name is Molly. Molly Preston.”
“Sorry. My mistake.”
He didn’t look sorry, Molly thought, then reminded herself she didn’t need to be snarky because she didn’t care. “No problem.”
He grinned his charming grin and that was a problem. “Nice to meet you, Molly.”
Clearly he didn’t remember her or her name. She wasn’t sure whether or not that was more humiliating than him taking a payoff to date her. After a socially dismal beginning to her freshman year, her father had paid Des to date her and ensure her high-school popularity. Des should have gone into acting. He’d pulled it off without her suspecting a thing. She’d never have known his interest in her was a sham if a disgruntled girlfriend hadn’t ratted him out.
Des had used her as a stepping stone to success. He’d got what he wanted, then hadn’t had the decency to break it off with her face-to-face. He’d simply stood her up then left for college.
Screw the high road, she decided. His betrayal had unraveled the fabric of her self-esteem. Now he didn’t even remember her? She would never be grown up enough to not care about that, and she felt justified in her crabbiness.
“Yeah, nice,” she lied. “Look, Mr. O’Donnell—”
“Des,” he interrupted.
“Des,” she repeated, annoyed at how easily his name slipped from her lips. She hoped that only she noticed that her voice had dropped into the seductive range on the single syllable.
Time had been good to Des O’Donnell. He’d always been the stuff of girlish fantasies. Now he was a man, with the filled-out physique to prove it. His chest-and-biceps-hugging navy T-shirt brought out the extraordinary sapphire blue of his eyes. She remembered that his hair had a natural wave when he needed a haircut, which he didn’t at the moment. She missed the curl. Once light blond, his hair had changed color over time. Somehow, the darker shade suited him better.
His face had matured, lines fanning out at the corners of his eyes. His square jaw gave him a rugged appearance that was just right on him. And just wrong for her.
The years melted away, turning her back into that insecure, geeky teenager who’d learned that someone like her didn’t snag sincere attention from men. Bruce the Bottom-feeder had happened in college. Her mistake had been believing he was the polar opposite of Des. It seemed that every time she went on to a higher level of education, painful personal lessons were involved. Which made her wary of a postgraduate degree.
But she was no longer in high school or college. She was a grown-up responsible for the welfare of the children in her class. It was time to behave that way.
“Look, Des—”
“So I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other during the construction,” he said at the same time.
“It would appear that way.”
“Arrangements will have to be made when your classroom is impacted by the construction. I’ll need to go over the work schedule with you.”
Molly tucked her hands into the pockets of her slacks. “Okay. But it can’t be right now.”
“Why not?”
“The children are involved in crafts. And that requires my undivided attention.”
She glanced over her shoulder and noticed one of the boys painting on the table instead of his paper. Thank goodness for butcher paper and her advance preparation for this very thing. “See what I mean? Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“I won’t take much of your time.”
“Children are schedule-sensitive. The slightest disruption can throw their world into chaos.”
“Then why did the office send me over?”
“We have a new receptionist. I’ll talk to her.”
“It wasn’t the receptionist who gave me the green light.” He folded his arms over his impressive chest. “I spoke to Mrs. Farris, the director. She said to tell you if you need backup while we discuss business to let her know.”
The little table-painter had wandered over beside her. When he slipped his hand into hers, Molly felt the sticky wetness and guessed she now had a green palm.
The boy looked up at the tall visitor. “Hi.”
“Hey, buddy,” Des replied.
Molly knew if this wasn’t nipped in the bud, the rest of her Picassos-in-training would be joining them, resulting in anarchy. Something any preschool teacher worth her salt would avoid at all cost.
“Trey,” she said to the child, “it’s craft time. Are you finished with your trees?”
“Yup.”
She glanced over to where he’d been sitting and saw his pristine paper with green paint all around it. “Are you sure?” she asked.
Des followed her gaze. “Looks like Trey thinks outside the box.”
The four remaining children at the table were getting restless. “Look, Des, this isn’t a good time. I have to clean up this group. The rest of my class is outside on the playground with an aide and they’re due in any minute for their turn at craft time. I try to stagger it for all my kids so it’s a relaxing and creative experience. So, Trey, I want you to go wash your hands.”
“But I wanna see what he’s gonna do,” the boy explained, pointing a green finger at Des. “Do you know Bob the Builder?”
Des squatted, bracing one denim-clad knee on the indoor/outdoor carpet as he rested his tanned forearm on the other. She noticed the way the material pulled snugly at his muscular thigh, then averted her gaze when her pulse jumped.
“Trey, I’m not going to do anything fun,” he said, his voice deep, calm and patient. “I’m just going to measure and write stuff down.”
The child looked disappointed. “You’re not gonna hammer?”
“Not today.”
“How come?”
“Because I don’t have anything to hammer. I have to order wood and nails and I don’t know how much I’ll need yet. I’m here to figure that out.”
“Oww.”
Molly turned at the cry of distress to see a curly-haired brunette rubbing her head.
“What’s wrong, Amy?”
“Kyle pulled my hair, Miss Molly,” she said, her bottom lip trembling.
“Kyle, remember what I told you about keeping your hands to yourself?”
The towheaded boy nodded. “She started it. She put paint on my new shoe, Miss Molly. My mom said I couldn’t even get these new shoes dirty or wet.”
“Don’t
