Page 2 of Teaching Ms. Tingle

“Ten demerits. Do we give demerits anymore? Damn, I had no idea. It seems Mr. Hilton is a little mouthy mister. No surprise there. The entire school worships the guy.”

Kane is almost twenty-three, here on a full scholarship. You would assume he came from good stock, but that is not the case. One thing I knew—and the first thing that intrigued me. He needed that scholarship, and he earned it, or he may still be in Crystal Cove, working as a farm hand.

He refuses to answer questions about his parents, but rumor is he has no answers to give. That he was abandoned. It has been suggested he got his drive in a bid to shove his successes in their face—if he ever got to face them. Kane is notoriously private, limiting his time with the media.

“Stop feeling bad for the guy,” I tell myself with an aggravated sigh. “They treat him like a king here—and he clearly enjoys his throne.”

Setting aside his folder, I go through the other file, frowning as I do. Another player on the team. A cocky quarterback who is not well liked. He is second string, behaves like a first-round pick, and is clearly struggling to keep up in all his classes.

Turning back to my desk, I set both folders side by side. Pulling out my thick pink planner, I open it to the start of this new semester. Grabbing the stack of monster stickers I love to decorate the planner with, I get to work. I have a lot to schedule for the next three months and very little space to fit all of it.

Almost an hour and three podcasts later, I am done. I fit meetings with Kane and the quarterback, Casey, for later this week. I schedule two sessions a week to work with them, fitting them in with regular classes, the remedial course, and nights I need to make time for the sorority.

“That leaves me,” I turn a few pages with a wry grin. “Absolutely zero time for myself. Who needs Kinsley time?”

A knock at my door startles me. Hastily I try to organize the mess I made of my desk. When a knock sounds again, I frown, pushing from my deck, forgetting the mess. It is late now, the sun setting in the sky, so there should be no one here to bother me.

“Coming. Give me a moment, please.”

Just as I unlock the door, I realize I am still barefoot. What a weird way to greet someone. Shrugging, I throw the door open, tucking my bare feet behind it. Maybe they won’t notice my painted toes wiggling behind it. I glance up with a greeting smile that slides from my face.

One look at my visitor has me wanting to slam the door shut again.

Kane Hilton stands on the other side, waiting as if he has nowhere better to be than right here. At my door. Waiting for me. His eyes scan down to the floor. I just know he sees my bare feet. I wiggle my toes, unable to help myself, flushing when I catch the slightest quirk of his mouth.

Kane towers over me by at least a foot, his broad shoulders and wide chest taking up most of the doorway. I step back, almost hiding behind the door. His light eyes gaze down at me, done with their perusal of my feet, a slow smile curving his full mouth.

He is not the kind of handsome you see anywhere. Sure, there are good looking people all over this campus. Harmony Hollow is full of beautiful people. This is a different level of beauty. A rare kind that is, in my humble opinion, quite unfair to the rest of us.

“Evening Ms. Tingle,” he calls in that eastern drawl of his.

Kane has spoken to me exactly four times since I have been here. Each time left me more flustered than the last. When he talks to you, he truly looks at you, those butterscotch eyes crinkling just a little as he smiles. His hair is shaggy, golden silk just long enough you want to tangle your fingers in it.

Beneath his loose henley, I know he is built like an Adonis. Washboard abs, sculpted pecs, and arms thick and powerful enough to take huge men down with ease. I should not know this, but I do. I was foolish enough to get one of the football teams’ saucy fundraising calendars.

“H-hello Mr. Hilton. How...how can I... ahem, can I help you?”

“Well yeah,” he starts confidently, falling against the doorframe with a shrug. “Could you convince Dean Vickers I don’t need you?”

Stunned by his words, and stung by the dismissal, I blink. His light eyes travel over my face, as if seeking the answer he wants. I turn away, ignoring how his dismissive attitude hurts. It shouldn’t bother me. Wasn’t I talking about what a hassle this is all going to be earlier?

“Pardon me?”

“Oh, no, Ms. Tingle, that is not...Idid notmean it that way,” he rushes to say, his words sounding panicked. “I just meant I don’t need a tutor. I get in some trouble, sure. They expect me to. Look at my grades, I am doing fine.”

“Have you pled your case to Dean Vickers?”

“Just came from there,” he is quick to answer, biting at his full bottom lip. I watch his perfect teeth sink into the soft flesh, my thighs trembling.

“It was not my choice to take on tutees. He organized this, Mr. Hilton, I don’t see that either of us have much choice.”

Stepping back, I wave him in and nod at one of the club chairs facing my desk. He comes in, brushing too close for comfort. I back up to make room, my skin burning where his jeans brush against my thighs.

Clearing my throat as he sits, I round my desk to take my own seat. Spinning my calendar to face him, I am about to explain my plans for our tutoring sessions. Before I can speak, he smiles, nodding at the speakers still playing the darkly inappropriate podcast.

“Is that Shredded Stories you’re listening to? I love that show, I listen to it while training.”

Face going hot, I nod as I bow my head. It is a guilty pleasure of mine, talking about serial killers and their twisted histories. I once wanted to write an in-depth book about Jack the Ripper and H.H. Holmes. Ah, the silly dreams of silly girls.

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