by heart. Sappy, maybe, but there it was.
When he left in three years, things would be better here than when he’d arrived. Achievement scores and student involvement would rise and teacher satisfaction would soar.
Tucker met the new English teacher first, then visited with a veteran history teacher setting up her class. After that, he headed to Building D, where the English teacher had said the new science teacher was working.
As he walked, he found himself running his thumb over the smooth curve of Forest’s wedding band. He was constantly aware of it—catching the sunlight when he walked, snagging soap when he washed his hands, in sight when he worked at the computer. Wearing it, he felt phony, but safe. Since he’d declared women off-limits, being married was insurance. He did intend to marry one day, so this was a test of how it would be.
Without the woman. Or the love.
Or the sex.
Which was a definite downside. But he could handle it. He’d sublimate his sex drive in work and everyone would benefit.
He entered the D building, which held science, math, computer and art classes, and got a blast of hip-hop music from an open classroom door—his destination, no doubt.
Inside the room, the music was so loud his ears throbbed. He spotted the teacher on a ladder, hammering something to the ceiling. A jungle vine, he could see, made of cloth. A couple dozen dangled around the room, which was also decorated with three papier-mâché trees.
At the back, there was a bank of terrariums, where he made out a couple of snakes and a large lizard…maybe an iguana? The bulletin boards held maps of South America and photos of exotic creatures. The total effect was of a jungle, dense and complex, and full of color.
And a fire code violation.
Then he got a load of the teacher and lost all thought for a second. She wore white shorts, which were pulled tight over her round backside because of her position on the ladder. Below the shorts were great legs—muscles tensed along their shapely length as she hammered away. Nice feet, too, he saw, since she was barefoot. With plump toes, the nails painted fire-engine red.
She hadn’t heard him enter over the pounding music, and now he was close enough to catch her scent. She smelled familiar and sexy…like Melissa. What were the odds of that?
He reminded himself of his purpose here—to offer any help she might need—and called over the music, “Hello?”
“Wha—?” She jerked, then turned, wobbling on the ladder.
Tuck stepped forward and braced her thigh—as firm as it looked—to keep her from tumbling. He looked up at her face and swallowed hard.
Oh, God.
It was Cricket, his college crush, her green eyes round and wide, blond hair in parentheses around her cheeks.
“Tucker! I don’t believe it!” Her face lit with pleasure. She looked down at her leg, where his hand still rested.
He let go fast, rubbing his still-warm palm on his pants.
She climbed down the ladder—rather, bounced—twisted a knob on the CD player to lower the volume, then turned to him. “What a small world!”
“Yeah.” He felt like Rick from Casablanca. Of all the high schools in all the towns in all the world, she had to walk into his.
“You teach here?” she asked.
“I’m the assistant principal. I’m new.”
“Me, too. But I’m a teacher. Well, not quite. I have an emergency certificate.” She stepped closer to him and he caught more of her special scent—vanilla, cinnamon and something peppery. “They needed a science teacher and I had tons of science credits, plus I love science—I was a volunteer at the zoo, and I’ve always contributed to the Sierra Club. So, I got the job. Of course, they didn’t have another applicant, but, oh, well. Listen to me babble. How’d you end up here?”
“Long story.” He didn’t care to lay out the details of his fall from grace. She looked as good as he remembered. Short and compact, pixieish, with a heart-shaped face, small nose and pretty mouth—features that made you expect her to be sweet, but he knew she was mouthy and irreverent, with a lusty laugh that managed to charm despite its decibel strength, and green eyes that glinted with mischief.
Nothing she wore was immodest, not even her stretchy red top, but she was so sexy she had to be violating codes all over the place—dress codes, morality codes, building codes, whatever. She was one big violation.
He couldn’t help checking out her ring finger and found just a silver peace sign.
“Man, how long has it been?” she asked.
“Must be six, seven years.” He tried to sound cool, but he could have figured out exactly how long ago that make-out session had been. It had been two days before Christmas, and they’d drank a couple of beers, talked a long time—finishing each other’s sentences—and then they’d gotten personal and there had been that mistletoe….
“Yeah. Finals, right? Christmas time.”
“Yeah. Christmas time.”
Her eyes told him she remembered the moment, too. And with pleasure, judging by her soft smile. “Whatever happened with you and Sylvia?” she asked. “I moved out just after you and I…after that night.”
“Nothing,” he said. “I think she married an electrical engineering professor.” The guy she’d stood him up for, which made him feel less guilty about kissing Cricket. He’d slept with plenty of women in college, but he never overlapped.
“I lost track of her after I moved out of the apartment,” Cricket said. “Too much temptation to party. I had to hit the books, resuscitate my GPA.” She scrunched up her nose. “I hated hitting the books.”
“I remember,” he said. She’d been studying biology when he’d joined her on the couch while he waited for Sylvia and they’d commiserated about GPA pressure and the stifling nature of lecture halls, moving on to discuss a global sweatshop protest they’d both attended, then to their beliefs on social issues—poverty, ecology, the proper role of government.
The words flowed easily, as if they’d known each other for years. They’d disagreed some—Cricket was more black and white in her beliefs than he was—but with humor and mutual respect. In short, they’d connected. Intellectually, emotionally and, um, sexually. Somewhere in there, she’d started drinking his beer. Then let it slip that she thought he was cute.
And he’d told her she was pretty, and she’d mumbled something about mistletoe, cupped his face with both hands and kissed him…like he was some exotic fruit she wanted to get every juice from.
He’d kissed her right back, a tsunami of lust pounding through him. She’d tasted of beer and peppermint and smelled of cinnamon and vanilla and spice—fresh with a winter bite. She’d slipped onto his lap and he’d held her tight. She’d felt delicate, but springy. Strong and hot.
There was something not to be missed about that encounter. Like snow in Tucson. So rare you had to drop everything and run outside to let the flakes fall
