Bringing Home the Bachelor. Sarah M. AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Seth. The boy had always been able to tell when he shouldn’t press his luck. “Josey’s husband taught her how to ride, she’s never had an accident, and you know good and well that she hasn’t been on a bike since she got pregnant.” Seth shuddered in immature horror. “May I remind you that Tige is a seventeen-year-old boy who drives too fast, doesn’t own a helmet and has already crashed his bike twice? No. Motorcycles.”
“Aw, Mom. You’re not being fair.”
“Life isn’t fair. Get used to it.” Seth rolled his eyes so hard she heard it in the dark.
“If my dad were still here, he’d let me ride.”
Before she could come up with a coherent response to Seth’s newest favorite guilt trip, she rounded the last curve before the Pine Ridge Charter School, where she taught two grades in one classroom. Trucks and cars were parked everywhere, with massive, stadium-style lights ripping through the soft dawn light.
Shoot, Jenny thought as Seth leaned forward to stare at the three-ring circus. The battle with Seth had made her forget that today was the first day of filming at the school.
The Pine Ridge Charter School was the only school for grades one through eight within a two-hour drive. The school had been funded and built by her cousin Josey White Plume and her aunt, Sandra White Plume. They’d finished it before the first day of school last fall, mostly thanks to the donations of Crazy Horse Choppers, which was run by Ben Bolton and his brothers, Billy and Bobby. The Bolton boys made money hand over fist with their high-end, very expensive motorcycles. Josey had wound up marrying Ben Bolton—and was now pregnant with their first baby.
If that were all there was to it, it would be weird enough. But the crazy didn’t stop there. Oh, no. Bobby Bolton had been filming “webisodes”—which Jenny didn’t even think was a real word—of Billy Bolton building motorcycles at the Crazy Horse shop and posting the videos on the internet. Apparently, they were getting hundreds of thousands of hits, mostly because Billy cussed like a drunken sailor and occasionally threw tools at people. Jenny didn’t have an internet connection, so she hadn’t seen the show herself. She didn’t want to. It sounded like entertainment aimed at the lowest common denominator.
But now the whole production had moved to her school. Billy Bolton was supposed to build a bike on site, teach the students how to use the tools and then the Boltons were going to auction the bike off and give the proceeds to the school. Bobby was going to film the whole thing.
Jenny didn’t know which part of this plan she liked the least. Ben wasn’t so bad. He was focused, intense and looked good on a bike, but he was a little too elite for Jenny’s taste. He made Josey happy, though, so that made Jenny happy.
Bobby, the youngest of the Bolton brothers, talked to her only when he wanted something. He was handsome and charming and fabulously rich and she supposed that was more than enough for most women, but she didn’t trust him.
She trusted Billy, the oldest, even less. He was—well, she didn’t know if he was an actual Hell’s Angel, but she wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to know he was in some sort of semicriminal biker gang. He was a massive man who everyone seemed mildly-to-severely afraid of. When she’d been introduced to him at Josey’s wedding, he’d given off a vibe that had been something between quiet, dangerous and sexy. The combination had been thrilling—or would have been if she’d let herself be thrilled. He’d been a sight to behold, with his brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, a neatly trimmed beard and a tuxedo that fit him like a glove.
Like the other two Bolton brothers, Billy was gorgeous in his rough way and richer than sin—but of the three of them, he had waved his wealth around the least. Ben wasn’t showy, but everything he owned was the best. Bobby let everyone know how rich and popular he was. But Billy? It was almost as if the family money pissed him off. Jenny had been struck mute by the way he’d glared down at her. She’d barely been able to squeak out a “pleased to meet you.”
And now that man was going to have the run of her school and interact with her students.
It was one thing for that man to make her nervous while she was wearing a frilly dress at a wedding that cost more than her house and car put together. It was a whole different thing if that man looked at one of her students with that glare. She would not tolerate a whiff of improper, indecent or dangerous behavior from any Bolton, no matter how muscled he was. One step out of line, and Billy Bolton would find out exactly what kind of woman she was.
She pulled into her regular parking spot, and Seth was already out the door, gawking as a small group of people scurried around. Jenny was usually the first person at the school. She liked easing into the morning before a bunch of six-, seven-and eight-year-olds descended on her classroom. She made some tea, made sure she had all of her supplies ready and got herself mentally prepared for the day. And since Seth usually hung out in the multipurpose room practicing guitar, it was as close to Zen as Jenny got.
But today? No Zen for her. Instead, a woman yelled, “We have a problem—car in the shot,” into a walkie-talkie as she brushed past Jenny while a man adjusted the lights—and managed to blind her with the beam.
Before she could shade her eyes, a figure spoke from beside her. “Jennifer? Hi, Bobby Bolton. We met at the wedding. Great to see you again. So glad to be out here, doing something good for the school. You do good work out here, and we’re thrilled to be a part of it, but we’re going to need you to move your car.”
Jennifer. The hackles went up on the back of Jenny’s neck. Yes, he’d been trying to compliment her, but her name was not Jennifer. It never had been. She had the legal documents to prove it. She was Jenny Marie Wawasuck.
She swung around slowly—slow enough that she heard Seth make a noise that sounded like snerk. Even a teenaged boy knew better than to call her Jennifer.
“Excuse me?” was the most polite thing Jenny could come up with.
Bobby had on a headset, and despite looking like the kind of guy who rarely got up before noon, he was as good-looking as ever. “As I’m sure you know, Jennifer, we’re doing the shoot this morning. We’re going to need you to move your car.”
It was awfully early to have her last nerve snap, but it did. “Why?”
Bobby gave her the kind of smile that made her want to punch him in the stomach. “We’re setting up a shot of Billy riding in, and we need the space.” Bobby’s voice was less complimentary now, more a direct order. “Move your car.”
Of all the arrogant...Jenny paused—a trick she’d learned long ago worked on children of all ages to command attention. She drew herself up to her full height of five foot five inches, but she was still a good eight inches shorter than Bobby. She hated craning her neck, but she didn’t have a stepstool handy.
“No. This is my spot. I always park here.” Part of her knew she was being a tad irrational—it’s not like moving the car was a huge deal—but she didn’t want Bobby Bolton to think he could steamroll her whenever he felt like it.
Too often, too many people thought they could flatten her. They thought she wouldn’t put up a fight because she was a nice girl or because she taught little kids or because she had nothing—especially that. Nothing but a parking spot.
Bobby’s smile disappeared and he suddenly looked tired. “I know this is your spot, but I’d think a grown woman could handle parking somewhere else for one day. Thanks so much. Vicky?” he said into his headset. “Can we get Jennifer some coffee? Thanks.” He turned his gaze back to her, and his fake-happy smile was back. “I know it’s early, but once you move your car and have your coffee, I’m sure you’ll feel better, Jennifer.”
Jenny bristled under his patronizing tone, but before she could tell him that she didn’t drink coffee, much less restate her position about not moving her darned car, a shadow loomed behind her, blocking out the spotlight.
A shiver raced up her arms and across her neck as a deep, powerful voice said, “Her name isn’t Jennifer.” As if to emphasize this point, a massive