Page 18 of The Spark Between Us

"Grant," I correct automatically. "His name is Grant. He's my dad's best friend, and I'm not torturing anyone. This is a professional meeting about a children's program."

"Speaking of your dad," Tasha says, her voice shifting to a dreamy quality that makes me cringe, "When am I really meeting him?"

"You're going to flirt with him, aren't you? Or at least, try." I groan, pulling into the high school parking lot.

"I would never!" Tasha protests, then immediately contradicts herself. "His new profile picture on Facebook really brings out his eyes, though."

"He's literally old enough to be your father."

"So is Grant. Besides, he's almost fifty, not ancient," Tasha counters. "And that salt-and-pepper look is working for him."

"I'm hanging up now before I vomit in my car," I announce, spotting Grant's truck already parked near the entrance.

"Fine, abandon me," Tasha sighs dramatically. "But text me details later! I want to know if he stares at your lips again like last time!"

"That was ONE TIME and he was telling me I had sauce on my face!" I protest, but Tasha has already disconnected, her cackle the last thing I hear.

I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, grateful I decided on the daisy sundress again. My hair cooperated for once, falling in soft waves, and I kept my makeup simple—just mascara and a tinted lip balm. The effect is casual but put-together, like I absolutely did not spend forty-five minutes getting ready this morning.

Grabbing my tote bag with my notes and materials, I take a deep breath and exit the car. Walking through the doors of Cedar Falls High School sends a wave of nostalgia crashing over me. The hallways look smaller than I remember, the trophy cases shinier.

Ten years ago, I was an awkward freshman roaming these halls, concerned about algebra tests and friend drama. Now I'm back as a college graduate with a psychology degree... and still fretting about a crush. Some things never change.

Following Grant's instructions, I head toward the science wing. Room 216 was my old chemistry lab, which feels oddly fitting—I'm certainly experiencing plenty of chemistry these days, just not the kind that involves beakers and Bunsen burners.

The door is propped open, and I peek inside to see Grant setting up a projector. He's wearing jeans and a dark blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms. Why are forearms so unfairly attractive on certain men? It should be illegal to have forearms like that in an educational setting.

I knock lightly on the doorframe. "Permission to enter the laboratory? I promise not to mix any dangerous chemicals."

Grant looks up, and there it is—that split-second transformation of his face before he schools it back into professional neutrality. But I caught it: surprise, pleasure, and something warmer. Something that gives me hope.

"Ellie," he says, straightening. "You found it okay."

"Well, I did spend four years of my life in this building," I remind him, stepping into the classroom. "Though I'm usually having anxiety dreams about showing up late to finals when I'm back here, not planning fire safety demonstrations."

He smiles slightly, and I count it as a win. "Thanks for being flexible about the location change. The principal called this morning—said we could use the space to practice since they're doing summer renovations anyway."

"It's perfect," I say, setting my bag on one of the student desks. "We can actually plan the presentation like we'll do it with the kids."

I pull out my folder of notes and the children's book on fire safety I found at the library yesterday. "I brought visual aids," I announce proudly, holding up the book. "And I've been working on my fire safety song. Prepare your eardrums."

"I'm braced for impact," Grant says with a hint of sarcasm.

"I brought coffee, too," I say, pulling two travel mugs from my bag. "One toxic-waste-free brew for you, black."

He looks genuinely touched by the gesture. "You didn't have to do that."

"Consider it insurance against you running away when I start singing," I reply with a grin, handing him the mug.

Grant clears his throat, stepping back slightly.

"So," he says, all business again. "I was thinking we could set up the room similar to a classroom at Cedar Elementary. The kindergarteners sit on a reading rug, older kids at desks."

"Perfect," I agree, moving to help him rearrange the furniture. "We can put the rug here, leave space for demonstrations there..."

For the next fifteen minutes, we work together transforming the high school chemistry lab into a mock elementary classroom. It's surprisingly comfortable, this teamwork—moving around each other, anticipating needs, building something together. I catch myself imagining what it would be like to do this in our home someday, arranging furniture and planning spaces...

We haven't even held hands, and I'm mentally decorating our future living room. Insane.

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