Love Won (Winning at Love book 1) Read online

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Hank chuckles, and I turn back toward him. “Bev’s sent me up with a note for ya. I was in the office when a man came in, looking to speak to you.” He pulls what looks like a sealed envelope from his breast pocket.

  “Do you know who it was?” I ask, making my way to him.

  “No, he just asked if he could speak to you, said he had it all written, but would prefer to see you in person. Said he was a parent of one of your students. Mike’s dad, maybe? Bev was about to buzz you, but then Mr. Graves stepped out of his office and took over the conversation.”

  Of course he did.

  “Was it Mitch’s dad? Mitch Foley?” I ask, already knowing it was.

  “Yes.” Mr. Whittaker snaps his fingers. “It was Mitch, not Mike, that’s right. Anyway, he was told he needed to make an appointment if he wanted to see you, and that you’d been given his other two messages already, and was also told you would call him back when you had the time during the day. He seemed pretty irritated, if you ask me.” He hands me the note.

  “Who? Mr. Foley?” I ask, taking it, feeling guilty that I didn’t call him back once I got into my room.

  “Naw, he seemed more disappointed about not getting to see you. It was Mr. Graves. He didn’t look or sound happy with this guy at all,” he shares, and I let out a smile, the one that’s been so desperately trying to break free in order to make a satisfied appearance all morning, heady with the notion that Coy was bothered once again at Neil’s persistence.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the letter a bit reluctantly. I mean, he’s already called twice, and now he’s dropped off a note? What could be so pressing? I guess I’m about to find out. It’s a little creepy, if you ask me.

  “Anyway, my work is done here,” he says, folding up the ladder and tucking the two burnt-out lights under his arm. “Me and this here cake…” he grins, picking the plate back up, “…have a little date with a cuppa.” Hank makes his way to the door, looking down at the envelope.

  I have a sudden twinge in my gut. I’m hoping whatever the reason was for Neil Foley’s persistence this morning is school-related and nothing more. And if it is anything but, I may need to get some advice on how to handle him professionally going forward.

  Shaking those thoughts from my mind, I take the opportunity to tease Hank one more time. “Enjoy it, and remember: do not rat me out to Rose if your sugar is high later on, or you’ll get no more cake from me,” I call to his retreating back.

  “Mum’s the word, kiddo,” he replies, with a wave of his hand.

  Peeling open the envelope and opening the note, I sigh, feeling my shoulders instantly relax.

  Sept 5, 2017

  Miss Hatfield,

  Mitch is heading back to his mom’s tonight, so she’ll be picking him up after school and he will not be taking the bus. Also, I wanted to let you know that over the summer we’ve discovered that Mitch has an anaphylactic allergy to yellow jackets. He’ll need to carry his EpiPen with him until the bees die off for the season. Mitch will be giving you one for the office, and he will carry the other in his pocket when going outside for recess, or any other times. He’s been good so far at remembering, but might need a reminder or two when at school. Also, please send any medical forms I might need to fill out about his allergy.

  Thanks, and don’t hesitate to call if you’ve got any questions.

  Neil

  Here’s my cell # 905-765-2120

  I feel like a heel.

  No wonder he called twice and stopped by to try to talk to me. Jesus, I need to give the man a break and not toss the stalker label on him—not just yet, anyway. Poor Mitch. Anaphylactic allergies can be scary for a kid to have to adjust to. I make a mental note to talk to Bev and decide I better send an email out to all staff, updating them so we are all aware of his allergy. Thankfully, with the passing of Sabrina’s Law (the result of an incident where an allergic thirteen-year old girl died due to food cross-contamination after eating French fries from her high school’s cafeteria) anaphylaxis management plans are now required in all Ontario schools. Teachers have been trained to use EpiPens and to do what may need to be done in response to an anaphylactic allergy.

  Walking over to my desk, I pull out my wooden chair to send the email. My eyes land on a large oval basket, strategically tucked under my desk so it wouldn’t be seen at first glance. It’s beautifully wrapped in bluish-tinted cellophane, making it hard to make out what’s inside.

  Kami. I smile. She’s always so thoughtful. I reach for the scissors, cutting around the white ribbon at the top, and feel a jolt of excitement when the cellophane falls open, revealing the goodies nestled inside. But, when my eyes land on the first few items, I realize it can’t be from Kami. This has McCoy Graves written all over it.

