Chapter 7: : Chapter 7

Life is strange indeed.

It’s Friday, and I’m sitting in a job interview at the high school—the very last place I considered working.

Nervous, I stare down at my hands, carefully manicured and painted a navy blue by Sabine last night while we watched D ownton Abbey. My clothes finally arrived from Piper, my roommate in New York, and I’m dressed like a professional: maroon silk blouse, a snazzy little navy blazer, a gold pencil skirt—Bobcats colors. Best of all, I have killer gold Gucci stilettos with crystals over the tips of the toes, just a tiny bit of bling because too much might scare the people of Blue Belle. My hair is tamed, scraped back in a sleek, high ponytail. My understated makeup says, Hire me. I’m a serious professional.

I hold my breath as P rincipal Lancaster checks out my résumé—which I typed up last night on my laptop, then printed out on regular paper. Mrs. Meadows told me about the opening when she popped by for a chat on Monday. My dear, they’re hiring at the high school. I’m not sure what for, but you should go . . .

I should start calling her Lois. She’s been helpful—even though I did catch her flipping through Mama’s personal recipe book. I had to wrestle it out of her hands. Okay, not really, but nobody gets Mama’s jelly recipe.

I squirm in the straight-backed chair as I take in the man across from me at the big oak desk. New to me, he’s i n his late fifties, stately looking with a full head of short gray hair and black glasses.

The administrative offices have been updated since I walked the halls of Blue Belle. A soft beige color is on the walls, along with photos of Principal Lancaster with various townsfolk. Lois is in two—one of her cutting a yellow ribbon for the new football stadium a few years back and another of her with the team last year at the state finals. Ronan is front and center, his arms around players, a happy grin on his face. A sigh leaves me. I remember that grin. It reminds me of the one he wore when he accepted the Heisman. The world will be mine.

“You taught at a preschool?” he asks, glancing up and breaking me out of my reverie.

My hands twist in my lap. Being an art teacher was an unexpected career choice. I wanted to work at a gallery or in graphic design, but those jobs were competitive and hard to come by after graduation. I did odd jobs—radio work, office clerking, bartending—until I scored a small gallery job that I adored. It lasted for two years; then the store unexpectedly closed. My roommate worked at the preschool and got me a position there.

I clear my throat. “Yes, the B lair Preschool in Manhattan. I was in charge of the art department for five years.” I taught three- and four-year-old toddlers how to finger paint—with a little Van Gogh thrown in. Parents paid fifty grand a year to send their kids there, and I enjoyed it, but the salary was barely enough to pay my bills.

“You have some experience in education. Nice.”

“Yes.”

He steeples his hands together and gives me a friendly look. “Well, Ms. Morgan, we’d like to offer you a position here at Blue Belle High.”

Surprise ripples over me.

No questions about my strengths and weaknesses? No calling my references?

I scoot a little closer to the edge of the seat. “I don’t have a teaching degree.”

He nods. “Our enrollment exceeded our expectations this year. Basically, we’re overcrowded and scrambling to get our class size down and hire new teachers. This position has been open for two weeks, and no one with a teaching degree has applied. Thankfully, the state allows special accommodations for this, and, well, Mrs. Meadows vouched for you. She’s one of our board members.” He smiles. “She came to my barbecue this weekend and told me this story about you climbing her apple tree.”

I let out an unsure chuckle.

“Anyway . . . we’d love to have you on board as a Bobcat. And . . . if you find that you want to continue here as a teacher next school year, we’d ask that you find classes to get teacher accreditation. Many places are online these days. You can even count your teaching experience this year as your practicum credit. I feel confident our enrollment is going to soar, especially with our football program. Everyone wants to be at a winning school, right?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, we’d have you back next year if things work out.” Then he tells me the salary, one that’s considerably more than I made in New York.

“What would I be teaching? Art?” I ask hopefully. Whatever it is, bring it, but please don’t let it be algebra . . . or English . . . or history . . . or, Jesus, any kind of science.

He removes his glasses and sets them on the desk. “You’ll have a part-time English position. Juniors. How do you feel about J ulius Caesar? I do believe that’s on the curriculum.”

I know nothing about Julius except that he got stabbed in the back by his best friend. I can relate.

He must see the disappointment on my face.

