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  Her heart sped up, her pulse tripping through her veins. It had never occurred to her that she’d needed to hear a thank-you from him. He’d paid her, after all. But his appreciation was worth ten times what she’d earned.

  He gazed at her as though she might try to deny his words. He searched her face with a probing look, and his eyes fell to her lips. Trembling, Tiffany held her breath wondering what he would do next, but whatever had gripped him for that heady, fervent moment dissipated. His hands fell away, leaving her wishing she could step closer and wrap her arms around him.

  He turned toward the barn door where his son had escaped, steel in his eyes and voice. “Simon needs to show you more respect.”

  “Respect’s something I’m going to have to earn myself,” she told him. This was more than simply teenage rebellion, and if she was going to have a shot at getting Simon to work with her, she had to break through to him on her own. Chris wrinkled his brow skeptically. “Seriously, if you want me to work with him, let me do this my way.”

  He searched her face, his growing confusion clouding those gorgeous blue eyes. Then he nodded. “All right. But if he gives you any trouble...”

  “He won’t.”

  She left Chris in the barn, but couldn’t help but peek over her shoulder to watch as he hoisted a bale of straw above his head, muscles rippling across his back and shoulders. Something in her chest fluttered. She really had to stop ogling him like this. He was going to catch her at it one day and—

  He looked up, grinned, then went back to work.

  She hurried away, body tingling everywhere. Why was she still so afraid of her attraction to him? She wouldn’t be in Everville long. There wouldn’t be any consequences to indulging in a little man-ogling. She glanced over her shoulder again. Chris was using the front of his T-shirt to wipe his brow, exposing the delicious expanse of his washboard abs. Yowza.

  Back in the dining room, Tiffany swept aside all unsettling thoughts about Chris and sat at the table. Simon came downstairs a few minutes later, hesitating on the staircase when he saw her.

  “The Tempest starts with a storm,” she declared. “That’s what a tempest is. A big storm.”

  He rolled his eyes as he descended that last few steps. “I know that.”

  “I thought you said you were stupid,” she said, tilting her chin to one side coquettishly.

  “The teacher told us about the play,” he griped, flinging himself into a chair across the table.

  “Okay. So, what else did your teacher say?”

  She waited while he glowered at a spot on the table, eyebrows knitted. He seemed to be debating what to tell her. “Hey, if you can’t remember, I’ll be happy to tell you about it all over again. That way you can repeat a day’s worth of lessons in two hours. Bet you’d love that. Or, if you prefer, we can sit here and stare until you want to chime in. I’m still getting paid either way.”

  “That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I actually care enough to make you try your hardest so you don’t end up mad at everyone for something only you can fix.” She opened the book and started reading out loud. “‘If by your art, my dearest father, you have put the wild waters in this roar, allay them—’”

  “I know how to read,” Simon said irritably.

  She propped up her chin with one hand. “You probably do. But I’m going to do a translation, line by line. It goes like this—‘Yo, Daddy-O, stop with the magic storm, man. I saw a ship go down, and I felt bad for the dudes on board.’”

  His color went from pale to purple, the look on his face something between horror and rage—as if he’d stepped on a piece of Lego but couldn’t scream. “I’m not an idiot,” he choked out.

  “I don’t think you are, either. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’re smarter than you let on. But you’ve been trying your hardest to prove otherwise. So, unless you start showing me what you know, I’m going to make baby talk at you and waste our time and your dad’s money. Now, are we going to work together on this or not?”

  He gave her a defiant snort, crossed his arms over his chest and sneered. “Fine. I’m stupid. So, go ahead. Talk to me like I’m a baby.”

  She leaned forward and lifted her lips in a predatory smile. “All right, then. Guess we’re going to have to work together every. Single. Day.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TIFFANY WASN’T KIDDING when she promised to make Simon work. Every day after school, she’d follow him to the barn where she’d read through The Tempest using her terrible translations while he cleaned the stables. She wasn’t sure he was learning anything, though—he never had an answer for her when she asked leading questions. Then again, cleaning the stalls was such smelly work, she wouldn’t want to open her mouth while shoveling, either.

