Page 1 of Love Me Not

Chapter One

Off to another year of instilling art and beauty into mushy teenage minds.

This was my unofficial job description. Officially, I taught World Literature and Creative Writing to juniors and seniors at my alma mater, Carnegie High School.

At thirty three years old, I’d spent nearly half of my life in this building, both as a student, and then a teacher. Was I still the bright-eyed enthusiastic educator I’d been fresh out of college? I was not. But did I still love my job? Absolutely.

This school year—which kicked off in exactly one week—the issue was where I had to do my job. For the previous five years my classroom had been in hall B. I liked that room, and had it set up exactly how I wanted. This year, I’d been moved to hall A because someone decided that the social studies and English classrooms should all be together.

Did they make the Social Studies teachers change rooms? Nope. Granted, there were five of them and only three of us in the English department, but still. They could have been the ones to relocate.

Or better yet, we could have all stayed right where we were.

An hour into the room setup, I had soft pop playing softly from my phone, my handout bins finally in a good spot—after trying them in three other locations—and my bulletin board almost finished when I heard a knock at my door.

Turning on my step stool, I expected to see Georgie Drysdale, my fellow English teacher, checking in. Instead, a man in a Villanova T-shirt with a neck the width of my thigh and a shiny bald head hovered in my doorway.

“Can I help you?” I asked, assuming him to be someone’s father in search of their student. Fall athletes along with student council members volunteered this week to help staff and faculty prep for the new year.

“Could you come hold something for me?”

Hold something? Did I look like the muscle of this organization?

“Hold what?”

“A corner of my world map.”

Not a parent after all. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

He crossed the room, dodging desks as he went. When close enough, he extended a hand. “I’m Trey Collins. I’ll be teaching Economics and World History across the hall.”

I accepted the greeting, my hand appearing downright dainty in his giant club of an appendage. “Lindsey Pavolski. Creative Writing and World Lit.”

He stepped back and pointed at a poster on the wall. “I figured English when I spotted Jane Austen.”

There was no name on the poster. “You know Jane Austen?”

Reddish-brown brows drew together. “Doesn’t everyone know Jane Austen?”

By name, yes. By face, no. Especially considering the poster featured the only known rendering of her in existence.

“They don’t, no.”

He remained skeptical. “Even with all the movies?”

“Even with all the movies,” I replied. “Crazy, huh? You said you need help hanging a map?”

With a loud clap of his hands, he said, “Yeah, if you could. We’ll probably need this stool so if you step off I’ll grab it.” I was perfectly capable of carrying the stool, but if the big man wanted to do it, then by all means. Once my feet touched the floor, he folded the 2-step ladder and tucked it under an arm like a woman tucking a clutch purse. “After you.”

The chivalry was overflowing. “What did you say your name was?” I asked, a tickle of familiarity dancing around my brain. “Conway?”

“Collins,” he corrected. “Trey Collins.”

Why did I know that name? Halfway across the hall, the answer hit me and I spun around, nearly causing a head-on collision. “As in Coach Collins?”

Thankfully, he stopped in time to keep us both on our feet. “That’s me. I took over the football team this summer.”

I was what one might call not a team player. Sports were an unnecessary evil in my opinion. I enjoyed the Olympics and admired the dedication and sacrifice required to reach those elite levels, but outside of that realm, I didn’t get the attraction.

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