The Widower (18+) | [Complete]

Three

Nearly four weeks had passed and I was settling in nicely. My routine was regular, my schedule already established with the children. I spent the early afternoons taking turns with Mildred helping the twins their basics; math, reading, French, Spanish.

Tabitha was an astute student, at the perfect age for little girls to still be excited about learning. Sebastian was the opposite. A weak reader—mainly due to his attention span—but he showed an impressive aptitude for music. Mildred taught him piano for over two hours every evening. I enjoyed the sound of music coming down the halls during my time with Matthew.

The angsty teen got home around five, and I usually spent the next two hours blackmailing him into finishing his homework. He was a challenge, but one I knew exactly how to handle.

The work came naturally, I was already beginning to feel comfortable with the children and the house, as intimidating as it was. In fact, the only thing that felt wrong was that Mr. Montgomery had been gone all but two days of that time. Apparently, that was the norm.

In hour two of my time with Matthew, he had finally resigned to etching lines on his math homework. We sat at the table and I watched him as he pretended to go through the problems. He was secretly smart, though he tried to hide it. I had a theory as to why.

The raindrops tapped against the window out of time with the beginning bars of Clair De Lune from Sebastian's practice up the hall. I got lost in the dream-like combination for a moment, then turned back to find Matthew staring down my shirt. "Stop it," I snapped at him.

He gave me a sheepish smile. "You're hot. I can't help it."

I cringed and attempted to fasten the next highest button. "I'm old enough to be your mother." Technically, I was. I knew quite a few people back home who had babies in high school.

"My dad hired you because I needed a tutor, not a step-mother," he teased me further. "Just because my mom's dead doesn't mean you can take her place."

I glared at him. "Why would you say something like that?"

"I know you have a crush on my dad."

I nearly laughed. "I certainly do not have a crush."

"Whatever you want to call it. You'd hop on his dick in a minute if you had the chance."

"I would not."

He snorted. "Yeah, okay."

Don't give in to the anger, Aubrey. When I was a teenager, I said all the awful things I could think of to see how far I could push the limits in my relationships. This kid had lost a parent, too, and the other was gone so often it was as if he wasn't alive either. What he needed more than anything was someone who wouldn't give up on him.

"Why do you do so poorly in school?" I asked him. He looked up at me and made the same condescending face of his father. "I know you're doing it on purpose."

He laughed me off but I saw straight through it.

"You're such a smart kid and have so much available to you—if you would just try."

"I'm a rich kid with a dead mom. The only way I could be more of a stereotype is if I started wearing glasses and fighting crime at night."

I leaned a cheek on my balled fist. "But being the rebellious, bad boy in class isn't a stereotype?" He gave me a sideways glance but said nothing. "Failing in school isn't a way to punish your dad. It only punishes you."

"Whatever," he grumbled and continued doodling on the margin of his homework.

"Look, there are two ways this can go," I started to explain. "Option one: you do poorly in school, you don't graduate, and all your friends think you're cool. Then, three years later, you can't find a good-paying job without a diploma and you're short on rent. So, the little, misunderstood, cool-boy comes crawling back home to Daddy to ask for money."