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“Sort of.” He rubbed a sudden discomfort in his chest.
“Are you working on a book?”
He didn’t know how to answer that. He had a deadline, but he couldn’t work on the book until he both settled things at Folio and returned to Afghanistan. That was how he operated—research, story, writing. Rinse and repeat.
Instead, he was in a classroom. He’d agreed to this teaching gig because he needed something to do. In the weeks he was stuck here, he’d only be able to stand so much fishing and hiking. And he’d already discovered there wasn’t much else to do in Bliss Cove, which meant he’d be bored out of his mind if he didn’t have a constructive task.
“Have you taught high school before?” Grace asked.
“I’ve never taught anything.”
“Why did you agree to do this, then?”
“I like doing things I’ve never done before.”
She blinked, then laughed again—though this time, her laughter had a disbelieving edge. “Teaching requires a significant commitment, Mr. Atwood.”
“Lincoln.”
“Lincoln.” When she said theLpart of his name, her tongue peeked out from between her teeth. Again he noticed the slight diagonal chip in her front left incisor. He imagined puttinghistongue there.
Heat pooled in his lower body. He shifted in the too-small desk chair and cleared his throat. “So what do I need to do?”
“According to the principal, we’ll have to work on redoing my curriculum.” She studied her planner with a slight frown. The calendar squares were all filled with perfectly neat writing in different colors.
“I teach poetry and Shakespeare,” she explained, “though I’ve been including work from other writers, especially women, who haven’t been given enough credit for their contribution to literature. I’m afraid I have no idea how to make any of my lessons relate to your fiction. Maybe we can discuss common themes or textual connections?”
“I didn’t intend for you to redo anything.” Lincoln suddenly wished he hadn’t signed the contract before talking to her. “I agreed to talk to your students about writing and publishing, but there’s no need for you to change your lesson plan.”
“But the point of the specialist program is for you to give the students an overview of how writing and literature can be put to use in the real world, so to speak.”
“I can still do that without messing with your curriculum.”
She met his gaze, and the tightness in her features relaxed a little. “How much do you know about Shakespeare?”
“Whatever I learned in Professor Gunther’s upper-level literature class, senior year. But if you give me a crash course in Shakespeare, I’ll catch up. I’m a fast learner.”
She put her pen down, regarding him with curiosity. “Even if it hadn’t been for the rhubarb pie, you’re not what I expected.”
He ignored another rustle of unease. “You mean a hard-drinking chauvinist with no heart?”
She made a noise of amused embarrassment. “I’m really sorry. I don’t actually know much about you or your work. I guess I could use a crash course in Lincoln Atwood.”
He wanted to give her one.
The intense urge almost caught him off guard. He spoke to reporters, interviewers, and readers about his books, but he’d always kept his personal life as private as possible.
His brother had been the one to tell the world about their parents’ volatile relationship and all the conflict and dysfunctional dynamics that splintered through their family. Lincoln had never talked about it.
Grace closed her planner and arranged her pens in a neat little row. “Well, if you’d like to come back early tomorrow, I can—”
“Grace Berry?” A big, barrel-chested man strode into the room, his face red with anger and a wrinkled piece of paper gripped in one hand.
Lincoln shot to his feet, blocking Grace from the sudden intrusion.
The man came to a halt and held up the paper. “I want to talk to Grace Berry.”
“That’s me.” She put her hand on Lincoln’s arm, the slight pressure telling him to step aside. He didn’t.