“Miss Burns has taught art for years,” he says, studying me. “Perhaps one day that position will be open, Ms. Morgan, but not today.”

“I see.”

“We already filled the algebra job, and the English one is the only—”

“I love English,” I gush. “Adore it. My favorite subject. You said part time?”

He nods. “Officially, you’d be a Blue Belle teacher, and you’d report to me for those duties, but we also need a personal assistant for Coach Smith, which makes it a full-time job. The booster club is covering that portion of your salary. Does that sound doable?” He smiles. “Lois mentioned you’re quite the football fan.”

A sharp breath comes from me. This feels a little like a bait and switch. Get the girl excited about teaching America’s youth, then throw in the wrench. “Right . . .”

He pulls a sheet of paper from his desk and slides it over for me to take. “Here’s the syllabus for the classes if you want to be sure you’re up for this.”

I glance over it, the words running together. Yep, there’s Julius Caesar, poetry, a term paper—oh my God. I may have to study for this.

“As far as helping Coach, here’s a list of some duties, but you two can work that out. It’s up to him.” He gives me another paper. “Our goal is to free up time for Coach. He’s hardworking and talented as hell—pardon me—and we want him to stay. He put in a request for a part-time PA, and we’ve been waiting for the right person . . .”

He says more things, and I’m nodding, my mind racing as I think about Ronan. Yes, we had a chat in the bookstore where I said way too much to him, and we fake kissed, but I haven’t heard a peep from him or noticed him walking at night. Which is fine. I don’t want to see him.

Plus, that kiss is going to complicate things if we work together.

Honestly?

I’d rather teach a bunch of horny teenagers throwing spitballs at my face than be his PA.

H e awakens something in my body; therefore, he is dangerous.

I glance down at the duties.

Answer phones in Coach’s office. (Doable.)

Manage calendar/Book travel. (Fine. Anyone, even Sparky, could do this.)

Social media. (Take pics and post them.)

Management of fan mail. (People do that? Yes, this is Texas.)

Manage personal appearances. (Ronan needs help for the Waffle House?)

Manage pep rallies. (Seriously?)

I’m in high school all over again—only I’ll have to hang out with the super hot, full-of-himself football coach.

Sweat rolls down my back. Plus I’ll be around my ex . . .

“Well. What do you think, Ms. Morgan? Can you handle this?”

This is money and stability, and it might mean a job next year. Hope rises, a little thing that flutters in my chest, painting a vision of me teaching art someday . . .

My fingers tighten around the paper as I look up at him with a smile. “I accept.”

The door opens, and Ronan stalks in, filling up the office with his height. Wearing khaki pants that hug his ass, an expensive blue dress shirt, and a navy baseball hat with his hair curling around the edges, he should look like any coach, but dammit, he just doesn’t!

He stops when he sees me.

“Sorry, Denny. I didn’t realize you had someone in here,” he says to the principal, but those ice-blue eyes track all over me, from the top of my ponytail to the tips of my stilettos. I ease one out so he can get a better view. That’s right. Check it. I’ve got great legs. And sexy shoes. I don’t always wear joggers and boxers.

His gaze skates up my face and ends on my ponytail. His lips twitch as he puts those hands on his hips. “Nova.”

“Me,” I say with what I hope is optimism.

“Thanks for coming in from your class, Coach.” The principal stands and sends a head nudge in my direction. “The hunt is over. We hired Ms. Morgan, a hometown girl, to be your part-time PA. Her credentials are amazing.”

I bite my lip. That is just not true.

“She’s just what we’re looking for. Just perfect,” the principal adds.

I hear a lot of satisfaction in his voice. My gaze lands on the photo of him with Lois. One, Lois told me about the job; two, she vouched for me; three, she went to his house; and four, she’s head of the committee to get Coach hitched. Even an idiot can see right through this. I’m the new girl up to bat. Only they don’t know that we have a history . . .

Lois is a meddling minx, but this is exponentially better than Pizza Hut.

“Is she?” Ronan says, crossing his arms. “I thought you usually hired a college intern.”

Principal Lancaster nods and murmurs about how there weren’t any interns available this semester, and with the extra enrollment and the need for teachers, he decided to kill two birds with one stone, thus giving me a full-time position.

Ronan nods during his spiel, his gaze entirely on me.

