between his knees and knelt in front of him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was a world-class liar, but even he couldn’t pull that one off.
“Either you have a fear of public speaking or you have acute onset food poisoning from that breath mint you ate an hour ago.” Summer’s eyes were the same color as his favorite denim jacket—dark blue, soft, and comfortable.
“Fresh breath is a priority.”
His wit was rewarded with rich, throaty laughter. “I guess you’re feeling better.”
As he looked into her eyes, his hands had stopped shaking, and his blood pressure worked its way down from heart attack range.
“How do you make it through a game?”
Clint just smiled.
“I take it glossophobia is off-limits?”
She had a slight overbite. He wanted to run his tongue over it.
“Let’s pretend we don’t know what glossophobia means.” He forced himself to relax against the sofa. She put him at ease, which was a rare gift, as he was always on guard.
“Denial.” She shrugged. “Works for me. Here’s how were going to play this—”
“Christ, I forgot about the kids. They’re going to think I’m a big puss…wimp.”
Using the edge of the desk behind her, she pushed to her feet. “Know the best thing about teenagers? They’re so self-absorbed, they don’t see what’s going on around them…not unlike some adults I know.”
The Cheshire cat grin on her face made him want to stick out his tongue at her and then run it around the inside of her mouth. Would she taste like pancakes and syrup?
“So, tough guy, here’s how we’re going to play this.” She glanced at the watch on her left wrist. “We’ve got two minutes before the tardy bell rings—”
“Why don’t your students change classes?”
“I teach language arts, history, and life skills, so I have this class until noon. It’s an experimental program using grant money to see if smaller class sizes with larger blocks of time make the difference with at-risk kids. Then I have the underclassmen after lunch. As I was saying before you interrupted me…again, after the tardy bell, I need about thirty more minutes, and then you’re on. Instead of standing in front of the class, why don’t you sit at your desk while they ask you questions? You don’t need to make a speech, and there’s no set topic. Also”—she pointed to a foil-covered pan sitting on the desk—“it’s Kesha’s birthday, so we’re having cake. Chocolate cake and some questions…you’re going to be fine.”
She opened the door. “Stay in here. Help yourself to the food and drinks in the fridge, and come out when you’re ready.”
“Ms. Ames,” he called as she stepped into the classroom.
She turned. “Yes?”
“Thank you.” Clint said. Manners were important to her, so now they were important to him.
“You’re welcome.” In her efficient way, she headed to the front of the room.
Summer was a nice person, and he was using her to make himself look good. A twinge of something close to guilt poked at him. That was funny. He’d given up that particular emotion years ago.
CHAPTER 9
If it weren’t for the slight tremor of his right pinky, Summer wouldn’t have guessed that Clint had trouble with public speaking. Back at his desk, he was stretched out, ankles crossed, elbows out to the sides and fingers laced over his belt, the picture of relaxation. That appearance of calm took tons of self-discipline and more courage than she’d seen in a long time.
He’d polished off three pieces of her homemade chocolate cake with cream cheese icing and answered every question her students had fired off—honestly, from what she could tell.
The bell buzzed in the hallway, signaling the end of class.
“That’s lunch. Read the rest of Act I and chapter eighteen in your Texas History books. See you tomorrow.” Summer raised her voice so she could be heard over the bell.
As usual, the students packed up their
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was a world-class liar, but even he couldn’t pull that one off.
“Either you have a fear of public speaking or you have acute onset food poisoning from that breath mint you ate an hour ago.” Summer’s eyes were the same color as his favorite denim jacket—dark blue, soft, and comfortable.
“Fresh breath is a priority.”
His wit was rewarded with rich, throaty laughter. “I guess you’re feeling better.”
As he looked into her eyes, his hands had stopped shaking, and his blood pressure worked its way down from heart attack range.
“How do you make it through a game?”
Clint just smiled.
“I take it glossophobia is off-limits?”
She had a slight overbite. He wanted to run his tongue over it.
“Let’s pretend we don’t know what glossophobia means.” He forced himself to relax against the sofa. She put him at ease, which was a rare gift, as he was always on guard.
“Denial.” She shrugged. “Works for me. Here’s how were going to play this—”
“Christ, I forgot about the kids. They’re going to think I’m a big puss…wimp.”
Using the edge of the desk behind her, she pushed to her feet. “Know the best thing about teenagers? They’re so self-absorbed, they don’t see what’s going on around them…not unlike some adults I know.”
The Cheshire cat grin on her face made him want to stick out his tongue at her and then run it around the inside of her mouth. Would she taste like pancakes and syrup?
“So, tough guy, here’s how we’re going to play this.” She glanced at the watch on her left wrist. “We’ve got two minutes before the tardy bell rings—”
“Why don’t your students change classes?”
“I teach language arts, history, and life skills, so I have this class until noon. It’s an experimental program using grant money to see if smaller class sizes with larger blocks of time make the difference with at-risk kids. Then I have the underclassmen after lunch. As I was saying before you interrupted me…again, after the tardy bell, I need about thirty more minutes, and then you’re on. Instead of standing in front of the class, why don’t you sit at your desk while they ask you questions? You don’t need to make a speech, and there’s no set topic. Also”—she pointed to a foil-covered pan sitting on the desk—“it’s Kesha’s birthday, so we’re having cake. Chocolate cake and some questions…you’re going to be fine.”
She opened the door. “Stay in here. Help yourself to the food and drinks in the fridge, and come out when you’re ready.”
“Ms. Ames,” he called as she stepped into the classroom.
She turned. “Yes?”
“Thank you.” Clint said. Manners were important to her, so now they were important to him.
“You’re welcome.” In her efficient way, she headed to the front of the room.
Summer was a nice person, and he was using her to make himself look good. A twinge of something close to guilt poked at him. That was funny. He’d given up that particular emotion years ago.
CHAPTER 9
If it weren’t for the slight tremor of his right pinky, Summer wouldn’t have guessed that Clint had trouble with public speaking. Back at his desk, he was stretched out, ankles crossed, elbows out to the sides and fingers laced over his belt, the picture of relaxation. That appearance of calm took tons of self-discipline and more courage than she’d seen in a long time.
He’d polished off three pieces of her homemade chocolate cake with cream cheese icing and answered every question her students had fired off—honestly, from what she could tell.
The bell buzzed in the hallway, signaling the end of class.
“That’s lunch. Read the rest of Act I and chapter eighteen in your Texas History books. See you tomorrow.” Summer raised her voice so she could be heard over the bell.
As usual, the students packed up their
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