Page 17 of The Write Place

He raises an eyebrow. “She’s a child.”

“She’s as old as you were when you published Letting Go,” I point out. He looks at me a little strangely, as if he wants to ask me a question, but his expression changes to determination so quickly I almost miss it.

“I know.” He says it with conviction, and it’s clear to me that he’s agreed to read this story for exactly that reason. I study him for a moment longer, then nod once and focus back on my computer. I start clicking through students’ digital assignments, frowning slightly when I see how many students didn’t turn in the work from today’s lesson. I pull out a sticky note and write myself a reminder to check in with those students tomorrow and stick it to my monitor.

As I do this, I try very hard not to look in his direction, but I can still feel his eyes on me, so it’s my turn to ask, “What?”

“Aren’t you going to say anything about this?” he asks.

“No,” I say slowly. “Why would I?”

“You’re not going to tell me to be careful with her feelings or not tear her story to shreds?”

“You don’t need me to tell you that.” And it’s clear from the serious expression on his face that he doesn’t. He narrows his eyes at me and doesn’t say anything, so I ask again, a little exasperated, “What?”

“Oh, come on. You’re notoriously protective of your students.” He sits back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. He drums his fingertips on his bicep, and I try not to notice how good his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up. I give him a disbelieving laugh.

“I am not.”

“I’ve been sitting here for days now, watching you. You are.”

“I care about them, but I wouldn’t say I’m ‘notoriously protective.’” I’m starting to feel a little defensive.

“Ken warned me about it when we were sitting in his office waiting for you, too. Those were his exact words.”

“He what?” I pinch the bridge of my nose in exasperation and let out a puff of air. “Listen, I want what’s best for my students. Fine. But you don’t need me to tell you how to critique a kid’s writing. It’s great she worked up the nerve to ask you. You’ve seen how shy she is in class. This is not your first conversation with her. You know her, you’re the expert in this field, and I trust you to tell her what she needs to hear in a way that won’t completely crush her.”

He’s silent for a minute as a huge grin slowly starts to spread across his face.

He doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “Just the fact that you asked if I was going to say anything about it tells me your heart is in the right place on this one.”

He’s still silently grinning at me.

“Why is your face doing that?” I ask, frowning.

“You trust me,” he says slyly.

“In this particular and very specific instance, yes, I do.”

“You trust me,” he says again.

I frown deeper, grumbling. “Why is this happening?”

“Less than a week ago, I was pretty sure you were stubborn enough to never see me as anything but an annoying liar.”

“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves,” I caution. “I still think you are annoying and a liar. But considering you haven’t tried to give Isabel a fake name like you did to me, you can probably handle this.”

He lifts an eyebrow, still grinning at me. “I’m starting to grow on you, Mackenzie Milcrest.” He starts to stand, slinging his messenger bag over his head.

I laugh sharply, hoping he can’t sense the gooey feeling I get at the sound of him saying my full name and being able to see his chest muscles through his shirt with it stretched by the bag strap. How does a writer get a body like that? It’s completely unfair.

I school my face into neutrality. “That’s quite a leap.”

“I am,” he insists in a sing-song voice.

I fight back a smile. “You keep saying it, and it keeps not being true.”

He makes his way to the door. “See you tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder, overly cheery.