The Puppy Problem Read online

  “But Lily would be an aide who might pee on the carpet or bite a child.”

  “Oh please. Lily’s more potty trained than some of your students. And she doesn’t bite.” Unlike Owen, who had bitten a student at his last private school, resulting in his having to change schools. Paradise was a small town and if he was expelled from All Saints, she was pretty much out of options. The public schools for Paradise were on the mainland, and Megan wanted to avoid that kind of travel for Owen, if at all possible. She couldn’t let him be expelled.

  “Other schools have made it work, with no adverse outcomes.” Technically, only three schools—at least, that she had found. All small private schools, like All Saints. But that didn’t mean the idea wasn’t a good one, just that it wasn’t widely accepted yet. “I’ve brought a letter from the principal of one of them, detailing how having a service dog in the classroom has reduced behavioral problems and improved learning outcomes for his students with disabilities.” She practically threw the paper on his desk as she continued, afraid if she stopped talking he’d tell her to take Owen and leave.

  “This is an overview of the training Lily has had, and what she’s able to do—” she added the glossy brochure “—and, finally, this is the log showing the improvement in Owen’s anxiety and outbursts since getting Lily, as documented by his therapist.” She dropped the thick stack of handwritten notes onto the pile and took a much needed breath of air. “I’m sure, if you’d just consider it, you’d see the benefit of Owen having Lily with him.”

  “Be that as it may—”

  “Just read them.” This time it was her turn to interrupt. “Please,” she added, hating that she had to beg, that she was so utterly powerless. But then, it was a familiar feeling.

  After a much too long silence, he sighed and nodded, the furrow between his tired eyes deepening.

  “Really? I mean, thank you.”

  He shook off her gratitude and stood. “Don’t thank me, I’m not agreeing to anything other than reading the information you brought. Beyond that... I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  Too late. Hope was about all she had some days, and she guarded it as fiercely as she did her son. Without faith, she’d never had made it this far, and Luke Wright had just given her fading optimism a fresh infusion of the stuff. “Of course not,” she lied. “But I really think this could work. And I’m happy to answer any questions you have about how to implement things.”

  “I’ll contact you after I’ve had to a chance to work through it. In the meantime, you may want to consider pursuing...alternative arrangements.”

  In other words, she needed to look for yet another school. As if she hadn’t already researched to death every educational facility on the island. All Saints was the best. The public school system wanted him to attend a special program over an hour away, on the mainland. And the only private schools they hadn’t already tried had already politely but firmly declined her inquiries. Besides, All Saints was academically one of the top schools in the state and, despite his challenges, Owen was extremely bright. He deserved the kind of education he would get here.

  And the man who would decide everything was already standing, a not-so-subtle hint that it was time for her to go. Fine. She’d leave, for now.

  “I look forward to discussing this once you’ve had a chance to read everything over.” He nodded absently, but his gaze was already back on the spreadsheet program open on his laptop monitor. As far as he was concerned, the matter was settled. But Megan wasn’t giving up. When it came to Owen, she didn’t know how.

  “So when should we meet?” She smiled, enjoying the befuddled look on his face when he registered her words.

  “Excuse me?”

  “When should we meet to discuss your thoughts on the research material? About service dogs in the classroom?”

  He sighed, and she knew she’d won the battle if not the war. He opened a calendar app on his computer and, after a minute of searching, clicked on a blank space. “Let’s do Monday right before dismissal, say two thirty?”

  She nodded and stood. It was only fifteen minutes, but it was something. Extending a hand, she thanked him, her mind already racing to the possibilities that would open up for Owen if they could make this work.

  As his hand enveloped hers, a jolt of awareness shook Megan from her thoughts, tiny pinpricks of energy zinging from her fingertips all the way to her toes. Her head snapped up, searching for the source even as some long-dormant part of her brain registered and cataloged the sensation.

  Attraction. Pure, physical, sexual attraction.

  Jerking her hand back, she rubbed her palm on the leg of her jeans, as if lust was some kind of contamination that could just be wiped off. Yes, he was one of the most attractive men she’d ever met, not to mention intelligent and competent, but that didn’t mean her hormones had permission to come out to play. Not now, and not with this man. She had a mission to accomplish, and nothing was going to stand in her way.

  Chapter Two

  Luke watched the door close and let out a breath as he sank back in his chair. He wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d lost control of the meeting, but he definitely had. Maybe around the time she’d started teasing him about his ignorance of color schemes.

  He’d planned to list the reasons why Owen would be better served in a different, perhaps more specialized, environment. Maybe even start the withdrawal paperwork. Instead, she’d roped him into reading a stack of research and another meeting, neither of which he had time for. But he couldn’t say no to her. Not because of his attraction—he was professional enough to set that aside. It was her fierce dedication to her son that got to him.

  In his time as a teacher and now as an administrator, he’d seen too many kids fall through the cracks. Kids who’d needed a bit of extra help but whose parents had been too busy or too oblivious to notice. Kids he’d tried to help. But even the best teacher couldn’t take the place of a supportive family. He’d often found himself staring at the ceiling late at night, wondering what had happened to them once they’d moved to a different school and beyond his influence.

