Free The Single Undead Moms Club (Half Moon Hollow series Book 4) by Molly Harper

four-year-old class.”
    “I think I said cartoon piano, but OK. And maybe she was just having an off year when Danny had her.”
    “I don’t think you’re allowed to have an off year ,” Casey said. “A week, sure. Maybe a month. But not a year.”
    “It will be fine,” I said. “Just ask Peyton a lot of questions when she gets home so you’re prepared for the phone calls.”
    It felt wrong to be gossiping about teachers in what amounted to “faculty housing.” But I also knew that this happened in every hallway in every school in America. For every wonderful, talented, dedicated teacher out there, there was the one who triggered the fight-or-flight response during parent-teacher conferences.
    “If you’re feeling up to it, let’s meet up for coffee once the kids are in school,” Casey said.
    “Sure.”
    As she walked away, I bit my lip. I hoped she liked drinking decaf at night. I relaxed a little, now that I didn’t have to play human quite so convincingly. I was suddenly so tired. Tired and kind of depressed that no one here knew me well enough to see how much I’d changed. The last time I was here, I looked like the walking dead, dang it, and now I was practically a mom supermodel, and people seemed to think it was because of some magic herbal pill. I just needed a few minutes. A few minutes of peace and quiet and fewer smells.
    “You’re looking pretty tired, hon. Why don’t you take a little break?” Jane suggested, nodding toward the closet near the music room marked “Janitorial Supplies.”
    “Thanks. I’ll be right back,” I said.
    I ducked into the closet, using just a teensy bit of my vampire strength to wrench the doorknob’s fifty-year-old lock off of its pins. Promising myself that I would send the school a check to replace it, I leaned my forehead against the cool wood door and tried some of the relaxation techniques the nurses had suggested at the chemo center. I pictured warm, yellow sunlight filtering through the ceiling and relaxing my frazzled nerves. I pictured a warm beach, sand shifting underneath my back as my toes curled and uncurled under the grainy surface. I imagined the scents of coconut suntan lotion and ocean salt wafting toward my nose. I felt a pretend breeze against my skin. And I heard a voice, low and loving, calling my name. I’d heard the voice before, whispering in my ear while I was unable to breathe. He told me that everything was going to be all right, that this was part of it, and when I woke up—
    Suddenly, the door popped open and smacked me in the forehead, knocking me back on my heels.
    “Oof!” I cried, clutching my face. Thank goodness I had rapid healing powers, because I was pretty sure I’d just sustained a concussion.
    “Are you OK?” a gruff voice demanded.
    “What the hell— Who are you?” I demanded.
    “I’m the guy with the keys to this closet. Who are you ?”
    My eyes went wide. This was the school janitor? What happened to Ernie Houser? When I attended Half-Moon Hollow Elementary, the janitor had been a sweet old man who had a fluffy white walrus mustache and whistled “My Old Kentucky Home” through the gap in his front teeth.
    The contemporary school janitor was made from a slightly different mold. Tall, lean, almost wiry, with respectable cords of muscles rippling over arms covered in a swirling cloud of colorful tattoos. His face was long and lean, with sharp features only softened by a scruff of white-blond beard and longish darker blond hair that brushed against the collar of his T-shirt. His eyes were a defiant blue. If Thor had a pissed-off, tattooed younger brother, he would be the guy blocking my exit from the supply closet. And yeah, he might have fit the bill for some of my more tawdry biker fantasies, but given the way he was glaring at me, I got the distinct impression that he didn’t want me touching him or his . . . hog.
    “I came in here for a fresh shirt,” he said, nodding toward the flannel shirts