  She found he was more responsive once he was back in the house at the table with a glass of chocolate milk and a couple of peanut butter sandwiches. But whenever they settled down to work, William would inevitably appear and listen in, making her self-conscious. From what she’d observed, he didn’t leave the house much, thumping his way between the kitchen for a cup of coffee to the office off the living room, but rarely venturing outside. He was pretty loud about it, too—she was certain he didn’t normally bang his dishes or cupboards.

  “This play is idiotic,” William said at one point, overhearing one of her more awful translations. He clapped a hand against Simon’s thin shoulder. “Tell me the truth, Simon. Do you think you’re ever going to need to know this stuff in real life? Wouldn’t you rather be learning how to drive the tractor?”

  Simon’s impassive answer was coupled with a pointed glance at his grandfather’s stump. “Dad says he won’t let me until I’m sixteen.”

  William noticed the direction of his look and scoffed. “This was a stupid accident. I wasn’t paying attention. I know you wouldn’t make the same mistake.”

  Tiffany cleared her throat. “Mr. Jamieson, if you don’t mind, I’m on a tight schedule with Simon.”

  His eyes locked with hers, and he gave her a brittle smile. “I’m only trying to have a heart-to-heart conversation with my grandson, Miss Chang.”

  “Cheung.”

  He ignored her. “Simon, when you want to do some real man’s work, you come and find me. All this tutoring nonsense is costing your father a lot, you know. I personally think that’s money better spent on a car when you get your license, eh?” He went back into the office, leaving the door wide open and turning up the volume on the radio so it blared country music into the dining room.

  Tiffany seethed quietly. Undermining her like that wasn’t the only thing he did to interfere with their sessions. He interrupted frequently by getting Simon to fetch things for him, made casual observations about nothing in particular. He’d sit in front of the TV and turn the volume way up, and when she asked him to turn it down, he’d tell them he was going deaf. Simon never defied the old man. He simply gave her a meek look and murmured an apology.

  She couldn’t work under these conditions. She was sure that was the point. She didn’t want to get Chris involved, though—he had enough on his plate without her stirring up trouble between father and son. But she wouldn’t allow the likes of William Jamieson to drive her out. By Wednesday, she decided she and Simon had to move.

  She met him directly off the school bus and told him to get into her car. He perked up and asked, “Where are we going?”

  “I cleared this with your father. I’m going to tutor you somewhere else for a while.” She’d told Chris it was because Simon would have better focus in a more formal setting. “We’ll head downtown and I’ll drop you back home afterward.” It would be hell on gas, but she didn’t have much choice. At least Simon seemed excited about it.

  At first, she took him to the library, but the elderly patrons kept glaring and shushing her. Her low voice was apparently ruining their afternoon nap time. They went to the Grindery, but the jazz music was too loud and most of the tables were
occupied. Besides, if they didn’t buy something, the barista would probably give them the evil eye. She considered taking Simon to the house, but she knew Poh-poh would be as distracting as William was.

  It left only one place they could go.

  They walked into the Good Fortune Diner the following day. At four-thirty, the place was dead. Sitting behind the counter, her mother’s eyes shifted from her daughter to the slouching boy at her side.

  “Hi, Mom. This is Simon Jamieson, my student.”

  Rose smiled brightly. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”

  “Hi.” He shook her outstretched hand.

  “Mom, is it okay if we work here? We need to find a place where it’s quiet, and there’s too much going on at Simon’s house and at the library for us to concentrate.”

  “Of course, of course.” She pointed at the corner booth. “You want something to eat?” she asked Simon.

  “I probably shouldn’t. Grandpa will be making dinner.”

  “I’ll get you a little something. You need food for your brain, eh?” She popped up and shouted into the kitchen.

