Love Me Not (NOT #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Off to another year of instilling art and beauty into mushy teenage minds.

This was my un official job description. Officially, I taught World Literature and Creative Writing to juniors and seniors at my alma mater, Carnegie High School.

At thirty three years old, I’d spent nearly half of my life in this building, both as a student, and then a teacher. Was I still the bright-eyed enthusiastic educator I’d been fresh out of college? I was not. But did I still love my job? Absolutely .

This school year—which kicked off in exactly one week—the issue was where I had to do my job. For the previous five years my classroom had been in hall B. I liked that room, and had it set up exactly how I wanted. This year, I’d been moved to hall A because someone decided that the social studies and English classrooms should all be together.

Did they make the Social Studies teachers change rooms? Nope. Granted, there were five of them and only three of us in the English department, but still. They could have been the ones to relocate.

Or better yet, we could have all stayed right where we were.

An hour into the room setup, I had soft pop playing softly from my phone, my handout bins finally in a good spot—after trying them in three other locations—and my bulletin board almost finished when I heard a knock at my door.

Turning on my step stool, I expected to see Georgie Drysdale, my fellow English teacher, checking in. Instead, a man in a Villanova T-shirt with a neck the width of my thigh and a shiny bald head hovered in my doorway.

“Can I help you?” I asked, assuming him to be someone’s father in search of their student. Fall athletes along with student council members volunteered this week to help staff and faculty prep for the new year.

“Could you come hold something for me?”

Hold something? Did I look like the muscle of this organization?

“Hold what?”

“A corner of my world map.”

Not a parent after all. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

He crossed the room, dodging desks as he went. When close enough, he extended a hand. “I’m Trey Collins. I’ll be teaching Economics and World History across the hall.”

I accepted the greeting, my hand appearing downright dainty in his giant club of an appendage. “Lindsey Pavolski. Creative Writing and World Lit.”

He stepped back and pointed at a poster on the wall. “I figured English when I spotted Jane Austen.”

There was no name on the poster. “You know Jane Austen?”

Reddish-brown brows drew together. “Doesn’t everyone know Jane Austen?”

By name, yes. By face, no. Especially considering the poster featured the only known rendering of her in existence.

“They don’t, no.”

He remained skeptical. “Even with all the movies?”

“Even with all the movies,” I replied. “Crazy, huh? You said you need help hanging a map?”

With a loud clap of his hands, he said, “Yeah, if you could. We’ll probably need this stool so if you step off I’ll grab it.” I was perfectly capable of carrying the stool, but if the big man wanted to do it, then by all means. Once my feet touched the floor, he folded the 2-step ladder and tucked it under an arm like a woman tucking a clutch purse. “After you.”

The chivalry was overflowing. “What did you say your name was?” I asked, a tickle of familiarity dancing around my brain. “Conway?”

“Collins,” he corrected. “Trey Collins.”

Why did I know that name? Halfway across the hall, the answer hit me and I spun around, nearly causing a head-on collision. “As in Coach Collins?”

Thankfully, he stopped in time to keep us both on our feet. “That’s me. I took over the football team this summer.”

I was what one might call not a team player. Sports were an unnecessary evil in my opinion. I enjoyed the Olympics and admired the dedication and sacrifice required to reach those elite levels, but outside of that realm, I didn’t get the attraction.

Why were people who could throw or hit or catch a ball so valuable in our society, when those who added real value on a daily basis were taken for granted, ignored, or completely dismissed? And yes, I considered teachers to be in the value adding category.

“A coach across the hall,” I muttered, not bothering to hide my disappointment. “Lovely.”

The big guy gave me a Bambi in the high beams look. “You don’t seem happy about that.”

How astute of him. “I’m not a sports-y person.” He didn’t offer a reply and I proceeded into his classroom. Nearly every desk held a poster, all face down, and one giant sheet-looking thing was draped over four or five desks in a cluster. “Are you planning to hang all of these?” I asked.

“As many as I can fit, yeah.” He crossed the room and placed the step stool close to the wall not far from what I assumed was the map. “If you hold one side up, I can attach the other without tearing it.”

Eager to get this over with, I climbed the two steps and waited for him to hand over my corner. The paper was much thinner than I expected, to the point of being fragile. “This thing is ancient.”

