Page 4 of Payback, Penelope

Stumped by his unexpected generosity, my belly flutters at not having to figure out how I’m going to pay what is bound to be a hefty bill from the mechanic all on my own. To share the burden for once. I cross my arms as we drive away from my poor, battered Betsy girl.

The Audi’s engine is nothing but a purr, and to break the silence, I say, “I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth or be rude, but why would you offer to pay for my car repairs?Howcan you even afford it?” I wave my hand around. “Shoot, no, don’t answer that. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”

“You can ask me anything.” He takes a deep breath and drops a hand over his lap.

Testing him, I ask, “Ok, then, how can you afford this car? Teaching doesn’t pay much. Certainly not enough to afford an Audi and emergency repairs.”

“I do graphic design as well. It pays almost double my contracted salary at the school.”

“Wow. How did you get into that?”

“My older brother’s college roommate, Blake, started his own web design business. I ran into him a few years ago and told him I dabbled in graphic design. He hired me part-time after I showed him some of my work. It was an easy gig I could do from my dorm room between classes. Then, I went full-time during the summers and re-invested in the business, so I get paid out from that, too. It’s been quite…lucrative.”

“Wow. Sounds like I got into the wrong business.” In a joking manner so as not to seem any ruder than I have been, I ask, “If you’re making enough to afford this car, then why are you teaching?”

“Graphic design is just a hobby, but history is my passion.” He grins. “And what better way to make a living than getting paid to talk about the ins and outs of war with a bunch of bored teenagers?”

I can’t help but laugh because I feel the same way, but with physics. Keeping the conversation going until we get to the bar, I say, “So…college. When exactly did you graduate?”

“Four months ago.”

“Four…fourmonthsago?” Doing the mental math, a flush colors my cheeks. “That would make you twenty-two or twenty-three? Is this your first year teaching?”

“Twenty-two, and yes.”

“Jesus Christ,” I exclaim under my breath. I’m going to be sick knowing I’ve had such perverted thoughts about a man so much younger than me.

“Tit for tat. How old are you?”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a woman her age?” He arches a dark brow, patiently waiting for my answer. “I’m thirty-seven. Old enough to be your mother if I’d been a teen mom,” I say, holding my breath until the nausea passes. “Avery youngteen mom, but still.”

Jacob flicks on his blinker and turns into Garfield’s parking lot, rapidly filling with cars as more people get off work. He motions for me to wait, then crosses in front of the SUV and opens my door. Before I can step out, he turns me in my seat, squats again, and helps me into my heels, making me feel like I’m Cinderella and he’s myyoung, hefty, history buff of a Prince Charming. Swoon.

We stop at the dimly lit bar to order our drinks before joining the rest of the group of teachers at a large U-shaped booth at the back. When I try to pay, Jacob takes my debit card, shoves it in his back pocket, and then produces his own to hand to the bartender.

“Hey, why’d you take my card?”

“I’m buying tonight, Mama.”

I groan. “It’s ‘cause I’m old, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Why you keep calling me ‘Mama’.”

With Jacob’s Old Fashioned in one hand, he moves the other to my lower back and pulls me into his front. Dipping to whisper in my ear, he says, “You’re not old. I’d say you’re just the right age, Mama.”

Before I can think of how on earth to respond to that, Sandra stands on the booth’s dark red bench seat less than fifteen feet away, dressed in a highlighter-yellow flowy top and matchingpants, puts two fingers in her mouth, and whistles loud enough to get the whole bar’s attention. She waves her hand in the air, drawing even more looks her way, then cups her mouth. “Yoo hoo, if you two lovebirds are done canoodling, we’re over here!”

Jacob smiles against my cheek, and I tip my chin up. His lips are nothing but an inch from mine. My core clenches, and I’m so tempted to lean in and find out what else he’s willing to generously give me. An exaggerated clearing of a throat has me darting my gaze away from Jacob’s lips toward Mr. Andrews, seated at the booth among the other three teachers who have joined us. His sweaty upper lip is curled with disdain.

Dragging my feet across the distance, I say low enough for only Jacob to hear, “Damnit. I didn’t know he was going to be here. I don’t want to sound like a baby, but will you stick close by?”

Jacob slides his hand around my waist to stop me right before we reach the booth. “How close do you want me, Mama?”

I gulp. “This…this is good.”

He winks, and when Sandra whistles again, he directs me to the other side of the booth, away from Mr. Andrews. He pushes me to sit first, then follows me in. Jacob doesn’t remove his arm from around my waist. In fact, he uses it to pull me closer to his side. Any further, and I’d be on his lap—a fact that has me chugging half of my Long Island iced tea and fanning myself with a drinks menu.

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