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“Umm, yes.”

The group looks between each other and immediately starts giggling. I try not to think too hard about whether they’re giggling about me. They’re still whispering about something as their teacher comes in.

The rest of the day is a blur of lessons and note-taking. I tour the facilities with the headmistress Marina, and nod sagely as she uses the phrase “fostering excellence” three times in five minutes. I stand through a Year 9 football practice—in wind that seems to have come directly from Siberia—because the words “sport is central to school life” were on the old website. Then I end the day with a painfully earnest Q&A with the head boy and head girl, who I’m fairly certain both plan to run the country by the time they’re twenty-one.

Throughout it all I manage not to see Tom.

I know I’ve slightly gone into avoidance, but I’m at work, and I need a day to figure out how to deal with this situation. Unfortunately the lesson earlier confirmed that I still have a very large crush on Tom. A crush I need to sit down, process, and work out what to do with.

Nobody should be as mesmerised as I was by a man fielding questions about the National Assembly. But watching Tom answer student questions, even from the ones who seemed too nervous to ask at first, was amazing to see.

By half four my notebook is full, my feet are finished, and my heels have stopped clicking and started dragging. The exit is in sight at the end of the main corridor when I suddenly spot Tom ahead of me.

Crap.

I’m not mentally ready for a one-on-one “friend” interaction.

I execute a tactical retreat, by which I mean I spin around too fast, trip over my own feet, and collide with someone coming around the corner.

“Shit, sorry,” I gasp, scrambling to scoop up the scattered stack of exercise books now decorating the floor.

A guy with dark hair and glasses is looking at me with the kind of expression that says I’m going to enjoy this.

“Hi,” he says, “I’m James. One of the maths teachers.” Then he grins widely. “Avoiding someone?” he asks, far too casually, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Because my Year 12 maths class were gossiping this afternoon about how my close friend Tom called a blonde woman from the marketing team ‘Buttercup’, and then proceeded to blush all lesson.”

I consider lying. I consider running. But like I told myself earlier: I’m a mature and emotionally balanced woman.

Instead, I hand him a trampled maths workbook and say, “I’m Claire, and no, I’m not avoiding anyone. I just love a dramatic exit.”

James smiles again. He’s cute in a nerdy way, slim like Tom but slightly shorter. “So what did Fordy do to deserve the hallway sidestep of doom? And don’t deny it, I know it was him, I saw him disappearing around the corner just now. Did he nearly bore you to death with too many history jokes?”

I open my mouth to defend the history jokes, before remembering that’s not what a mature, emotionally balanced woman would do.

“He didn’t do anything, I just thought I’d dropped something.”

“Sure,” James says. “So you two know each other?”

“We do.” I then accidentally proceed like someone speed texting an ex at 2 a.m., knowing this moment will haunt me later. Possibly even forever. “I’m best friends with his sister, and yeah, there was a thing, but not really. But now there is no thing, and everything’s fine.”

What is wrong with me? Do I need medical attention? Is there a nurse on the premises? Can you become ill from saying the word thing too many times? I hate to call Kath, but maybe she’ll be able to give me insight as a doctor.

James lets out a low whistle. “Ah. That explains the blush.”

“I don’t blush,” I say, averting my eyes.

“You’re blushing right now.”

I groan and cover my face. “Please don’t tell him I crashed into you, and then crashed out, just to avoid casual eye contact in the corridor.”

James holds up a hand like he’s swearing an oath. “Your secret’s safe with me.” Then he pauses. “So you do like him?”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re worse than the teenagers.”

James looks flattered.

“Anyway,” I say quickly, adjusting the strap of my bag, “is the coast clear?”

He glances theatrically down the corridor. “Looks safe. But if you sprint away now it will make you look guilty.”