"I'll have my secretary set something up."
"That's fine."
We stare at each other for a long moment. The air between us feels charged, dangerous. I can see him remembering that night. I can see the questions in his eyes, the confusion, maybe even hurt.
"I should let you prepare for class," he finally says.
"Yes. Thank you for the tour."
He nods and walks away, his footsteps echoing down the empty hallway.
I sink into the chair behind my desk and press my hands against my face. This is impossible. How am I supposed to work here with him? How am I supposed to maintain professional distance when every cell in my body remembers the way he touched me?
The morning passes in a blur of introductions and first-day jitters. My students are polite and engaged. The curriculum is challenging but manageable. I fall into the rhythm of teaching, the one thing that's always made sense to me.
But I feel Jack's presence throughout the day. His office window overlooks the front of the building, and I catch glimpses of him standing there, watching. Not obviously. Not inappropriately. But watching nonetheless.
During my planning period, there's a knock on my classroom door. A tall junior with dark hair and an easy smile stands in the doorway. "Miss Wilson? I'm Kyle Jorgenson. I'm in your fourth period class. Just wanted to say welcome to Riverside."
"That's very thoughtful of you, Kyle. Thank you." I smile warmly at him, touched by the gesture. "I'm looking forward to having you in class."
His smile widens. "If you need anything, like help finding supplies or whatever, just let me know." He lingers for a moment before heading back down the hallway.
By the time the final bell rings, I'm exhausted. I gather my things slowly, giving the building time to empty. The last thing I need is another encounter with Jack today.
The parking lot is nearly deserted when I finally make my way outside. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement. I'm almost to my car when I hear footsteps behind me.
"Mia."
I turn to find Jack walking toward me, his tie loosened and his jacket slung over one arm. We're alone. Completely alone.
"We need to talk about what happened. About why you really left."
5
JACK
I sit in my office long after the last teacher has left, the building silent except for the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of settling wood. The scotch burns going down, but it does nothing to erase the image of Mia Wilson standing in my doorway this morning.
Nine years. She's been gone for nine years, and I've spent every single one of them trying to forget that Fourth of July night.
I pour another finger of scotch and lean back in my leather chair, staring at the ceiling. The memory plays like a film I can't stop watching. The fireworks exploding over the lake. The heat of the summer night. The way she looked at me across Robert's study, her blue eyes dark with something I shouldn't have recognized but did.
She was eighteen. Barely legal. My best friend's daughter.
And I wanted her with an intensity that terrified me.
My marriage to Sarah was already dead by then. We were roommates pretending for Emma's sake, sleeping in separatebedrooms and barely speaking. I'd felt invisible in my own home for years.
But Mia saw me.
She'd always been Robert's little girl, the kid who called me Uncle Jack and asked me to help with her homework. Then suddenly she wasn't a kid anymore. She was a woman with curves that made my mouth go dry and eyes that held secrets I wanted to uncover.
That night, I found her in Robert's study. She was looking at his collection of fire department memorabilia, her fingers tracing the medals and commendations. I should have left. Should have walked away.
Instead, I’d closed the door behind me.
"You shouldn't be in here alone," I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
