a jog all on their own. I grab the edge of the bathroom door and swing it closed behind myself as swiftly as I can but stop there before going any farther.

  Katy Dayton. Naked. In the bathroom of my vacation rental.

  Man oh man, this three-day vacation just got very interesting.

  Katy

  Mack Houston is here?! In my freaking rental?!

  What kind of fresh hell of a nightmare am I living in right now?

  And come find him when I’m done? Why is that even a thing when I’m six hours away from home on a vacation that was only supposed to include me, myself, and I?

  Not to mention, he saw me naked. Not completely naked, I hope, but considering we’re coworkers, he definitely saw far too much of me

  Lord help me.

  This whole situation is a mental mindfuck, and I can’t keep myself in the shower long enough to wash the soap out of my hair. I need to figure out why in the hell he’s here, and I need to do it right now.

  Frantic, I jump out of the shower while it’s still running, and shampoo drips from my hair and onto my forehead. My feet miss the mat in front of the glass door completely, and I play slip-and-slide on the tile.

  “Owww, shit,” I yelp, my knee hitting the hard surface and slowing my descent into the buck-ass splits. If the Dallas Cowboys went pornographic, this move would be right on brand.

  “Frackkk,” I groan, twisting my hip and squirming on the floor to get my feet back under me. My skin is wet and aggressive against the tile, and my hair smacks me in the eye and deposits shampoo. “Gah!”

  All thanks to adrenaline, I’m a one-woman vaudevillian act of disaster.

  I use one palm to put pressure on my lava-filled eye and the other hand to pull myself up off the floor. Once I yank a towel off the bar, I wrap it around myself haphazardly.

  My dripping hair is officially cutting a river through this condo like the Colorado through the Grand Canyon, but I don’t care. As long as my tits and bits are covered, figuring out how in the motherfuuuck Mack Houston ended up in my vacation rental with me seems like the priority.

  I’ve always been heavy-footed, but my everyday gait’s got nothing on the thunderous sound of my progress across the hardwood floor as I burst out of the master bedroom and head toward the kitchen.

  Of course, Mack just stands untroubled at the counter, his ankles crossed and a stupid smile in place on his face. Instantly, my rage spikes from an eight to an eleven. How can this man be so calm right now?

  It’s only after my boiling blood rises to the whites behind my eyes that I notice the glass in his hand and the corkscrew on the counter and my bottle of now-opened wine.

  No. Flipping. Way.

  A gasp flies from my mouth. “Are you drinking my wine?” I shriek as months and months of saving that bottle for a special occasion flash before my eyes.

  “This?” He tips his chin down to the glass in his hand and studies the liquid. “Is it yours?”

  “Yes, it’s mine!” I yell, much louder than I expect. To be honest, the volume actually makes me startle myself a bit. I clear my throat to get my bearings and lower my voice back to normal. “What on earth made you think you had a right to drink it?”

  “It was sitting with a welcome note,” he protests, jerking his chin toward the counter. “I assumed it was a gift with the rental.”

  I follow his gaze to the note and bottle on the counter and bite my cheek to stop the evolving sting in my nose. I do not want to cry in front of Mack Houston over a bottle of wine, so help me God. But I’m on the emotional brink. I scrimped and saved and sold my soul to the devil to be able to afford this weekend in the first place, and now it’s one giant freaking catastrophe.

  “This is unbelievable! I cannot believe this is happening!”

  “Relax, it’s not that big of a deal.”

  “Not that big of a deal?” My jaw drops. “I’ve been counting down the days to this vacation, and now I’m here and not even an hour into my weekend getaway and you show up out of nowhere while I was in the shower!”

  “Uh.” He scrunches up his nose. “Wow. That ‘you’ was said really distastefully, Katy Cat.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Yeah, it was,” he answers with an infuriating smirk. “It was one step away from you just saying ‘Ewww.’”

  “Forget what I said.” I heave a deep sigh. “Why are you here? How are you here? This has to be an April Fools’ joke. Clowns have to jump out of the corner at any moment now, right?” I glance around the kitchen maniacally. “I swear on everything, I’ll stab you with that corkscrew if you’ve somehow managed a stupid candid camera prank.”

  “First
of all, April Fools’ Day was yesterday, and there are no clowns or cameras.” He winks, and I hate that my eyes deem that wink as an attractive—more like, sexy—expression. “At least, I don’t think there are.”

  I also hate that my gaze takes note of just how defined his body looks beneath his loose surfer-style tank top and board shorts.

  You might hate the realization, but it is the reality, honey. No matter how much he annoys you, Mack Houston is a certified stone-cold fox, and there’s no way you can get around it.

  I glare, but I’m pretty sure it’s more at myself than him. “Then why are you here?”

  “Because I rented this place.”

  “What? No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You didn’t. You couldn’t have. Because I rented this place. I secured the reservation several months ago.”

  His face morphs into amusement, and his voice is one-hundred-percent confident. “So did I.”

  I shake my head. “No, you didn’t.”

  “Listen, I know you keep saying that over and over, but it’s not going to make it true,” he responds, still infuriatingly unfazed over the whole debacle. “I talked to Kimmie about renting her parents’ house on the beach right when we came back from Christmas break.”

  “So did I,” I retort. “And I confirmed the rental through RentBNB. Did you? Or did you just assume talking to Kimmie made it so?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Katy Cat. I booked it on the website, just like you did.”

  “How?” I cry.

  Mack shrugs, the laid-back, nothing-fazes-me bastard. “I guess they double-booked us or something. Technical glitch, I don’t know. I’m as clueless as you right now.”

  “We have to call Kimmie. We have to sort this out right now.”

  “Okay. Call Kimmie, then.”

  “I can’t call Kimmie. I don’t have Kimmie’s number. You call Kimmie.”