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“I’m excellent at ensemble work,” he says. He must know how he looks, all casual and leaning and relaxed.
I swallow.
“I don’t know what that means,” I say. I have got to get my respiration in control.
He smiles at me. “Group projects. Collaboration.”
When did those words become sexy? I swear, I can feel my heart pounding in rhythm to his voice saying “collaboration, collaboration.”
I start to edge my hand away from his. He doesn’t loosen his grip, and I don’t try too hard.
Sitting on the step, he looks up into my face, a look of gentle kindness in his eyes. Giving my hand a small squeeze, he says, “I think we’re going to be a good team, but we have to face facts. Only one of us can get the chair position. They want to see us work together, but when it comes down to making a choice, it’s going to be me. I’ve been doing this longer. I have more experience. I know things you haven’t had a chance to learn yet.”
Wow.
That could mean anything. He’s making assumptions. And my face is growing hotter.
No. Not that. He’s talking about staging school events.
Right?
But I want to know the things I don’t know. And I want him to teach me.
Get it together, brain,I tell myself.
“A new perspective makes every project more valuable,” I say. “And I’m the expert on perspective here.”
He shrugs, maybe in agreement. Maybe not. “You know a thing or two,” he concedes. “And I’m open to new ideas.”
I nod, and I feel his fingers tighten around mine.
Time to get this back on track. “I have a couple of students with some great ideas,” I say, still not pulling my hand away. It’s been a long while since my stomach went all swoopy from holding hands. Maybe I’m regressing. I blame being here around all these teenagers.
He moves his thumb along the outside of my hand, and I feel a shudder zing through me. Okay. Time to go.
I pull my hand away. “How about you find a couple more kids who are interested, and we can have a planning meeting with them? This weekend?”
Did I make it perfectly clear that I was scheduling a meeting? With kids? As in, not a date? Not a chance for him to show me his French accent? I think so, but his eyes are doing this smoldering thing.
I turn away.
“Just let me know,” I say over my shoulder. My hair whips as I turn my head away, and I hope it doesn’t look like I’m trying to give him some sort of seductive hair-toss. Is that even a thing? Because that’s not what I’m doing. Just turning away. Walking away. Moving away across the grass.
Is he still watching me? Can I look back and see if he is? If I do, and he is, he will see me. But he’ll know I caught him watching. But he’ll see me look back. He’ll think I’m looking back. Because if I turn around, I will actually be looking back.
High school is not good for me. I am definitely regressing.