  A day planner. “Asshole.” I smile, despite myself. A roll of quarters, which I don’t get at first, until I find a box of dryer sheets near the bottom of the basket, along with a business card for “The Golden Coin”, which causes me to giggle. “Idiot.” Spying a card, I put it beside the basket, deciding I’ll save it for last; I’m too excited to see what else he’s put in here. Ah…a jar of cake sprinkles. I roll my eyes, rustling the tissue paper to get to the bottom. A pack of gum, a pack of Kleenex, a plastic watch (again, eye roll), chocolate (finally, something good!) and—no way!—a bag of plain potato chips! I can’t keep a “Holy shit!” from falling out of my mouth. “No way,” I mutter out loud, picking up the small bag of Lay’s, ignoring the slight trembling of my hands as my brain starts to think of the unspoken implications. Oh, and perhaps the irony of Coy giving them to me after what I did last night while dreaming of this exact same bag. Moving on, I toss the bag onto my desk and pick up the last gift; it’s a long, cylindrical object that’s wrapped up in…

  “You’ve got to be kidding me—the Shit Emoji? Really, Coy?” I shake my head, clueless as to why on earth he’d wrap something in this pattern of wrapping paper. It isn’t until I make quick work of peeling the paper off that the reason comes blasting at me like a foghorn at a football game. “Son of a bitch. That jerk.”

  Under the paper is a can of Glade air freshener in Jubilant Rose scent—a scent I am all too familiar with. Reaching for the card, I tear the envelope open, needing to see what in the hell this man is thinking giving me all of these things, especially the damn Glade spray. Whiplash. McCoy Graves is utter whiplash. One day I think we’re making progress, the next he pulls this crap (no pun intended, with the Glade spray and all). McCoy Graves has obviously gone back to Jerkville. I sigh, and start to read what is sure to piss me off.

  Welcome back, Sprinkles!

  I wanted to give you a few back-to-school survival items I thought might come in handy. And I know what you’re thinking: “What a sweetheart.” Don’t worry about thanking me, the pleasure was all mine. In your kit, you’ll find the following, for the reasons I’ve listed below.

  Enjoy!

  Coy

  “I’m going to kill this man,” I mutter, taking a deep breath and gearing up to read the rest of this cocky jerk’s note…

  The journal and watch are pretty self-explanatory…don’t be late for me.

  Shithead, I think.

  Gum, for after lunch, should you need it.

  Might be useful, I admit.

  Chocolate, to make you happy. I know you love it.

  I smile.

  Kleenex, for if your nose runs.

  Thoughtful, I concede.

  Sprinkles. In case you want to bake me a cake, Sprinkles?

  Dream on, I chide internally.

  A bag of chips. Well…you can’t survive for too long without “chips”.

  I feel my face catch fire. “Jesus. Cue the whiplash.”

  A roll of quarters, dryer sheets, and card. In case you need to visit the laundromat again, you’ll be prepared if I’m not there.

  Is he hinting? Please be hinting, I hope.

  And, finally, the Glade spray in your favourite scent becau
se better a Turdblossom than not.

  Oh my God, he didn’t. He did!

  Folding the note and tucking it away into my purse, I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry, to kiss him, kick him, or fuck him. Never ever has a man been able to piss me off and make me as hot as Coy has with his little gag gifts.

  “God. ‘Turdblossom’.” I sit at my desk and facepalm my head. I haven’t thought of that name in so, so long. It was one of those days that if I could erase it from my memory, I would. Because from that day forth, every time they’d see me go into the bathroom, Coy and Keaton would both make a point of telling me how lucky I was that I “shit roses.”

  Memories like these are why I need to remember that I hate boys!

  November 22, 2006

  Dear May,

  I hate Kentucky Fried Chicken and McCoy Graves! You know how—now that I’m fifteen—Mom and Dad are finally letting me stay home alone overnight sometimes? Well, for my first time, it was awful! I wanted my mommy! I think the chicken Mom picked up for me gave me food poisoning! I’ve been so sick. The worst part? No, it wasn’t the shitting or the vomiting. It was the fact that I’ll NEVER be able to look at Coy AGAIN!!!!! I might have to talk to Mom and Dad about sending me to live with Grandma Mildred! Or, at least, seeing a therapist. That’s how serious this is.

