Page 10 of Teach Me
She looked down at herself. Black velvet blazer, in deference to the overactive school air conditioning. Black silk blouse, knotted with a flourish at the side of her neck. Her favorite black trousers, made from polished cotton and cuffed at the hem. Black heels with pewter accents on the toe. No coffee spills. No hangings threads.
Nothing that should have tipped him off as to her mental state.
But maybe he’d meant something else. Maybe he was criticizing her appearance, and she’d finally find something to hate about him. A woman could only hope.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What, precisely, doesnot yourselfmean?”
At that look, he took a half-step backward.
He pursed his lips before slowly, reluctantly answering. “Your foot. It’s, uh, tapping.”
“Maybe I’m impatient.” She enunciated the words very, very clearly.
He inclined his head. “Maybe. But your foot didn’t tap once during that marathon three-hour staff meeting, not even when the consultant used the termgrowth mindsetfor the seventeenth time.”
Taken by surprise at the unexpected snark, she couldn’t help herself. She snorted.
Her ex had tried to break her of that habit, the last remaining tic from her childhood as Brandi Rose Owens, trailer park princess. Barton had cringed at the sound every time, curling up on himself with irritation and distaste. But out of sheer contrariness, she’d chosen to retain that piece of her old self, unlike all the other telltale bits she’d so ruthlessly erased.
Martin, however, didn’t cringe at the noise. Didn’t look away in disgust. Instead, he transformed in an entirely different manner. His arms eased from across his chest, and he propped his fists on his hips as he grinned at her.
Dammit. Not again.
His smile and pose transformed him from a nondescript former Boy Scout into the sort of man you saw gazing off into an ocean sunset in an expensive cologne advertisement. His face creased, his blue eyes lit, and a woman would have to be either gay or dead not to respond.
His age had burnished him, not bowed him. He was…
Christ, he was lickable.
He moved a step closer. “Your hands are shaking a bit too. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an enormous mug of coffee in my life, outside of cartoons.”
She blinked at him, unable to recall the context for his observations.
He waited for a response. When it didn’t materialize, he concluded, “So I was wondering if you were okay. If you needed anything. Because the first day of school is always hard, no matter how long you’ve taught. I usually have trouble sleeping the night before.”
Her pride demanded that she spurn his concern. Refuse to be seen as anything less than capable and independent and impervious.
But then he gave a self-deprecating shake of his head and confessed, “One time, I dreamed I came into the classroom for the first day and had been unexpectedly assigned to teach the history of the steamboat. I had no lesson plans. No class rosters. Nothing. I was horrified.”
Her lips moved without her permission. “Do you know a lot about steamboats?”
“Hell, no,” he said, and they both laughed.
In truth, she’d barely slept the night before. And during the little rest she did manage, she dreamed of a classroom full of kids staring blankly at her as she belatedly realized she hadn’t created lesson plans or handouts or anything—anything—that would fill the time.
She’d thought those nightmares would cease after a decade or two in the profession, but nope. A few former colleagues who’d retired long ago told her they still had similar anxiety dreams on occasion, so she anticipated many nights in the future spent tossing and turning over mysteriously missing syllabi and seating charts she couldn’t decipher.
But she hadn’t anticipated talking about her first-day jitters with anyone at school. “I may not have slept quite as well as I normally do.”
“Thus the caffeine.” His blue eyes were so warm, her knees didn’t want to support her. For the sake of self-preservation, she dropped into the chair behind her desk. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
She cleared her throat, gathering the mantle of pride around herself once more. “I’m fine. But thank you for the kind offer.”
He dropped the subject without another word. Again, a paragon. It was insupportable.
“The room looks great.” With a slow turn, he took in every corner of the space. He had a very,verynice rear view, which was a revelation she could have done without. “I love the Shakespeare quote on the bulletin board.”
“What’s past is prologue.” She drummed her fingers on her desk, now nervous for reasons that had nothing to do with either caffeine or first-day jitters. “I spend a lot of time during the year trying to show my students how our history still influences so much of our daily existence. Our government, our culture, our economy, everything.”
