He followed the movement of her hand, swallowing over a throat as dry as chalk dust. “We had one of those at my old school, but I hadn’t seen any evidence of it here.”
“Most exchanges are kept pretty quiet. A file cabinet for a work table. A new desk in return for sponsoring the Latin Club.” She shook her head. “That was an ill-advised agreement, by the way. Poor Magistra Anderson. Between the two of us, it wasn’t grape juice in her clay cup at the Saturnalia feast last year. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been shouting that particular Catullus poem from her dining couch.”
He tried to imagine Magistra Anderson, nearing retirement age and seemingly frail, drunk and shouting semi-obscene poetry in a retrofitted sheet.
Yeah, that sounded about right. Especially given the Faculty Holiday Party Incident, as his colleagues chose to refer to the event. Like any good Roman, the woman enjoyed her wine.
But that wasn’t the point.
“Are you saying my chair may not be safe here over the summer?” He pursed his lips. “I took it home last year, but I was hoping to leave it from now on, because that thing is a behemoth.”
She tilted her head back against the lavishly cushioned seat, her eyes closing. A small, blissful smile teased the corners of her mouth. “Outright theft is rare, and your chair is too distinctive to offer plausible deniability. Normally, I’d say you’re fine. But now, having sat in it…”
With her lips parted, her face soft with pleasure, Candy wasn’t simply striking.
A reckless surge of heat incinerated his thoughts and left him tangle-tongued.
“Now I think you’d better research how to install LoJack on a desk chair, Griff. Otherwise, it may go missing.” Her eyes opened, and her smile turned into a wide, deliciously wicked grin. “If it does, don’t check next door.”
Despite his ever-increasing agitation, he had to respond. “Should I prepare for the My New Desk Chair Is DefinitelyNotGriff’s Purloined Possession Initiative?”
“Perhaps.” Leaning the chair back, she heaved a lusty sigh. “Oh, yes. Flights of angels would definitely sing me to my rest in this seat.”
Distracted from his own lust, he frowned at her.
She snickered. “Rest in the most literal sense, Griff. I’m not actually going to die of excessive comfort in your desk chair.” Then she sobered and levered herself back to vertical. “Which is a terrible, awkward, tone-deaf segue, but by now, you should know not to expect better from me.”
Whatever this conversation would contain, he’d likely prefer to avoid. But avoiding something Candy wished to discuss was much like attempting to avoid an incoming, football-field-size asteroid by dodging a few feet to the left. Ultimately pointless. Guaranteed to be loud and fiery and painful.
So he crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
“Thank you. For yesterday.” Resting both forearms on his desk, she tapped her cast with the fingertips of her right hand. “I’m still…”
Her gulp shifted the shadows contouring her throat. “I’m still, um…sad.” She bit her lip, then forced herself to continue. “Guilty. Angry at myself and her. But I didn’t have nightmares last night. I didn’t wake up crying. Talking helped. So thank you.”
She was trying so hard. Using the direct words they both avoided at all costs.
That determination of hers could heave mountains from the flat earth.
He inclined his head, honoring her efforts. “You’re welcome.”
Tap, tap, tap.
Desperate to forestall further gratitude, he jerked his chin toward her cast.
“What are you doing?” When her dark eyebrow cocked in mute answer, he amended, “What are you attempting to accomplish with what you’re doing?”
She glared down at her cast. “My skin itches beneath this albatross.”
“Because you’re healing.” And thank heavens for it. “Good.”
Now the scowl transferred to him. “I’m itching because I can’t wash under there, and I’m dirty.” More tapping, now a bit more forceful. “It’s a travesty that modern medicine hasn’t made this process less onerous.”
Tap, tap,tap.
She was going to damage something if she didn’t stop.
“Candy—” he began.