  Owen would never be one of those kids, not with Megan Palmer ready to go all mama bear on anyone or anything that stood in her way. He admired her for it, and was grateful for Owen’s sake, even if it made his own life harder. Hell, what was one more impossible dilemma in a job packed full of them? His nameplate said Principal but in reality the job was a mishmash of therapist, CEO, fundraiser, bookkeeper, and circus ringleader. Oh, and handyman, if you included the times he was called to unstick a window or to replace a loose doorknob. All for a salary that looked okay on paper but was almost entirely consumed by his titanic-size student loan payments.

  Luke could have made more if he’d gone to a larger school in a more populated area. Places like New York State tended to pay a much higher wage to educational professionals. But you couldn’t put a price tag on endless days of sunshine or small-town camaraderie. He’d discovered Paradise on a weekend fishing trip during his first year teaching and had been captivated by the tiny island perched on the edge of the sea. He’d squeezed in as many visits as possible between working and grad school. When a position had opened up at All Saints, he’d jumped at the chance to move to Paradise full-time.

  He was young to be a principal, with less experience than some on the board had wanted, but he’d convinced them to take a chance. Being willing to accept the less than stellar compensation package probably hadn’t hurt. And now he needed to prove to them, and to himself, that he was up for the job. That meant keeping the parents happy, the students learning, and the donations flowing. It did not mean spending the weekend researching service dogs, or skipping lunch to have a follow-up meeting to discuss the situation. And yet that’s what he had just agreed to do. Because doing the job was one thing, doing right by the kids—by Owen—was another.

  The problem was
that Owen Palmer’s needs had to balance with the needs of his classmates, his teachers, and the school as a whole. Having a dog at school just wasn’t tenable. A handful of paperwork wouldn’t change that. Yet Luke found himself reaching for the information Owen’s mother had left behind instead of clicking on the budget spreadsheet he should be wrangling. Maybe he could skim over the information now, and be done with it.

  When the end-of-day bell rang two hours later, he was still reading and had a full page of notes scribbled on the back of the latest flyer announcing the fundraiser. Dazed, he stretched his neck from side to side. How had it gotten so late? He needed to be out in the hallways, supervising dismissal.

  Technically, his staff could handle it, but he liked to make himself available. Often a kid who didn’t feel comfortable coming into the office would be willing to approach him in the more casual, albeit chaotic, setting. More than once, he’d learned of a bullying issue that way, and been able to nip it in the bud. Of course, dismissal was also prime time for parents to corner him, and although he made a point of taking every concern seriously, he couldn’t help but notice a few of the single mothers manufactured reasons to start a conversation.

  However, a few romantically minded mothers were no reason to shirk his duty to the kids, so he stood and, with a sigh, shut down his laptop and secured it in the drawer. Once the halls were clear, he’d put in a few more hours and then no doubt take it home to work the weekend. Oh well, it wasn’t as if he had anything else to do. His modest house took little time to clean, a teen down the street looking to earn gas money had suckered him into paying for lawncare, and his social life was nearly nonexistent.

  Not that there weren’t offers—and not just from the single parents of his students. But the few times he’d taken a woman out it had felt more like a job interview than a date. He’d gone into it hoping for some laughs, conversation, maybe a good-night kiss, and the whole time his date had been sizing him up as future husband potential. No way was he ready for that. He had enough responsibility on his shoulders, thank you very much.

  Having an administrator’s position at his age was an amazing stroke of luck, but it also meant he needed to work his butt off to prove himself. If he messed up, there would be no allowances made for inexperience. Going back down the career ladder tended to be a lot rougher of a ride than going up. Later, much, much later, when he was more settled in his career, maybe he’d be ready to settle down. Until then, he’d keep things casual. Surely, there were a few women left just looking for a good time.

  A flash of blond hair, blue eyes, and long, lean legs appeared unbidden in his mind’s eye. Again his palm tingled as if her skin had left a permanent imprint on his. If a simple handshake felt like a lightning strike, what would it be like to really touch her?

  He shook the thought off. Megan Palmer was exactly the kind of woman he wasn’t looking for. And by this time Monday, after he’d told her no for the last time, she’d be out of his life forever.

  * * *

  Today was just her day to deal with obstinate males, Megan decided with a huff of annoyance. She’d left the meeting at the school feeling at least somewhat optimistic about her powers of persuasion, but her confidence had been short-lived.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  She sucked in a breath and counted to ten, keeping her temper in check as Owen stubbornly stared at her over a plate of chicken fingers. Homemade chicken fingers, from a recipe she’d found online. The food blogger had promised they were identical to the fast-food ones her son loved.

  Owen disagreed.

  Strongly.

  His six-year-old palate was more sensitive than the average consumer’s, or maybe he was just upset that her home-cooked version didn’t come with a toy like the ones from the drive-through. Regardless, he refused to touch them. Despite his claims to the contrary, she knew he was hungry. And an empty stomach in a small boy was the equivalent of a ticking time bomb. The hungrier he got, the worse his behavior would be. At this point, they were about five minutes away from a full-on meltdown.