  “She seems nice,” Simon said as Rose disappeared. Tiffany was surprised to hear anything like a compliment from him.

  They sat and she paused to assess Simon’s mood. He looked around distractedly, inspecting the vinyl seats and the scarred old table.

  “My brother and I used to do our homework here after school,” she explained. “We’d work until about six and then we’d help out at the diner, taking orders and stuff.”

  “Cool.”

  Cool? Maybe she hadn’t been clear. “It was hard work, doing school and working all the time.”

  “Tell me about it. At least you got to work after school, instead of in the morning. Sometimes I have to wake up at dawn to get things done so I can finish my homework at night. I barely have time now, working with you.”

  Was that supposed to be a guilt trip? He obviously hadn’t ridden the Cheung family express, which made regular stops at Shameville, Honor Town and Duty City. “That’s very responsible of you.”

  “It sucks balls,” he muttered. “I’m so sick of all this. I hate the farm.”

  “You do?”

  He shrugged again, his face pinched as guilt flashed across his features. She understood his feelings exactly. She wondered if William knew about his grandson’s opinion on the matter, or whether the elder Jamieson cared. He was awfully stubborn.

  “Here we go.” Rose set down a plate of deep-fried chicken balls and a big bowl of sweet-and-sour sauce. “I know these are your favorite. You eat up and take home anything you can’t finish, okay?”

  Simon’s eyes went huge. “Wow. Thanks, Mrs. Cheung.”

  “You’re a good boy, working so hard to get your marks up. Not everyone would spend their summer vacation doing that. Although Tiffany and Daniel both went to summer school every year.”

  “You failed that many classes?” Simon asked incredulously.

  “I took them to broaden my education,” she proclaimed, not adding that it kept her out of working at the diner for most of the summer. Simon’s jaw slackened.

  “Work hard,” Rose said as she pattered away, adding, “Such a good boy.”

  Tiffany rubbed at her brow, exasperated. Rose had never coddled and praised either of her children for their dedication to their studies. Even Daniel, who’d earned his MBA with a 3.96 average, hadn’t gotten much more than “good boy.”

  “Awesome.” Simon greedily stuffed a saucy ball into his maw and chewed. “These are so good. Want one?”

  “No, thanks.” It would just stick in her throat anyhow.

  He shrugged. “More for me.”

  She wanted to snatch the plate away until he had accomplished something. He needed an incentive to work. She’d have to put a Do Not Feed the Teen sign up when they came next. “I think we should do some review for your quiz tomorrow.”

  Sighing, Simon slowly put the chicken ball he’d picked up back onto the plate and sank deeper into the bench.

  The next fifteen minutes were excruciating as she tried to draw answers out of him and got nothing but blank stares, shrugs and “I dunno.” She threw her book on the table. “Are you doing this on purpose? You knew the answers two days ago. Why are you pretending like you don’t know this stuff?”

  “I just don’t.”

  “I don’t believe that.” She leaned forward, gripping the table. “Are you only going to summer school so you won’t have to work on the farm?”

  “I don’t see why you care,” he said, looking away.

  Tiffany watched him thoughtfully. Was it possible Simon had a learning disability? If that was the case, she wasn’t qualified to deal with it. But everything inside her screamed that wasn’t the problem. He was being deliberately unhelpful. He shut down at the first sign of pressure and seemed to have a few issues with authority. Maybe he got nervous when he was put on the spot. There were plenty of kids who weren’t good at taking tests, or who got quiet when called upon by a teacher.

  And then there were kids like her who didn’t know how to relate to other people, who were more comfortable being alone than in a group. It was way easier to shut down and run away than it was to confront your problems and deal with life.