Before he can argue that he doesn’t want me for the job, I stand up—gracefully, using all those classes Mama put me through—and glide over to him and put my hand out. I use my sweet smile on him and infuse my voice with excitement. “I can’t wait for us to work together, Coach.”

I literally have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into. On the outside, I’m cool, but on the inside, I’m quivering with uncertainty. Not only do I have to figure out high school English, but I’ll be assisting Ronan, and I’m not sure he’s on board.

The three of us walk out of the principal’s office to the front desk, where a secretary sits, her head cocked with a phone to her ear. She hurriedly gets off the phone and rushes over to us.

Principal Lancaster explains that I’ll be starting next week; then the secretary leaves to get paperwork and a laptop for me. Principal Lancaster shakes my hand and goes back to his office while Ronan heads for the exit. I trail after him. He’s not getting away from me now. We’ve got to talk about this.

Melinda breezes in, red hair twirled up, a tight green dress on. I inhale. Dang. She is pretty. But a little evil.

“Coach Smith? Do you have a moment?” she calls sweetly, ignoring me as she walks up to us.

“Hmm,” comes from him.

“I baked a pie for you. Pecan. I put your name on it in the staff lounge. I remember you said that was your favorite . . .” She gives him a glossy smile and touches his arm. He eases it away.

“Ah. Thank you,” he says tersely, then shoots me a pointed look, as if to say, See?

I lift my shoulders. What does he want me to do about it? If our kiss didn’t work, then I’m out of solutions. I can’t be kissing him every time we see her.

“Why are you here?” she finally asks me, her lashes shielding her gaze as it darts from me to Ronan.

“I’ll be teaching English.”

Her nose flares. “Oh. You’re the fill-in when they couldn’t find anyone else.” She gives me a tight-lipped smile. “I teach English. If you need any help, let me know. I have a master’s in English literature.”

“Of course,” I say. “Thank you for the offer. It’s very kind of you.”

“You’re very welcome,” she says in a syrupy tone, then walks past us.

“Not on my life will I ask her,” I mutter.

Ronan’s lips curl. “But she was so nice. And so were you.”

“Southern girls are born being nice, but they don’t always mean it. Now, if she’d said ‘bless your heart,’ we might have had a tussle. Everyone knows what that means. It’s pity with a dash of condescension.”

“I learn more and more every day,” he murmurs.

“How did the ranch lady from the Roadhouse work out for you?” I ask, reaching for normal before I bring up the job.

“Awesome. We roped some cows. Rode some stallions.”

“Never called her, huh?”

“Nope.”

A bell pings for the class change, and there’s a rush of other faculty in the office and down a breezeway adjacent to us that connects other offices.

My breath hitches when Andrew enters, then walks toward us, his head down, papers in his hands. My eyes eat him up: the s hort dirty-blond hair, the square chin, the dimple that softens his angular jawline. He’s wearing slacks and a striped dress shirt, his shoulders broad, his build lean and muscled.

His lips quirk up in a familiar way—one he used to do when he was amused—and my chest feels a rush of emotion, most of which I can’t define. My hand reaches out and clutches Ronan’s arm. He covers it with his hand and gives me a squeeze.

“Don’t let him see you sweat,” he whispers.

“Is that another Chinese military strategy?” I swallow thickly, not moving. Not yet. I haven’t laid eyes on him in almost nine years. I skipped our five- and ten-year reunions, and when I registered Sabine for her classes this year, we came early and left immediately. I mean, I knew I’d probably run into him at some point at a school function, but I pushed it to the back of my mind. I had other things to focus on.

Someone calls his name, and Andrew glances up, sees me, and stops in his tracks. His mouth opens. “Nova?” Shock colors his voice. He flicks his eyes at Ronan, his brow furrowing, then back at me. “What are you doing here?”

Sure, I’m a confident girl; I’ve supported myself in the city, I made friends, I worked my ass off, and I lived happily. I fell in and out of infatuation several times—a surface feeling, mostly with athletes, those easy-come-easy-go relationships.

But . . .

He’s the reason I hid a small piece of myself from every man. There’s no trust in my heart, and a part of me picked risky relationships on purpose, knowing they’d end the way I expected, and as long as I knew it was coming, then I wouldn’t be devastated. I’m not surprised Zane’s eyes wandered and found a flight attendant. I always knew he wasn’t permanent because I wasn’t permanent. I’ve never loved anyone but Andrew.