“Not quite,” he said. “About fifty years old. Lift your corner as high as you can reach and I’ll match you over here.”

I wasn’t a petite woman, but I wasn’t runway model tall either. Still, my pride took a hit when Mr. Football was able to extend his corner to match mine without the use of a stool.

“I can go higher,” I said, testing to see how far he could stretch.

“This is good.” He put a small piece of paper over the corner, then stuck a pin through both materials. Coming over to stand by my stool, he handed me a similar piece, which turned out to be a triangle of cardstock. “This helps keep the map from getting damaged. Just stick the pin through both.”

The instructions were unnecessary, but I made sure to face the wall before rolling my eyes. I pressed the pin as hard as I could with my arm extended high above my head, but couldn’t get the leverage needed to penetrate through both the cardstock and the map.

“Need some help?” he asked, seeing my obvious struggle.

“I’ve got it.” This pin would not defeat me. Using both hands, I pressed with more determination, feeling the rush of victory as the tiny point penetrated the wall. “Got it,” I said, lowering my arms. The movement threw me off balance and gravity took over.

Oh, no .

Flailing, I fought to keep myself upright, but backwards I went with a highly inappropriate expletive flying out of my mouth. Before I could brace for impact, I landed in a pair of strong arms and was pressed against a chest that felt more like a brick wall than a human being.

Stunned, I found myself staring into his bright blue eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked, holding me in the air as if I weighed no more than the map.

“I lost my balance,” I said, pointing out the obvious. The scent of pine and man and a hint of cinnamon filled my senses, while heat gathered where our bodies touched. The fall had clearly scared me into a temporary insanity. “You can put me down,” I demanded, squirming to get my feet on the floor.

He gently set me upright and I stepped back to put more space between us. “Is that all you needed?”

The man had the nerve to look amused. “I can get the rest of these on my own, but I appreciate your help. Sorry about the fall. You sure you’re good?”

“I’m fine.” With one swift move, I folded the stool and carried it to the doorway, intent on returning to my room with what little dignity I had left.

“Thanks again,” he called as I stepped into the hall. Without looking back, I waved in acknowledgement, crossed into my own room and closed the door.

“You fell into his arms?” Georgie whispered over her cup of tea. “That’s such a meet-cute moment.”

We were taking a break in the teachers’ lounge, and despite my better judgment, I shared the details of my morning encounter.

“Don’t start,” I said. “It was more accidental trust fall than a scene from one of your books.”

At fifty-five, Georgie had twenty-four books published, all of them romance novels. Though not my first genre of choice, I’d read them all. Mostly for the laughs. The woman was a natural at comedy, and one bonus of actually knowing her was that I could hear her telling me the stories in my head.

The students had no idea. Some of the books fell into the super steamy category, and for that reason she preferred to keep her writer self and teacher self completely separate. The day a girl walked into class with one of Georgie’s books in hand, I’d evoked my best acting skills to pretend I knew nothing.

An Oscar winning performance, if I did say so myself.

“But that’s what makes it a meet-cute,” she argued. “Plain Jane English teacher falls into the arms of the hunky new football coach.” She whipped out the tiny notebook and pen ever present in her pocket. “This is definitely going into a book. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before.”

Was that how she saw me? As a plain Jane? The description fit, so I couldn’t really argue. Though I preferred the term low maintenance . I kept my brown hair in a ponytail most of the time, wore almost no makeup—at least not to work—and kept my wardrobe simple.

Georgie liked bold patterns, owned a dozen different colorful eyeglass frames, wore whimsical earrings, and added hair color to her curly silver locks. Her favorites were purple, pink, and blue, or a mixture of all three.

I never colored my hair, rotated between three sets of tiny hoop earrings, and stuck with my standard uniform of pants, knit top, and a cardigan, all in various shades of black, gray, navy, or cream. The one time I wore a dress my students reacted as if I’d walked in wearing lingerie. One even said he couldn’t believe I had legs.

Not sure what he thought I’d been walking on all this time.

Plain worked for me for several reasons. One, I couldn’t pull off what Georgie wore. Her choices required a level of flair I did not possess. She was also willing to put in the effort. I was not. But mostly, I preferred for the kids to focus on what I taught and not what I wore.

Not that Georgie’s style made her less effective as a teacher. She had the personality to do both: be bold and be a good educator. In my experience, this was not the norm.

