Fatherhood 101. Mae Nunn
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history teacher lifted a box and shoved it into his reluctant protégé’s arms.
“These are my lecture notes for the class that starts next week. Take them home and go over them tonight. I believe the temptation to reorganize my thoughts will have you so excited, you won’t be able to sleep. But if I’m wrong, drop them off tomorrow and I’ll go back to the drawing board for another recommendation.”
“Is there any chance at all that you’ll change your mind about leaving?” Cullen was hopeful. Mastal was not only Cullen’s mentor, he’d become a stand-in for the father Cullen had lost in his teens.
“None, whatsoever. My better half has already listed our house with a Realtor and hired an estate sale coordinator.”
“Estate sale? You’re not dying, you’re taking a sabbatical. You’ll be home in a few months.”
“We don’t plan to return to Kilgore, Cullen.”
“Ever?”
“For a visit, sure. But not permanently. Our boys are in Denver and Phoenix. We’re going to enjoy Italy for as long as it lasts and then we’ll figure out where to go next. If we don’t make a new home in one of the cities where our kids live, then we’re going to check out Barcelona or Prague.”
Cullen nodded and moved toward the door. There was no point in arguing against what he’d have done himself if the situation was reversed.
“Then you’ll take a gander at my notes and consider teaching the class?”
“I’d rather go to Italy with you, but it seems Ailean has spoken for that position so I’ll consider accepting this one.”
Blair placed a warm hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “This is tailor-made for you, just as the Italy job is for me. Have faith in yourself.”
With the box of notes balanced in one hand, the brass knob clutched in the other, Cullen swung the office door wide and paused before crossing the threshold.
“Is there anything else?” Dr. Mastal asked.
“Yes, and it’s important. I should speak up before I lose my nerve.”
“What is it, son?” The older man’s voice was quiet, patient.
“Can I call dibs on those bookcases in your den, the ones with the glass doors?”
“I’ll tell Ailean they’ve been spoken for.” He chuckled. “But I warn you they come with all her psychology textbooks.”
“And unless you’re donating it to the university library, can I have your resource collection, too?”
“Don’t press your luck.”
Blair pushed Cullen through the door and closed it on his heels, and Cullen was pretty sure he heard his friend throw the lock.
* * *
SARAH EASON WAS a goose in a new world. The wide halls of the university administration building had seemed exciting when she was fresh out of high school, but all these years later the arched ceilings and granite floors felt foreign and forbidding.
“I can do this,” she muttered to herself as she swept the red hair she’d inherited from her daddy out of her eyes. “I’m a thirty-nine-year-old woman, for crying out loud. I’ve survived the birth of three daughters and the death of my husband. I won’t be intimidated by an old woman who got up on the wrong side of the bed.”
Besides, there was little reason to believe the grouch who’d answered the phone in the office of admissions that morning would still be on duty all these hours later. But Sarah stiffened her spine in case there was a battle to be waged. She’d promised herself she’d register for classes today, and come hell or high water, by golly she would do it!
That is, if she could find the office.
Where on earth were they hiding room 104B? She glanced down at the directions she’d scribbled that morning while packing sandwiches and chips for the girls and a Lean Cuisine meal for herself. Maybe she’d written it down wrong. Maybe the grouch had intentionally given her bad information. Or maybe God had sent the old biddy as a sign that going back to school wasn’t such a hot idea.
“Can I help you?” a voice rumbled above her head.
Sarah raised her eyes and tipped her head up to see who’d made the kind offer. Familiar gray eyes waited for her response.
“Have we met?” she asked, unable to recall where she’d seen the lazy grin that was set in a handsome face dusted with a couple days of stubble. Dark curls poked out from beneath the Texas Rangers baseball cap that was molded to his head.
“Probably not, but I have a little brother you might know if you watch those cookin’ competitions on TV.”
She snapped her fingers and pointed in understanding. He mirrored her action.
“The Cowboy Chef,” they said in unison.
“He’s your brother?” Sarah enjoyed watching the Food Network with her girls; there was zero chance the competing chefs would take their clothes off or use filthy language on camera, so it was something they could do together.
“Hunt’s my twin actually.” The guy shifted the bulky box he was holding to one hand and extended the other. “Cullen Temple.” He offered his hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Cullen Temple. I’m Sarah Eason.” She slipped her palm into his grip. It was warm and smooth so she felt certain he didn’t cut down trees for a living, despite the plaid lumberjack shirt he sported on an afternoon in May.
“Did I hear an offer of help?” she reminded him.
“Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?”
“I called to get directions to the office of admissions this morning and I believe a crabby old lady gave me the wrong room number.”
Cullen leaned his face toward the ceiling and laughed out loud, displaying white, even teeth that had probably been wrangled into braces during his teen years. After a moment of enjoying her accusation he shook his head, his eyes filled with amused compassion for her experience.
“Sounds as if you’ve had your first encounter with Miss Nancy Norment, lovingly known as the University Torment. Her job for more than fifty years has been to scare off fainthearted freshmen before they waste their parents’ tuition money.”
“Well, she deserves high marks for her efforts. If I wasn’t so determined to pick up registration forms today, I might have climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over my head after I spoke with her.”
“Oh, Miss Norment means well and she’s probably saved families millions over the course of her career. You’ll know her when you run across her.”
“Does she pull her hair into a bun and wear Granny Clampett boots?”
“In a new millennium sorta way. You’ll see,” he teased.
“If you’d be kind enough to point me in the right direction, I’ll take my chances.”
Cullen put two fingertips gently on Sarah’s shoulder and guided her toward the office that was less than three feet away.
“There’s no number on the door,” she insisted.
He pointed above the doorframe where a brass placard identified the Office of Admissions.
She closed her eyes and ducked her chin, hiding her face from the man who must believe she was an airhead.
“Another one of Miss Norment’s attempts to cull the weakest from the herd. She doesn’t bother to mention that there’s no room number, or that you have to search up high for the sign.”
“Thanks to you, her trick didn’t work today.”
He raised his wrist to check the time, and then glanced toward the door.
“It’s