  Since my stomach wasn’t feeling good at all, I decided it would be better to go lay down in bed. Maybe read a book, watch some TV in my own space, be closer to the washroom. I’d had stomach cramps, and had a horrible feeling I was going to shit my pants. So, I came up here, put on my PJ’s, and hoped my mom would call soon to check in so I could tell her I wasn’t feeling well. Within ten minutes, I was in the washroom—I had the runs, and bad. It was horrific, and I felt so sick. Luckily, I was the only one home right? WRONG, so very dead WRONG!!! Just as I’d finished, there was a knock at the bathroom door, and then I heard Coy’s voice asking if I was okay. God, how I had wished he hadn’t been standing there very long, but things just don’t work out like that for me. It turned out he had been there for a while, through each and every wet, explosive fart. McCoy and Keaton had come home early, deciding to rent a stupid video game instead of staying at the party they’d gone to. Apparently, the party had been lame. And so, there I was, having shit myself empty with Coy standing on the opposite side of the door, refusing to leave until he made sure I was okay with his own eyes.

  Well, I panicked! The bathroom stunk like I had literally died!! No matter what I said, he demanded he see me, so I did what I had to. I reached for the Glade Jubilant Rose scented spray under the sink, told him to give me a minute, turned on the faucet to mask the sound of the spray, and let her rip—the spray, the spray, I mean!! I blasted the small space with a never-ending stream of scented mist, hoping with all my might the fact that I was obviously rotting from the inside out wouldn’t be as noticeable when I opened the door.

  Once I was as satisfied as I could get (the can was not bottomless, after all), I sheepishly opened the door and Coy was standing right there. The look of sudden horror appearing on his face told me all I needed to know: he could definitely smell it.

  “Christ, East. You okay?” he coughed, at least trying to sound concerned.

  “Yeah, I feel a little better. Rotten chicken, I think,” I told him, stepping forward and trying to slam the door behind me, trying to pass quickly so I could retreat to the safe and less-humiliating haven of my room.

  “I was worried,” he said, unsuccessfully trying to conceal a gag, although I appreciated him making the effort. His not making a big deal about what I’d obviously been doing in there helped make me feel a bit better, too—at first, anyway. Then he had to go and be the asshead he is.

  I had just made it back into my room and closed the door behind me when he called out: “Damn, girl! It smells like shit and roses up in here. ’Night, Turdblossom.”

  He Said

  “Eastlyn Hatfield has been a lot of things to me over the years—awkward, sweet, beautiful, special—a funny kind of perfect, really. Now, it’s time to make her mine.”

  —McCoy Graves

  1

  Let Me Work Those Glutes

  “Mr. Graves,” Bev calls, from the threshold of my office.

  “Bev, please. It’s McCoy,” I reply. “It’s October. We’ve been working together for well over a month. I’d like to think we’ve moved past the formalities. I know I’m a jerk sometimes, but ‘Mr. Graves’ is my father.” I look up from my laptop, where I’ve been creating an agenda and memos for Monday’s parent council meeting.

  “Okay, I’ll try: McCoy,” she nods, her lips pulling up into an awkward smile, her red hair in its usual bun.

  “Much better. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m going to head out for the evening if there isn’t anything else you need me to do? Anything that can’t wait ’til tomorrow?”

  “Nope. I’m heading off to workout myself, after this,” I nod at my laptop, “so have a great night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “’Night, McCoy. See you tomorrow,” she calls.

  I like it here, I think, leaning back in my swivel chair. The kids are well-behaved—for the most part, even though there are always those few who need reminders of proper school conduct. The staff is a cohesive unit who work well together and always appear to put the needs of the students first. It’s been a great transition, and I’d say I’m doing a decent job so far. The parents respect me, the students seem to, as well, and I haven’t ruffled too many of the staff’s feathers with the few changes I’ve implemented.

  On top of work being good, being back in town has been, too. Hanging out with my brother, Rory, more and reconnecting with Keaton, Brody, and the rest of the guys was just what the doctor ordered. Being with Lola and moving away from Guelph was a move I’d needed to make at the time for my career, but it absolutely put a strain on my relationships back here at home. Thankfully, I’ve been able to slip right back in, almost as if no time had passed. The Hatfields have played a huge role in that. David, Katie, and Keaton have always had my back, and since I’ve returned home, they all still treat me like I’m part of their family. Which is great, because I absolutely consider them mine.

