Beth Andrews - Caught Up in You

Eddie forced himself to take the paper. The diamonds in her wedding rings caught the afternoon sunlight so that it dappled across the top of her desk.

He rubbed his thumb around the base of his left ring finger. It’d been years since he’d worn his own wedding band, but he could still feel the weight of it. As the foundation of his marriage had become weaker, the gold ring signifying the vows he’d taken—the vows he’d given—had grown tighter. Heavier with the weight of his failure.

But then, Harper hadn’t failed at marriage—she’d probably never failed at anything in her entire life. Her marriage hadn’t ended due to lack of effort or love, but because her husband had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, an innocent bystander killed during a convenience store robbery in Pittsburgh last year. She still wore her ring.

Eddie had taken his off the moment Lena had shut the door when she’d walked out on their marriage. When she’d walked out on their son.

He’d never put one on again.

Bracing himself, he read Max’s progress report. Exhaled heavily. One D. Four Fs.

“As you can see, Max is struggling in all subjects.” Her voice was laced with compassion. She watched him with understanding.

He wished she’d knock it off. He didn’t need her pity. Didn’t want her kindness.

“What do we do?” Eddie asked.

She nodded as if that was the right thing to ask, the correct response. Great. Give him a gold star for being a concerned parent.

“Max has some issues focusing which, I believe, could be one of the factors affecting his schoolwork.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Eddie said. “Tell him to pay more attention in class.”

“That would be helpful, but I’m afraid it might not be enough. What I would like is your permission to have Dr. Crosby—one of the school district’s psychologists—observe Max’s behavior.”

“Observe?” Like an animal in a test lab? Poked and prodded and singled out from his classmates.

“It’s only to see if she agrees with my assessment.”

“Your assessment.” Yeah, he sounded like a parrot, repeating everything she said, but he couldn’t figure out what the hell she was getting at. “You said he’s not paying attention in class.”

“Yes, but I’m concerned that lack of focus—along with other symptoms—could be signs of a bigger issue.”

Eddie stiffened to the point he worried one errant breeze would break him into a million pieces. “What symptoms?”

“I’d rather not get too far ahead of ourselves until after Dr. Crosby—”

“What. Symptoms.”

The only sign she gave that his low, dangerous tone bugged her was a small, resigned sigh. “Max has a hard time sitting still—”

“He’s a boy. He has a lot of energy.”

Her lips thinned but her tone remained calm. “He frequently fails to finish his schoolwork, even when given ample time to do so, and he often works carelessly. He shifts from one unfinished activity to another, has difficulty following through on instructions, working on his own and waiting for his turn in tasks, games and group situations. He’s also easily distracted, often loses or misplaces items necessary to complete tasks—such as his pencil or workbook.”

“He’s seven.” Eddie bit out the words, her list of the ways his son was lacking blowing through him, swirling around his head in endless repetition. “Kids misplace things and aren’t always patient.”

“True. And that may very well be the case here. But as Max’s teacher, I feel it’s in his best interest to have Dr. Crosby come in and give her opinion. If you’ll just sign this—” she slid a paper in front of him “—we can get started.”

Eddie glanced from the permission slip to the pen she held out and then to his son’s grades, the black letters stark on the pale yellow background. He should sign the damn paper and let Harper do what she felt necessary, what she thought best. She was the teacher, the person entrusted with his son’s care and education for the next eight months.

“What bigger issue could it be?” Eddie asked.

“I’d rather not speculate—”

“I’d rather you did.”

She slowly lowered the pen. For the first time, she seemed reluctant to speak—must be a new sensation for her. “Max’s behavior could...possibly...be symptoms of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. But I’m not qualified to make any diagnoses,” she added quickly. “Which is why I’d like Dr. Crosby’s help.”

“ADD,” Eddie said, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact there could be something wrong with his son. “Don’t they put kids on drugs for that?”

“Medication is one option, but there are also modifications that can be made in the classroom. Instructional strategies and practices that can be implemented to help children with ADHD learn.”

“So if Max has ADH—” he emphasized the H as she had “—D, and you use those strategies, his grades will improve?”

“Possibly.”

The second possibly she’d given him in under a minute. When it came to his kid, Eddie preferred definitely. “What else is there?”

“There are other options.” She averted her gaze as she moved the stapler to the left only to put it back exactly where it had been. “But let’s not worry about any of that until we get through these first steps.”

He had a child, was solely responsible for the well-being of another person. For making sure his son was healthy and happy and whole. It was his job to worry. And to get straight answers out of smiley, sunshiny teachers who were blowing smoke up his ass.

“What options?”

Her smile turned to steel. “Options we’ll discuss after Dr. Crosby has made her observation.”

Nudging the paper forward, she held out the pen again.

Eddie’s fingers tightened, crumpling the edges of the progress report. Frustration coursed through him, hot and edgy. But worse than that was the fear. The terrifying thought that if Max was diagnosed with ADHD, he’d spend the rest of his life wearing that label. His peers would judge him, would think he was deficient in some way. He’d be put into a box, one he’d never be able to escape from.

Eddie wanted to slap the pen from Harper’s hand. Wipe his arm across the top of her desk, knocking aside the wooden holder so that pens and pencils scattered over the floor. He wanted to tell her in no uncertain terms what she could do with her observation, her opinion and her sympathetic expression.

He looked at his son. Max was perfect, just the way he was. And Harper wanted some psychologist with more education than common sense to tell him there was something wrong with him? So Max would think he wasn’t smart enough? Capable enough? Good enough?

There was only one response to that, one he was more than happy to give as he faced Harper.

“No.”

CHAPTER TWO

HARPER KEPT THE PLEASANT, understanding smile on her face. But it cost her. Boy, did it cost her.

Because Eddie Montesano, with his dark scowl, broad shoulders and cool hazel eyes, was getting on her last nerve. She’d spent the day surrounded by seven-and eight-year-olds who were alternately loud, whiny, cranky, happy, hilarious and fabulous. And most of them had better manners than this man.

“I’m sorry,” she said, though she had nothing to apologize for. Honestly, the man should be the one begging her forgiveness. “No?”

“I’m not signing that.”

Her hand dropped to the desk with a thud. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear—”

“You did.”

“Well, good. That’s good,” she said cheerily.

She would remain cheery, polite, in control and, above all else, professional. Friendly. She’d watch her tongue and choose every word carefully. She had a habit—some said a bad one—of speaking her mind. Which was fine in her personal life, but in her professional one? Not so good.