Page 11 of Just a Little White Lie

“When I Kissed the Teacher” by ABBA.

Interesting choice.

I can’t help a soft laugh. “Which teacher are you thinking of kissing, Miss Fillion?”

“I’mMiss Fillion. I have to be the teacher.” Her voice cracks as more tears start to line her lashes.

I hold my breath, waiting for the first one to fall. I’m gonna have to wipe it off her cheek. I don’t care that big brothers don’t do that sort of thing. I can’t watch her drunk-cry and just sit here.

But then she launches into a babbling explanation.

“Teaching is so tiring.” Her voice wafts around the syllables, like her tongue’s too thick to talk properly. “When I first started training after high school, I figured it’d be a great career. The holidays were a huge bonus—twelve weeks a year! Plus, teenagers were fun to hang out with. I wanted to inspire them. I wanted to be my generation’s Mrs. Weatherly.”

Mrs. Weatherly. Huh, I remember her. She taught English, I think.

“Teacher’s college wasn’t so bad. I had friends. It was fun.” Her face puckers into a sloppy frown. “My first year of teaching was a little terrifying, but I had a crush on my mentoring teacher.” She grinned, giving my arm a sloppy slap. “He was so cute.” She giggles, and I suddenly hate the guy.

I have no idea why.

I swallow and scratch my beard, wondering if I should cut this thing short.

But she’s still talking. “He helped me get fully registered before he fell in love with his new next-door neighbor.” She growls in her throat, her story kind of comical and entertaining. So much emotion. And then it shifts again, her voice taking on a soft, ethereal quality. “That’s why I went to London. I was gonna teach, travel, and party it up in Europe.” She shakes her head, staring at the ceiling with a wistful sigh. “And I did. I did. But…”

“But what?” I whisper when her sentence drifts off to nothing.

I can’t believe I’m actually invested in this story, but I have to know.

“But teaching was hard over there.” A panicked look washes over her face, and she turns to look at me with wide eyes. “I don’t know if I can suffer that way again. No respect.” She shakes her head. “And that helplessness feeling when you’re facing a room full of students who refuse to do what you tell them to!” Her voice pitches, and I reach for her, running my knuckle down her cheek.

I have to. That look on her face. I need to get rid of it somehow. I need to soothe the panic away.

“It’s gonna be okay,” I whisper. “You can do this. Not all teenagers are like that.”

“I know.” Her expression crumples. “And I know I have to do this. I just don’t want to.” She sniffs, and I wonder if she’s gonna start crying this time. Like actual tears will fall.

Can I honestly handle that?

Nope. You most definitely cannot.

So I start humming, busting out that ABBA tune in the hopes of making her smile.

I win. Her lips rise with a dopey grin, and she shouts out the words, “When I kissed the teacher!”

“Let’s hope no kid starts singing about you,” I laugh.

“Why? I’m not pretty enough to kiss?” She slaps me again, another sloppy flick of her fingers against my arm.

But then she goes still and just stares at our connection. Her small fingers rest on my arm like they’ve been glued in place. Her soft lips part, and all I can do is gaze at them, wondering what they taste like.

Stop it! Jack! Stop it right now!

Lightly brushing her off me, I’m about to angle my body in the opposite direction, but something about her expression shifts, and I can’t look away from her.

Those pink lips curl at the corners, and my body acts of its own accord, reaching for her again. I skim my thumb across her cheekbone.

“You can kiss me,” she whispers. “I’ll be your teacher.”

The words freeze me.

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