Page 8 of The Write Place

He flashes a huge grin. “You think I’m charming,” he teases. I close my eyes briefly, gathering myself, then open them to see him still grinning at me.

“Of all of what I said, that’s what you heard?”

He forces his features into mock seriousness and gives me a little salute. “No, ma’am. You’ve been heard and understood.” And then he gets truly serious as he says, “I do appreciate this. More than you know. We can pretend Friday night never even happened, and I promise you won’t even know that I’m here.”

My heart drops at his genuine tone, and I’m more than a little sad that he could seemingly forget that kiss when I’m having a hard time not remembering exactly how his lips felt on mine. Trying to convince myself it’s for the best given this new development, I look at him as skeptically as I can and slowly shake my head. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Chapter 4

I wake up to the sound of my alarm and groan loudly. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling and scrub my eyes with my hands. Some part of me is hoping yesterday was all a bad dream, but I know it wasn’t. I’m going to school today and Daniel-freaking-Evans is going to be sitting in my classroom observing me for the next six weeks.

I try not to linger on the fact that I also made out with Daniel-freaking-Evans, but my traitor of a brain goes right there as soon as I start thinking about him being in my classroom all day.

I stare, unblinking, at the clock next to my bed until the numbers have burned themselves into my brain. It’s a welcome change from the image of Daniel’s eyes glinting in the yellow streetlights that haunted my dreams. The numbers tick up too quickly, and when I can’t stall any longer, I roll myself out of bed and plod my way to the kitchen where I make some coffee and pour some cereal into a bowl. I add milk and then attack it with my spoon, shoveling it into my mouth angrily. I’m actually not sure who I’m more mad at right now—myself for being completely duped, Ken for throwing this in my lap with no time to prepare for it, Jenny for finding this whole situation downright hilarious, Daniel for lying to me, Daniel for asking this of any teacher, Daniel for the way he teased me yesterday like we were old friends, Daniel for the way the memory of his stupid hands on my stupid waist is still making my stupid stomach do somersaults in my belly.

I realize I’m sloshing milk all over my counter with each jab of my spoon, so I grab a towel. I take a few calmer bites. Eventually, I rinse the bowl in the sink and put it in the dishwasher, pouring coffee into my favorite mug, though even the picture of Shakespeare in purple sunglasses with the quote “Oh, I am slain” under it isn’t doing much to cheer me up this morning. I take my mug of coffee to my closet and stand in front of my clothes. What does one wear when one is being scrutinized by an author for eight long hours? I worry my bottom lip and frown at everything in my closet.

I decide to text Jenny, asking her what I should wear. Not that I care what Daniel thinks of me. He’s not going to be writing about me, just about teachers in general. Right? Writing about me would be weird. Right? Is that what I agreed to? I don’t think so, but the plot of his novel was never really made clear. I make a mental note to ask him when I get a chance.

My phone dings a second later, and I read Jenny’s message.

Definitely something sexy.

I roll my eyes, sending back: Not helpful.

And another second later: We already know he’s hot for teacher. Make him sweat a little.

I will not be doing that.

She sends back a shrug emoji. You do you, then.

Well, that was useless. I stare helplessly at my closet again, grabbing a pink blouse, black slim-cut pants, and black ankle boots with a little heel. I move to the bathroom to brush my teeth and do my makeup. At the last minute, I also decide to curl my hair a little. I’m happy enough with the way it falls just past my shoulders in coppery waves that I give myself a little fortifying nod in the mirror before I leave the bathroom.

I grab my backpack from its spot by the door and make my way to my car, throwing on some pump-me-up music for my short drive. I see Jenny pull into the parking lot right ahead of me, so I park next to her, and when I look over to see her giving me a wicked smile, I immediately regret it.

“Not a word,” I say as we both get out of our cars.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asks innocently, still with a diabolical grin on her face.

“Just don’t,” I caution again.

“Do you mean because you curled your hair? Which is something you absolutely never do?”

“Stop.”

“Or because your shoes have a little heel on them, which is also something you absolutely never do?”

“Oh no. That’s it. I’m going back home. Get me a sub.” I reach for the car door handle, but Jenny simply links her arm with mine, laughing.

“I wouldn’t dare say anything about any of that, Mac. You look great. Come on.”

To say she dragged me into the building wouldn’t be the truth, but it wouldn’t be an outright lie, either. If it wasn’t for her arm linked with mine, I might have actually turned around and gone home. When we get to my classroom, the door is already propped open, and we can both see they have moved the student desks to accommodate another teacher’s desk in the back of the room. Daniel is sitting there, setting up a few things. He’s dressed in a light purple button-down shirt with a bright purple tie and black pants. A dark gray suit coat hangs over the back of his chair. A stray wave of brown hair falls on his forehead, and he pushes it away when he spots Jenny and me standing at the doorway, watching him. He smiles eagerly at both of us as if this is truly an adventure and he is excited to get started.

Jenny starts walking toward her room and waves her fingers in goodbye. “Have fun!” she calls as she makes her way further down the hallway. I step into the room and take in the space. I’m surprised they got another desk in here so quickly, considering the last work order I put in to fix the blinds on the windows took at least a week to complete. I guess they expedite things for famous people.

I try not to sigh at how squished together the desks are now, or at the fact that Daniel’s desk is in the back of the room and directly across from mine so he will be able to stare at me whenever I’m sitting at my desk. I drop my backpack on the ground and power up my computer, noticing a to-go cup of coffee on my desk. On the side, it says “Mac” in black marker and then under it in different handwriting reads, “Not a pumpkin coffee.”

“What’s this?” I ask Daniel.