Page 64 of Summer Heat
Except there were.
“She says they need someone with more experience to fill that first grade spot.”
Ethan frowned. “That’s bullshit. You have years of experience with kids, and at that school. Who the hell else are they going to find?”
Ethan’s defense did bolster her, but it didn’t change facts. They were hiring right now for next school year, and once they gave that spot away, it would be a full year before she could be considered for a teaching position again. “She offered to increase my hours to full time, but I’d still be an aide. Not a teacher.”
“You can apply around though, right? To other schools in Austin?”
She shrugged, not quite over the sting of yesterday’s rejection. She had busted her ass for that school. She’d made friends… at least she’d thought she had.
If they didn’t want her as a teacher, who would?
Ethan put a finger to her chin and lifted. His fingers felt cool against her skin, but warmth filled her cheeks. Her gaze met his. He looked determined. Pissed. And something else she was afraid to identify. “They’re crazy if they think they’ll find someone better for those kids than you. You work harder than anyone, but more than that, you care about them. Really care.” He glanced over at the display. “Like the way you interpreted the Grinch.”
“Because I subverted a beloved classic?”
“Because you take the books seriously, even though they’re for kids. You take the plays and the art projects and everything seriously. Everyone gives it lip service. But you, Rosalia Monroe, you actually give a fuck.”
Somewhere during his speech he’d leaned in—canted forward, sharing heat and swapping breaths—and her heart began to pound. She searched his dark eyes, but the thousands of lights shielded his thoughts. All she could see was the familiar angles of his face, the dusting of golden scruff on his jaw, the shadows under his eyes.
“Can I put that on my resume?” she whispered.
He nodded solemnly. “Rosalia Monroe, Instructional Badass.”
A slow smile claimed her. “You’re good for my ego, you know that?”
He backed away with a half-smile. “Telling it like it is.”
Oreo whined and stomped his feet, and just like that, the spell was broken. Lia looked around, surprised to realize the trail had thinned out to almost nothing. Just how long had they been ogling Grinch? And just how close had they gotten? There were only inches between them.
She stepped back. “I was hoping for some hot chocolate before we leave.”
“Let’s head for the tree,” he said, his voice gruff.
The trail ended at a tall tent of lights—the proverbial Christmas tree. It was formed from massive strings of lights, spiraling high into the air, far above them. Little kids would stand underneath, spinning and spinning until they felt dizzy and sick. And underneath the light-formed tree, concession booths stood in for presents, serving warm drinks and buttered corn on the cob.
But they were too late. Most of the stands stood empty now, hollow boxes that had already been unwrapped. Some stands were already vacant, with only littered napkins to show they’d ever been full. Others were in the process of being put away, tired concession workers loading their supplies.
Ethan hailed a man behind the kettle corn stand who was pushing the giant metal popper onto a cart. “Hey, wait up. You have any hot chocolate left?”
“Only water bottles,” the vendor shouted back, his face red from exertion.
“Damn,” Ethan muttered. Then, “We’ll take two.” He didn’t stop there—he handed off Oreo’s leash to her and rounded the wooden counter. With a nod, he bent down and pushed the barrel onto its cart.
The vendor wiped his brow. “Thanks. I usually have a helper for that.”
Ethan shrugged, because praise always made him antsy. He could dish it but he couldn’t take it.
“Just for that, I’ll give you these water bottles free of charge,” the man said. “And this last bag of popcorn. I was saving it for the ride home, but you two should have it.”
“We can’t take your popcorn,” Lia protested.
The man patted his belly. “I can do without. Besides, a young couple like yourselves should share a bag. It’s part of the experience.”
“No, we aren’t a—”
“We’ll take them,” Ethan cut in, giving her a look.