He comes closer, rising amazement on his face, and I inch closer to Ronan.

The last time I spoke to Andrew, he’d shown up at my dorm room at NYU, reeking of alcohol, his face haggard. It was a week before his wedding, and he’d gotten on a plane and flown to New York. He came inside and begged me to come back. I’m lost without you. I miss you. I love you. I need you. I made one mistake. Can’t you forgive me? You’re the one I’m supposed to be with. You’re my sunshine. We can’t let them keep us apart . . .

We sat on my bed while he made his case. We’d grown up together, he’d loved me from the moment of our first kiss, he’d carved our names in the oak tree at the front of the school, he’d give up his inheritance, we were meant to be forever and ever . . .

He looked deep into my eyes, crying as he got on his knees and asked me to take a chance on him, to come back to UT, and we’d find a way to figure out the baby and Paisley.

I said yes.

And when I woke up the next day, he was gone. Betrayed. Twice.

I still can’t find my voice, and Ronan takes over, his voice curt. “She’s the new English teacher and my PA.”

Then he’s sweeping me out of the office and into a busy hallway.

I wrestle with my feelings, leaning against his hard frame, and I straighten, but he tugs me back. “Not yet. He might have come out. Let him know you don’t care—even though you obviously do.”

A long exhale comes from my chest. How on earth am I going to do this job with Andrew here?

Keeping me next to him, Ronan maneuvers us through a crowd of teenagers. All eyes are on us, the students giving him appreciative, admiring glances and calling out, “Coach Smith! Hey! Good morning! Great game!”

We make it through the throng to an empty area, and I focus on what’s front and center.

After clearing my throat, I ask, “How unhappy are you that I got this job? If you wanted someone else, you could have spoken up in his office.”

He doesn’t reply.

We’ve turned a corner in the hall, and he stops at a door, opens it quickly, and tugs me inside.

I look around at the . . . storage closet. It’s shadowy and small, about ten feet by ten, with shelves stacked with paper towels, hand sanitizer, pencils, pens, paper . . . “Nice office. Where do I put my desk, Coach?”

“It’s Ronan when we’re alone,” he says gruffly.

“Is this going to work between us or not?”

“Nova. Are you okay?”

His hands land on my shoulders as his gaze searches my face intently. His thumbs stroke my tense muscles, but I don’t think he’s aware of it. Sparks zing over my skin, goose bumps rising where he touches me, and I will them to disappear. This isn’t sexual. He’s truly worried about me.

Carefully banked emotion rears its head, and I swallow, blinking back the tears that have been hiding under the surface since I saw Andrew.

“I—I knew it was coming. I just . . .” Kinda flaked.

“I’m sorry for it.”

“Thank you for getting me out of there. Next time will be better.”

“Sure.” He drops his hands, almost reluctantly, then gives me his profile, messing with his hat. Realization dawns. The hat and collar pulling is his tic when he’s unsure. I saw him do it at his party, then on my porch and at the bookstore. Those scars.

“I wish you’d look at me.”

He starts at my frank words, then turns to take me in. “Okay.”

“I need this job,” I say softly. “I’ve been foisted on you, and maybe it is unfair, but there’s Sabine and the house and my school loans . . .” I bite my lip. “I’m sorry. We both know Lois got me this job.”

He leans against the door, and I do the same, our eyes holding. The sound of students out in the hall fades as the silence builds between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. We seem to have created our own little bubble.

“I see,” he murmurs as he searches my face. “Money troubles.”

I nod. “I gave my word to Mama that if anything happened to her, I’d do the best for my sister. And when I give my word, I mean it. Honor and loyalty are important to me. We don’t have any other family close by, and I can’t take her back to New York. This is her home.”

After the moments stretch, I ask, “What are you thinking?”

A deep exhale comes from his chest. “I’m thinking about a lot of things. We’re going to have to take them bit by bit. First is that kiss.”

I feel color rising on my cheeks. “What about it?”

His voice grows husky. “It’s kept me awake at night.”

My skin hums with electricity. “Oh.”

