Page 14 of Wintertime Heat (Holiday 1)

When the bell rang indicating the end of the last class, students swarmed around me as they rushed to their lockers. One child rushed toward the other end and I see Aaron park himself next to my classroom door, an expectant look on his face.

I don’t know what was more adorable, the fact that he took his punishment with such seriousness, or the way his face would light up every time he saw me during the day.

“Miss Abby!” He jumps up and down, when he sees me in the distance, his hand raised in the air.

I laugh, “I see you, Aaron. Stay there. I have to get some stuff, first.”

Picking up the Tupperware filled with cookies that I baked last night, I walk to my classroom.

Aaron was chewing on a sandwich which didn’t really look very appetizing.

“Where did you get that?” I ask, as I unlock the classroom door, and let him in first.

“Dad made it. I didn’t eat lunch and he says I can only bring back an empty lunchbox.”

I couldn’t imagine the man I had met yesterday, slaving over a sandwich. For some reason, I really wanted to know what his cooking tasted like.

I held out a cookie, “Do you want to trade? A cookie for a bite of your sandwich?”

Aaron didn’t even hesitate, grabbing the cookie, and throwing the sandwich in my lap. Hesitantly, I pick it up and bite into it.

I wheeze.

It was absolutely terrible.

I felt bad for Aaron that he was being forced to eat this, but I also felt a hint of satisfaction, at knowing that while Steven Turner may be a billionaire, he couldn’t cook worth a damn.

“You don’t like the sandwich, Miss Abby?” Aaron studies me, crumbs of the cookies all over his mouth.

I open my mouth to say something, and then recalculate, “It’s your lunch. I wouldn’t want to finish all of it.”

“It’s okay,” He tells me, without batting an eye. “Dad is very bad at cooking. I don’t like his food. He can’t even follow a recipe right.”

I blink, trying not to laugh, “So, what do you guys eat at home?”

Aaron shrugs, “Lily comes twice a week and she makes a lot of food for us.”

“Do you like her cooking?” I ask, wondering who Lily was.

Aaron shrugs again, “It’s okay. It’s better than Dad’s.”

I reach out and ruffle his hair from where he sat on my desk, “Don’t let your father hear that. It might hurt his feelings.”

“Dad knows he can’t cook,” The child informs me, nonchalantly. “He says he can’t be good at everything.”

I bite my tongue, and decide to change the subject, “I have some more cookies in my bag and half a sandwich, if you want. Then, we can move onto painting those canvases.”

“Do you like cookies, too, Miss Abby?” Aaron asks as he munched on yet another cookie, making me wonder if I was ruining his appetite for dinner.

“Hmm,” I comment, offhandedly. “I’m more of a blueberry muffin kind of person.”

“So, you like blueberry muffins?” He was a very inquisitive child, and I grin, “Just eat the sandwich.”

Aaron liked the sandwich I had made for myself this morning and once he was done, I had to force him into an apron so as to not dirty his clothes. Most of the painting involved using hands, and being at his age, he loved it.

At one point, I had to chastise him, “Aaron, the paint goes on the blanks sheet. Not on me.”

He looked guilty, and went back to work, but he kept getting paint on my hair because every time I would lean over and tell him to use a specific colour, he would deliberately touch the falling strands of my hair to get paint on them.

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