Page 9 of Tempting the Teacher

“Oh God, no,” I interject, joining in their laughter and resisting the urge to stick out my tongue at them, like when we were kids. The reunion and the game seem to have regressed us. “I’ll be there.”

“If you’re not,” Noel warns.

“I will be. But not if you guys keep me here yapping all night. Let me finish up here and grab my purse. I’ll see you all tomorrow.” I nod as they shout goodnight after me, too preoccupied with the cumbersome storage bin to respond more fully. Suddenly, the weight lifts from my arms. I’d thought it might be Chad; won’t lie about that. Instead, it’s Ken Ellis, Trudy’s ex-husband. “Let me give you a hand with that.” My disappointment that it’s not Chad gives him the pause he interprets as agreement. Damn Chad yet again. Ken earned his top spot on my ‘Least Favorite People of All Time’ list, a position cemented by rumors of spousal abuse and cheating.

I follow him into the cafeteria and dash ahead to open the kitchen door. Pointing to a spot on the long stainless-steel industrial counter, I say, “Right here is fine, Ken.”

He sets it down and leers at me. “It’s not the only fine thing here.”

Alright, then. My Spidey sense buzzed the entire trip back to the school, warning me that agreeing to this was a mistake. Plus, that line—seriously cringe. The stench of liquor seeps from his breath and pores as he slithers closer. “So, what’s next?” He taps his chin thoughtfully as if he has enough brains to muster a thought. “Ah, yes—a thank-you.”

He lunges, trying to envelop me in his octopus’ arms, as I fight to escape. I struggle against his sturdy muscles, wedging an arm between us to dodge the lips aiming for mine. Dammit, he’s not deterred by my resistance, and I’m too far from the pots and pans to grab one and whack him. Just as I draw back my knee, ready to do some damage, his weight lifts so swiftly that my momentum carries me forward, tripping me over my feet.

“What the actual—” I squawk out. “Oh, shit.” My eyes focus just in time to see Chad pulling his arm back for another punch aimed at Ken’s already bloody face. “Chad, no! Stop it. I’m okay, I’m alright.”

In all the years I’ve known Chad, he’s never been violent. He can be a grumpy, trash-talking, sarcastic, and rude son of a bitch, but he’s always been more bark than bite. He releases Ken the minute I touch his biceps. His muscles flex and bunch under the hem of his T-shirt sleeve, his skin blistering hot with rage. I don’t care, because it works. Like a lion tamer entering a cage, my touch silences his roar. This kind of power over a man is addictive. We stare wordlessly into each other’s eyes as he slows his breathing, drawing in long breaths through his flared nostrils.

“He didn’t?”

I shake my head. “No, I told you, I’m fine.” My instincts have me downplaying the incident—not to save Ken, but to save Chad from the murderous intent swirling in his hazel eyes.

“What were you guys doing back here?”

“He offered to help me return some supplies, and I needed to get my purse.”

“Did you get it?”

“No, not yet.”

“C’mon then, let me walk you.”

“Okay.” I look around to make sure everything is okay before we close the kitchen door. Walking down the hallway, I see the practically deserted parking lot. People cleared out quickly once the game ended. The kids are off to the football team’s victory party, and the adults have dispersed to either bed or drinks at Mack’s Bar and Grill. I wonder aloud, “What brought you inside?”

“I saw you struggling with the bin and would’ve come to help, but he beat me to it.” We reach my classroom. “I don’t trust him. And you shouldn’t have either.”

“I don’t. He just caught me off guard, and I couldn’t think of a polite way to tell him to piss off.”

“Next time, don’t be polite.”

I bristle at the warning. I know this. Of course, I do. I’ve given the same lecture to dozens of students, mainly girls because they still receive the message that they should be nice—to everyone. It’s a message I struggled with myself, growing up. It took me a while to realize that the first person I needed to be nice to was myself.

“Anyway, I thought you guys were friends. He was your good buddy back when you were all joining forces to make fun of me.”

“Maybe, in another lifetime. I grew up; he didn’t. The way I acted back then, how I treated women—how I treated everyone—that’s not me anymore. Clearly, he never learned that lesson.”

“When you graduated, he got even worse. I didn’t realize until then that you must’ve been the only thing keeping their meanness in check. Once you were gone, they plummeted to a whole new depth, adding sexually harassing comments into the mix. Thankfully, Noel didn’t listen to me—you know how she can be. She told her brothers, the twins, and they confronted Ken and his goons after school. They put an end to it.”

I’m leaning against the edge of my desk when he closes the distance between us. His palm cups my cheek, thumb stroking the skin there. “You shouldn’t have had to go through any of that. Knowing that I might have indirectly played a part in it is—”

“Each person is responsible for their own actions,” I cut in.

He inches even closer, stepping into the ‘V,’ formed by my parted thighs. His forehead gently touches mine, the softest of caresses, and his warm breath fans my face as he speaks in a throaty whisper. “I didn’t realize back then how potent words could be. But I told you what would happen if you ever asked me to apologize again. So go ahead, ask me. Let me show you how profoundly sorry I am.”

Chad’s got it right—words wield power. I harness that force now, guiding it gently as I meet his whisper with my command. “Say sorry.”

He inhales sharply, a quick intake of breath, and his eyes ignite with a devastating flash. Questions hover there, but he doesn’t voice them. He’s not willing to give me the chance to pull away—a retreat I’m already mentally plotting. With a tilt of my chin, he leans in and claims the kiss.

The moment his lips meet mine, it’s as if the earth shifts off its axis. The kiss isn’t just a meeting of mouths. It’s a confluence of every pent-up emotion, every unspoken word, converging in a seismic collision. His lips are a paradox—both soft and unyielding—as they move against mine in a dance as old as time yet as fresh as the morning dew.

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