He dips his head, breaking our gaze. “With that aside . . . I have a plan—or a proposal, whatever.”

“What is it?”

His head rises. He gives me a long look, pausing at my sparkly shoes. His face softens as a huff comes from his chest. “You are something in that outfit. I like the mascot colors.”

“I like fashion. You’ve never seen me dressed up.”

His lips twitch. Ah, that’s his amused tic. “Haven’t I?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“Nothing.” He takes a step closer to me, until I can smell his cologne, something with hints of wood and leather. “Here’s a quote for you: ‘I n the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.’ Sun Tzu. Keep that in mind.”

“Okay.” My shoulders straighten. Here comes the strengths-and-weaknesses interview . . .

“First, here are the facts. You just saw Andrew, and based on your reaction, it’s going to be hard for you, yes? You’ll have to see him at faculty meetings, in the hallway, at lunch . . .”

I wince.

He nods. “My proposal is . . . since we’ll be spending time together, we help each other out. I want Melinda to ease off, and you want to show Andrew you aren’t pining—”

“Not pining,” I mutter.

“Regardless, he is here,” he says gently. “He and I don’t have the best relationship. We’re polite on the surface, but he was slated to get the head football job; then I came along and took it. He was offered an assistant’s job but declined and went back to basketball.”

“Oh.”

“My proposal is . . .” He bites his bottom lip with his top teeth, pulling at it slowly, and the gesture is somehow vulnerable yet sexy. “We pretend to date.”

My chest takes a deep breath. “Oh.”

“You can say no. I don’t want you to feel as if you have to say yes. The job is yours regardless. I mean that.”

“Okay.”

He lets out an exhale. “The booster club keeps throwing women at me; you saw my birthday party. The whole town is involved. Melinda works with me. Hell, she came to my house in lingerie. I need to date someone as a buffer. Plus, she’s already seen us kiss, so it wouldn’t be a big surprise.”

“I see.” My mind races. Who on earth pretend dates? It’s silly and ridiculous.

“They picked you for a reason, and once they think we’re together, everyone will back off, especially Melinda. Plus, you aren’t interested in me like that . . .” He arches a brow, as if waiting for me to reply.

“Hmm, right,” I say.

“HR allows teachers to date, and if you say yes, I can let them know, make it official, and get the ball rolling. Once they know, word will get around fast, and there’s not much we’d have to do.”

My eyes thin. “You know the HR rules for romantic relationships?”

“I’ve looked into it.”

“Interesting. Have you considered dating anyone here, ever?”

He frowns. “Of course not. I don’t plan on being here long. I don’t do relationships.”

So why was he looking into dating someone he worked with?

“You’ll break their hearts when you leave.” I saw those faces in the hall, those looks of admiration and hope. “They want you to stay.”

A frown furrows his forehead. “I’m not a bad person, Nova. The administration knows my plan.”

Right, but that high enrollment for next year would mean a job for me and probably more people. Sabine told me that the last coach here hadn’t gotten us to state in five years—and now we have Ronan Smith, a winner. Those athletic scholarships mean everything to these kids. To the community.

A bell rings, signaling class has started.

He whips off his hat and rakes a hand through his hair. “Well? What do you think?”

“What does fake dating involve?”

“A date to a function. A kiss after a game. Whatever you want. I would never do anything you didn’t want to . . .” He trails off, heat flashing in his eyes. “We have chemistry, Nova.”

The air in the room thins. “We don’t.”

He stares at me for at least five seconds, and with each moment that ticks by, my body becomes more aware of his. My nipples pebble under my bra.

As if he knows, he laughs under his breath. “Right. Come by the house tomorrow, and let me know your decision. Later, Princess.” He opens the door and leaves.

The halls are silent as I exit the school. Fake dating dances in my head. It would make things easier for him, and it would provide me with a Hey, look who I’m with whenever I see Andrew. Plus, it’s not like I’m interested in dating anyone else. I have a career to think about now, and being his arm candy would help my street cred with the whole town.

The issue is . . .

What if I like spending time with him?

What if I miss him when he’s gone?

And we can’t forget . . . I’m inherently weak when it comes to jocks.

Nope. Not a good idea at all.

It’s not until I’ve cranked the Caddy that it dawns on me.

He called me Princess.

I bang my head on the steering wheel.