Page 99 of Between the Lines

“OfcourseI’m disappointed, Nathan. But not because of you.” Her gaze slides to the door again, and then she stands. Her hand slides up my chest. We’re almost eye to eye, and that levelness makes my breath catch. “Don being a dick is not your fault. Thank you for communicating with me.”

She cups my face, and I lean in, exhaling the nervous anticipation, leaning into her touch for just a moment.

We make new plans for Saturday, and I reluctantly pull from her grasp, knowing that the door isn’t locked, and that Claire has friends who could walk in on this compromising position at any moment.

I need to be more careful, with my body and my heart.

As I head back to my office, lighter than I was before, hernot your faultechoes so steadily within me that it starts to align with the beating of my heart. And that scares me most of all.

forty-one

nathan

“Mr. Thatcher?Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

Rocco wanders into my office with tentative confidence. His swagger has died down a bit since Lucy and Claire started him on the mentor program. I tilt my head and put down my pen.

“Yeah. Well, no. I’m supposed to meet with Russo but he ain’t in his office like he usually is.”

It’s Thursday—his day to meet with Aaron for a reward if he’s had a good week.

“Congratulations on meeting your goal. That’s excellent.”

His cheeks pinken, and his chin dips. He isn’t used to being acknowledged in a positive way, and that shows.

“Mr. Russo is attending a conference this week. Did he not make you aware?”

He tilts his head, and the recollection dawns on him.

“Oh. Yeah, he did. Crap.”

I hate to leave him hanging, especially since he has been working so hard. He also came to me instead of wandering the halls.

“This paperwork can wait. What do you and Mr. Russo usually do?”

He shrugs. “Play games in the gym and stuff.”

“Well, I’m no sports afficionado, but I do have this.”

When I pull the chess board from the bottom drawer of my desk, Rocco’s interest is clearly piqued.

“Would you be interested in a couple of rounds?”

“How do you beat meevery time, bro?!”

I chuckle.

Rocco and I have played three games. I went easy on him the first two, reminding him of the rules, and giving him pointers up until I moved in for the kill. He’s catching on quickly.

“Practice.”

He puts his head in his hand, surrendering his queen with athudto my side of the table. I grin triumphantly, aligning it neatly with the rest of his pieces that I’ve claimed.

“How am I supposed to practice? I don’t have one of these things.”

He indicates to my chess board—the one I had commissioned with custom, weighted pieces to remain in my office.

“Hold that thought.”

---