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Chapter 7
The morning after the Lincoln Atwood debacle, Grace discovered she had just enough money left on a Java Works gift card from Teacher Appreciation Day to get herself a large toasted marshmallow caramel mocha with extra whip.
As signs went, it wasn’t exactly rainbows bursting from thunderclouds, but then again rainbows weren’t loaded with enough sugar, caffeine, and chocolate to buzz her through the rest of the day.
And she desperately needed the holy trifecta considering she’d been up half the night watching bad TV and worrying about Lincoln. If she’d provoked him enough to make him quit the job, then she was in even more trouble than anything the Olivers could stir up.
Of course Lincoln was angry. He was an internationally acclaimed author who’d expected her to behonoredanddelightedby his eminent presence. Instead, she’d insulted him and his writing, snapped at him, admitted she didn’t even know much about him and had no idea how to teach his books, and finally informed him sharply that she neither needed nor wanted him in her classroom.
If she were him, she’d have walked out too.
Except Lincoln didn’t seem like the sensitive, easily hurt type. A man who’d spent an entire winter learning how to race sled dogs would hardly be offended by a high-school literature teacher’s flare-up, no matter how justified.
Given that she’d spent the second half of the night looking up whatever she could find about “author Lincoln Atwood,” and therefore ended up with less than thirty minutes of sleep, Grace only wished she’d had enough gift card money left for an extra-large mocha.
She bypassed her routine morning stop in the teacher’s lounge and went straight to her room. Two more days until the weekend. She hadn’t made her usual visit to her father’s last night—she hadn’t wanted to end up telling him all her crappy news—so she’d have to stop by tonight after drama club rehearsals.
After sinking down at her desk, she turned on the computer and opened her planner. Her carefully color-coded lessons all seemed to run together.
What if he comes back?
What if he doesn’t?
Through her internet sleuthing last night, she’d discovered a lot about Lincoln and his books. She’d read articles, reviews, summaries, biographies. She’d found interviews with both him and his parents.
She knew about his education and all of his awards. She’d read up on Folio Publishing. She’d looked at plenty of photos of him with beautiful women at parties and galas. She’d discovered that he didn’t even start writing a book until he’d gotten to the bones of whatever subject he was focusing on, whether it was sled dogs or contemporary treasure hunters.
But in all her searching, Grace hadn’t learned much abouthim. She didn’t know if he had any other family besides Sam, or if he was married and had children. She didn’t know about his childhood or where he lived. She didn’t know anything about his daily routine, his favorite foods, or his friends.
For all his fame and accolades, Lincoln did an excellent job of keeping his private life well hidden.
A brief knock came at the open door. He entered the room.
Grace’s heart jumped. She stood so quickly her chair rolled backward. In a tailored navy suit and striped tie, his thick hair brushed to a glossy shine, he was so strikingly handsome that her stomach twisted with a combination of pleasure and unease.
She reminded herself not to get too excited. He might have stopped by just to tell her he was quitting.
“Morning.” His gaze met hers, and a slight smile curved his mouth.
She suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands.
He placed a bakery box and a coffee tray on her desk. “This is a variety of filled and glazed doughnuts.”
Okay. Doughnuts and coffee didn’t seem like an “I quit” kind of offering.
“Looks like you already have a drink.” He nodded toward the frothy, whipped cream concoction beside her keyboard. “Good thing too, since I just got you a plain black coffee.”
Her voice did not seem to be working.
Lincoln lifted one of the coffees from the tray and stepped back. His eyes slid over her in the same assessing way he’d studied her in the diner parking lot, from the toes of her pink flats all the way up to her hastily fastened chignon. Also like the other night, his scrutiny elicited a warm glow in her blood.
“I wanted to talk to you after we’d both had a chance to…reassess,” he said.
She nodded so he wouldn’t think she was entirely incapable of communication.
“I don’t do things impulsively.” He brought the cup to his mouth. “It might not look like it, but as much as I can, I plan my research and the stuff I do. Coming to Bliss Cove and agreeing to help out in a literature class is about as spontaneous as I’ve ever been.”
Grace nodded again.