Not to say I didn’t have a good personality. I could be witty when I wanted to be. But for the most part, I was sarcastic and cynical and completely uninterested in anything that wasted my time. A simple wardrobe meant I could grab and go. Hence my current outfit of comfortable jeans and a My weekend is booked T-shirt, featuring a stack of novels.

“What does he smell like?” Georgie asked, poised to write down my answer.

I swished the tea around in my drama teacher mug that featured nine phrases containing the expletive I shouted as I fell off the step stool. Needless to say, it never left the lounge. Despite being a devout thespian in high school, I never had the courage to seriously pursue the craft, but I’d managed to build a thriving drama club here at Carnegie High.

Well, more struggling than thriving these days, but I hoped to turn that around.

Keeping my answer vague, I said, “Like a man.”

Georgie narrowed her eyes. “More specific, please.”

“Like a clean man?”

In truth, he smelled like a forest after a storm in the middle of autumn, but no way was I saying that out loud.

She snapped the notebook shut. “I’ll have to find out on my own.”

“What are you going to do? See him in the hall and fall in his general direction, hoping he’ll catch you?”

Wiggling her brows, she grinned. “I have my ways.”

Of course she did.

“I’m going back to work.” Dumping the last of my now cold tea into the sink, I rinsed my mug before drying and putting it back in the cabinet. “Are you going to finish up today, or will you need to come back tomorrow?”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.” She closed the container from her leftovers and tossed it into her canvas lunch bag. “This new room is way bigger than my old one. I need to hit the store tonight for more storage containers and another shelf. Maybe two.”

Georgie taught freshman, and this year’s class was the largest incoming group in a decade. She was going to need that space. My room was mostly done, but I’d likely need another day to finish the details. I hated changing things around once school started. The kids should be able to come in and be comfortable in the space, easily learning the layout.

The less change the better.

“I’ll be here, too.” After tossing the empty box from my Kung Pau chicken, I led the way to the door. “Unless I get more done this afternoon than expected, but I can always use tomorrow to polish up my lesson plans.”

The curriculum was pretty locked in, but I tried to keep things fresh. The lack of attention to my appearance did not carry over into my work. Teaching was the only job I ever wanted to do, and if I planned to keep going for another twenty-plus years, I had to make the classes as interesting for me as they were for the kids.

Georgie was still gathering her things when I reached the door, but before I could grab the handle to pull, the thing flew open, missing my nose by inches and sending me reeling backwards. A strong hand reached out and grabbed my wrist, keeping me from crashing into the tables behind me.

Stunned and still teetering on my heels, I once again stared into the concerned eyes of Coach Collins. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

The building was crawling with teachers, but sure. No one would be in the teachers’ lounge during lunch time .

“I’m fine,” I said, jerking my arm away and straightening my clothes. “Do you have it out for me or something?”

“Are you always this accident prone?” he shot back, though the curve of his full lips took away a bit of the sting.

Fine. The step stool had been my own fault, but I wasn’t taking the blame for simply leaving a room.

“Maybe if you weren’t trying to fling the door off the hinges.”

“Like I said, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“You must be Coach Collins,” Georgie cut in, shoving me aside. “I’m Georgie Drysdale. Freshman English and American Lit.”

He accepted her outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you, Georgie. Please, call me Trey.”

My cohort giggled like a pre-teen. “Oh, I’m sure everyone will call you Coach, but Trey is a nice name.”

No doubt her next book hero would bear that name.

“Either works,” he said with a smile.

The three of us stood in an awkward silence for several seconds, Georgie gawking like a teenager meeting her favorite idol, and me fighting the urge to slap some sense into her.

“We were leaving,” I said, tugging the befuddled woman into the hall.

As we walked, she kept glancing back toward the lounge. “Why didn’t you tell me he smells that good? Holy crap. Did you see those eyes? Ice blue. And that jaw line. I write these guys but I never meet them in real life.” Lowering her voice, she added, “I bet there are six-pack abs under that shirt.”

“Good for him,” I muttered.

Muscles or no muscles, I wanted nothing to do with any man, Coach Collins or otherwise. They were tiresome, overbearing, and needy little creatures, and dealing with teenagers on a daily basis was all the neediness I wanted in my life.