  “I care because I’ve been where you are.” She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “All I ever wanted was to get out of this town and move to the city. I knew the only way to do that was to go to college, so I studied my ass off and got into the program of my choice. Look, Simon—” she squeezed his shoulder “—if you really want to get away from the farm and leave Everville, college is the way to do it. Even if you don’t want to go to college, you’ll still need to get your high school diploma. It’s a minimum requirement in practically every job.”

  “That’s stupid,” he said with a snort.

  “Well, that’s life.”

  “Lots of people get jobs without diplomas. I don’t need this. I’m too smart for school.”

  A nerve ticked under her eye. She slammed her pen down on the table. “C’mon. Get up.”

  “Why?”

  “You want to see what real life is like? What kind of job you can get without a diploma? Follow me.”

  He followed as she rounded the counter and pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. Daniel and her father were busy preparing for the dinner crowd, chopping vegetables and meat.

  “Hey, Tiff.” Her brother grinned. “This must be Simon.”

  Tiffany introduced them briefly. “Dad, would you mind if Simon and I give you a hand?”

  “Mind? Of course not.” He waved them in. “Come, come, grab an apron, hairnet, wash your hands. You can start with the broccoli.”

  “You’re putting me to work?”

  “You want to see what real life is like for a kid with no education?”

  “Hey!” Daniel protested indignantly.

  With a look, Tiffany warned him to shut up and play along. She didn’t want to explain to Simon why Daniel’s MBA and her dad’s engineering degree had still landed them in a kitchen. Not when she was trying to make a point.

  “This must be illegal,” Simon said.

  “Only if we paid you. But then, if you didn’t have your high school diploma, you might not know that. In fact, you probably wouldn’t argue if your employer decided to pay you less than minimum wage under the table because, hell, who else is going to hire you?”

  He folded his arms in front of him. “I am not doing this.”

  “You afraid of a little hard work?” she taunted.

  That got him. He screwed up his face and snatched the apron from her hand. “This isn’t hard work. Try digging a post hole for a fence. That’s hard work.”

  Tiffany showed him how to clean and cut the broccoli into florets, then got him working on chopping cabbage, carrots, celery and onions. He did it all with intense concentration, and while he didn’t work very fast, he was stubborn about it.

  Cutting up vegetable
s was nothing, though, compared to what she could be putting him through. If it had been dinnertime, she’d have him begging for mercy after ten minutes of busing tables and washing dishes. Tiffany decided to step up her campaign. “If you like chicken balls so much, you should see how they’re made.”

  She took him into the walk-in freezer where she pulled out a plastic-lined box containing the garbage-bag-size pouch of frozen chicken balls.

  “Whoa. I thought you guys made these.”

  “Chicken balls are about as American as pizza,” she said, grimacing at the icy battered spheres. “Real Chinese restaurants don’t serve these.”

  “But everyone loves them,” Tony said from across the room. “That’s all that matters.”

  She dropped the chicken balls into the fryer basket and showed Simon how the machine worked, then got him to gently place the heavy wire basket into the oil. She made him stand by the machine and watch as the chicken balls browned. If that didn’t gross him out, the smells that would stick to his clothes would.

  “Be careful when you dump the basket into the pan,” she said. “Don’t splatter any oil on yourself.”

  He did as instructed. “Cool. What’s next?”

  What’s next? He was supposed to be hating this, not asking for more.

  “He’s doing a good job, eh?” Tony said, grinning hugely. “You want to volunteer here?”

  “Dad, he’s still in school.”

  “Volunteering is good for your résumé. You should do more of that, Ah-Teen.”

  She was about to remind him that she was not a teenager when Daniel stuck his head in from the dining room and interrupted. “Mom’s asking for you out front.”

  “I’ll be right back,” she told Simon. She checked her watch and groaned. It was almost six. She’d wasted a two-hour session making Simon work at the Good Fortune. She couldn’t charge Chris for this day in good conscience, and she needed the money, dammit.

  She went to the front, where her mother was seating an older couple in a corner table. “Whatever it is, Mom, I can’t do it right now. I have to drive Simon home.”