  And then there’s Eastlyn. I’ve always had a soft spot for her over the years—friendship, a crush—but now? Now, I can’t stop thinking about her. Over the years, I’d held back, not wanting to admit what was so blatantly in front of me. I guess I’d been bogged down by the worry of potentially pissing Keaton off, or that David and Katie might think that I’d taken advantage of my close proximity to Eastlyn. But seeing her everyday now only drives home everything I’ve been missing out on. And I’m not quite sure if that pisses me off or excites me.

  “Who are you fucking kidding?” I ask myself. I know the answer. Booting down my computer, I close my office door and change into my workout gear, trying in vain to push thoughts of Eastlyn out of my head. For now.

  Heading down the hall towards the fitness room, I have to admit that working at a state-of-the-art school is a definite perk. My last school in Brockville, Meadowview, didn’t have greenhouses, an art studio, or a fitness room like Westwood does. It’s nice to be able to stay a little after school to work out my frustrations. I’ve even joined the 4 p.m. staff workouts led by Mrs. Robichaud, the French teacher, three nights a week. I’d had to miss today’s due to having to deal with some parent phone calls, not to mention a community complaint about an ongoing fight to get the city to paint an actual crosswalk behind the school—a fight I’ll gladly join, hence all of my research and having to add more notes than usual in preparation for Monday’s meeting.

  Walking into the fitness centre, I’m caught off guard by the sound of Marianas Trench blasting off the walls. I thought everyone had gone home except for me and Mrs. Martinez, the night caretaker.

  Imagine my surprise when my eyes land on a certain green-eyed beauty who’s finishing up on the leg curl machine. Hovering—not wanting to draw atte
ntion to myself just yet—I study her while she bends to drag a suede-covered floor balance beam into the open space in the circuit centre. Thankful for the view of her tight ass up in the air, bouncing in my direction as she works to lug the beam exactly where she wants it, I smile—and so does my cock, giving her a silent salute. Eastlyn Hatfield has the formula for the perfect ass: Shape + Roundness x Firmness + Bounce. Although I can’t yet confirm the exact feel of it, I have no qualms saying that it looks like pure perfection from where I stand. And my cock wholeheartedly agrees.

  Goddamn, she is a sight.

  Pushing off the doorframe, I decide I better announce myself before I get caught standing there, pants around my ankles, whacking off at the sight of her. “I didn’t know you worked out here,” I call over the music, my voice a bit of a croak. I work to clear it, and toss my towel and water bottle onto the ground beside her.

  “Jesus, Coy, you scared me!” She looks up, her hand reflexively covering her chest.

  “Sorry,” I chuckle, my eyes drifting down her lithe body. She looks so hot in her tight workout leggings and—I notice—my Pearl Jam shirt. That little klepto. “Nice shirt.”

  My gaze holds hers. I’m trying really fucking hard not to lick my lips at the way she’s showing off her smooth stomach where she’s tied up the shirt at her hip, exposing just enough skin to make my dick twitch again.

  “It might be my very favourite. I had to steal it,” she beams, with not one ounce of apology or regret.

  “It is mine,” I retort (without adding “especially with you in it”, because I’m not sure she’s ready for that. Not just yet).

  “So, come here often?” I ask, crossing my arms, my lips pulling up at the side. I notice how her eyes track the movement.

  “Yes—er, no. Well, I’m trying…I need to. All the chocolate I’ve been eating the last few weeks is going straight to my ass,” she says, turning it towards me, displaying herself. She gives her buttock a firm smack. I laugh and she gasps, realizing she’s basically just given me permission to stare. “Don’t do it. Do not even think—and do not say it or bring it up, ever. I mean it. Forget it happened,” she scolds, and I haven’t even said a word. Not that it matters. I know exactly what she’s worried about. The determined look on her face causes me to tip my head back in deep laughter. This girl. She thinks her mentioning the chocolate I gave her in her gift basket along with referencing her bum in the same sentence will remind me of her being a Turdblossom. In fact, the only thing it does is make me think of what her ass would look like perched in the air while I impale her with my cock, over and over again.