He’d have to come to terms with that shift soon, one way or another. He’d have to make a decision about what he intended, and whether he could live with those intentions.
Especially since the feel of Candy in his arms, her softness and solidity and heat, the way her generous breasts molded to his chest and his legs tangled in her skirt, prickled at his nape and zapped down his spine to his—
Well.
The body electric, indeed.
Slowly, gently, Candy stepped out of his embrace. An arm’s length away, she studied him with her hands on her hips. He had no idea what she was searching for.
Worse, he had no idea what she saw.
“Thank you,” she finally said. “I feel…better. Not great, but better.”
He nodded, his fingers curling in on emptiness, rather than warm flesh. “Like I told you, I talked to a grief counselor after Marianne was gone. If you start feeling worse again, you might want to consider—”
She held up a hand. “I know, I know. If I’m not more myself soon, I’ll see a grief counselor or find a support group. I promise.”
That was a vast leap for someone like her. Vaster than he even understood, probably.
“Good.” He inclined his head, suddenly awkward. “You deserve to feel better.”
Still watching him, she opened her mouth. Shut it.
“What?” he finally asked.
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “You’ll figure it out eventually.”
Her words were unwontedly gentle. Tender in a way that stung more than a shout. Too frustratingly opaque for him to formulate a decent response.
“Let’s talk about the initiative tomorrow, if that’s doable for you.” Gathering her notebook from his desk, she tapped it against her thigh. “I think we both need some time.”
“All right,” he said.
As she walked away, he didn’t stop her, didn’t ask her to explain herself, didn’t—
“Griff?”
She paused in the doorframe, eyes swollen and reddened, blouse tearstained, chin resolute, her smile as small and warm and soft as a catkin on a pussy willow.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
“Yes?” He raised his brows in inquiry.
That bloodshot gaze didn’t waver. “It might be time to get up off your knees too.”
Then she turned and left.
He stared after her.
Outside his windows, clouds scuttered across the sun, and his classroom abruptly dimmed. He hadn’t noticed a chill even moments before, but now, between the shadows and the relentless air conditioning, his tear-soaked shirt prompted a shiver. Still, he didn’t reach for his jacket. Didn’t move.
Eventually, the echoing thuds of her steps faded to nothing, leaving him only the analog tick of his classroom clock as company.
As a metaphor enthusiast, he had to admit: That seemed fair.
Five