  He shoved the plate farther away, nearly upsetting his pint-size cup of milk.

  Five minutes may have been too generous.

  Megan moved the milk a few inches over and considered her options. She could continue to force the issue, and deal with the ensuing meltdown. Plenty of the parenting books piled on her nightstand advised exactly that. But the authors of those books had never met Owen. Techniques that worked for neurotypical children often seemed to completely fail when it came to kids like her son. Or maybe she was the failure and a better, stronger parent would be able to win this battle of wills.

  The easiest thing to do would be to give in. To pack Owen in the car and take him for the real deal. The excitement might help him keep it together until he actually ate. Yet, as tempting as the idea was, any short-term relief would be overshadowed by long-term consequences. Parenting Owen required flexibility, yes, but she couldn’t let him think of her as a pushover, either.

  Firm but fair. That’s what Owen’s therapy team had advised, which sounded great in the office, but wasn’t quite specific enough for this situation. She looked over at her son and her breath caught. His expression was defiant though his eyes were glassy with tears he was desperately trying not to shed. Her own stung in response to the toughness and vulnerability she knew warred within him. He’d had a hard day, too, and now he was tired, and hungry, and just as frustrated as she was. Lying politely under the table, Lily’s head pressed against Owen’s bare foot, showing that she, also, had sensed the rising emotional tide within him.

  Your child isn’t giving you a hard time; he’s having a hard time.

  She’d read that somewhere and, at the time, had viewed it as a lightbulb moment. Sometimes, though, like tonight, when she was preoccupied by a million things, it was easy to forget they were on the same team. Her job was to be his coach, not his enemy. Yes, that meant pushing him to do better, to be better, but in the end, their relationship mattered more than the food on the plate.

  Rising, she moved to sit next to him instead of across from him, hoping he’d pick up on the change in body language. Even if he didn’t, just being close enough to smell his grape-scented children’s shampoo helped her find a last shred of patience. He was just a kid. And he needed her help.

  “You don’t like this food.”

  He shook his head, his shaggy bangs falling into his eyes. She really needed to bite the bullet and get his hair cut, but one issue at a time.

  “Can you tell me why you don’t like it?” He just looked at her, and she tried again. “Is it too crunchy? Too hot?” Children with autism often had sensory issues, experiencing phenomena either more or less than other people, while also lacking the language skills to describe their feelings. “I could cut it up for you. Do you want me to do that?” She was reaching now, but if she could figure out why Own didn’t want the food, maybe she could fix it, or at least make it differently next time.

  His eyes shut: something he did when he was on the verge of a meltdown. Megan forced herself to be quiet while he thought. Finally, he opened them and looked right at her. “Red.”

  What? She looked at the chicken fingers, no doubt lukewarm now, and tried to imagine how in the world they could be too red when they were a lovely golden brown. Maybe she’d misunderstood and he hadn’t meant the color. “Do you want me to read to you while you eat?” Not their normal routine, but she was willing if it would get him eating.

  He rolled his eyes and pointed emphatically to an empty space on the plate. “Red dip.”

  Understanding nearly clubbed her over the head. “Ketchup? You need ketchup to dip the chicken in?”

  He nodded, and she wondered how she could have forgotten. He always dipped his chicken in ketchup, or “the red dip,” as he called it. Of course, a typical kid would have simply asked for ketchup rather than refuse to eat, but Owen was
n’t typical. He probably hadn’t known what was missing, either—not a first. Like the stereotypical absentminded professor, he could recite endless facts about a topic of interest and yet not notice or retain more mundane information. One more way in which his condition made everyday life just a bit more difficult.

  But, hey, they’d worked it out, right? She retrieved the plastic bottle, squeezed out a generous blob onto his plate, and allowed herself a moment of self-congratulation. She hadn’t lost her temper, she hadn’t given in, and they’d found a way to work together.

  Tonight, success tasted like homemade chicken fingers, and it was good.

  * * *

  Luke’s bare feet pounded on the hard-packed sand at the edge of the water, his stride increasing even as his breathing grew ragged. He had a quarter mile left in his three-mile run and nothing as trivial as a lack of oxygen was going to keep him from finishing. No pain, no gain.

  He raced for the lifeguard stand that marked his finish point, daring his body to make it just a bit faster than the time before. Lungs burning, he glanced at his watch as he passed the wood structure before allowing himself to collapse to his knees.

  “You all right down there?” A teen sporting a thick coat of zinc oxide and a concerned look watched from the platform.

  “Fine,” he huffed. “Just...catching...my breath.”

  “Uh-huh,” the boy answered, sounding skeptical. “You need to be careful of heatstroke in this weather. Had to call an ambulance for a guy last week because of it.”

  “I don’t need an ambulance.” This time Luke managed to string all the words together without taking a breath, hopefully proving his point. It had been an ugly run, several minutes slower than his typical pace, and yeah, he’d felt every one of the humid ninety degrees the weatherman had warned about. But he was in good shape and he’d stayed hydrated. He made a show of lifting his water bottle to his lips and draining what was left, making it clear he wasn’t some dumb tourist who needed to be saved from himself.