"Jenna, you're a fool," she muttered. "An optimistic fool."

But she didn't really think that was the case. She hadn't been what anyone could call optimistic in a very long time. No, on some level, she really did believe Brad Thatcher would be all right. Maybe it was just knowing he had a dad that cared so much about him.

That had to be it.

That also had to be the reason for the urge, one she'd just barely managed to fight, to brush her fingertips across Steven Thatcher's brow, to smooth away the deep lines of worry. Because he was a kind father who cared about his son.

Not because he had warm brown eyes that crinkled at the comers when he smiled.

Or because his shoulders were so broad. Or because his upper arm was solid and strong, yet his hands were gentle. Or because his smile over her stupid shoes had simply taken her breath away.

No, she'd had the urge to comfort him because of Brad.

But the other urges were all hers and, quite frankly, surprised the hell out of her. She hadn't felt any stirrings, not even modest ones, since… She sighed, the sound lonely in the quiet night. Not since Adam got sick. Certainly not since he died. See, Casey, she thought. I can say it. Died. D-i-e-d, died. I'm not in denial, for God's sake.

It had been two years since Adam's death, and in that time she hadn't touched a man-not unless you counted that last friend of Casey's boyfriend Ned, the one whose hand she'd needed to firmly remove from her ass.

She tilted her head, considering her reaction should Steven Thatcher try the same thing-she would not be nearly as annoyed. In fact… Just stop, she mentally ordered herself. Just stop that right now.

"Jenna Marshall," she murmured aloud. "Shame on you." She looked out across the parking lot to where Mr. Thatcher stood next to her car, his hands on what probably were very trim hips.

Casey would be amused, both at her noticing Steven Thatcher was indeed a man and at the way she was scolding herself for noticing. Therefore, Casey must never know. That was simple enough. What wasn't as simple was the knowledge her body had emerged from a two-year deep sleep and her hormones were now active again. Well, you are human, she thought. You had to start looking again sometime. Just look, but don't touch.

A cool breeze fluttered and Jenna shivered first, then frowned. Minutes had ticked by as she'd stood here balanced on one foot, woolgathering. Mr. Thatcher should have been here with her car already. In fact, where was he? She lifted herself on her toes and stared off to the edge of the parking lot only to see a gray Volvo station wagon approach, Steven Thatcher at the wheel.

He pulled the car up to the curb next to where she stood, got out, and stood inside the open driver's door with his arms folded across the roof of his car.

"Do you have any enemies?" he demanded with a scowl.

Jenna's heart sank. Adam's XK 150. Then her temper surged. "Only about nine hundred," she answered from behind clenched teeth. Word of Rudy's suspension was out and now she was on the hit list of roughly nine hundred hormon-ally whacked teenagers. She sighed. "How bad is it?"

"Your tires are slashed, all four of them."

Jenna limped a few steps to lean against his passenger door. "Reparable?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. These aren't just punctures, they're slashes. The tires are ribbons. But that didn't worry me as much as this." He held a sheet of paper across the car's roof. "Don't touch it, except for the corner," he cautioned.

Jenna scanned the page and her heart stilled. " 'Put him back on the team or you'll roo the day you were born, you bitch,'" she read in an unsteady voice, then cleared her throat and looked up at Mr. Thatcher. "They misspelled 'rue,'" she said, simply because she couldn't think of anything else to say.

Mr. Thatcher smiled grimly. "I don't think they were too worried about the school spelling bee. Who'd you flunk off the team?"

Jenna stared back down at the paper in her hand. No one had ever threatened her before. Her anger fizzled, numb fear taking its place. "Rudy Lutz," she murmured.

"The QB?" She looked up in time to see him wince. "You're not from around here are you?"

Jenna's temper simmered. First her car was vandalized, then this person intimated it was all her fault. Any lingering admiration of his soft brown eyes and trim hips went right out the window. "I've lived in North Carolina for more than ten years."

"Then you should know the risks of interfering with high school football in the South."

Jenna saw red. "What I know is that he failed my class and I'm not only within my rights, but my responsibility as a teacher to-to-" She stuttered to a stop when Thatcher held up his hand.

"I didn't mean you shouldn't have failed him." He consid-ered her thoughtfully. "In fact, I'd say you have some real guts to do what no other teacher's probably ever done before."

"Well, thank you," Jenna began, calming again.

Thatcher raised his hand again. "However, you should know that your actions are not without risk. Your car needs all new tires and you've been threatened. You shouldn't park at the far end of the parking lot anymore. And ask someone to walk out with you after school-especially if it's dark outside." He looked around at all the cars in the lot. "I'd better take you home. I don't like the idea of you being here all alone when that crowd breaks at halftime. It could get ugly."

Jenna looked down at the threatening note she still held gingerly by two fingers at the upper corner, as instructed. "It already has." She looked up and her heart skipped a beat at the sincerely caring expression in his brown eyes. Good God, Jenna, she thought, when your hormones wake up, they really wake up. Her throat was suddenly as dry as soda crackers. "I, uh, I hate to keep you from your family."

"My aunt is probably feeding them dinner as we speak and they're used to my odd hours. I'll be home before bath and bedtime for sure."

Jenna drew a breath just as an angry roar came from the direction of the football field. "That didn't sound too cheerful, did it?"

He shook his head. "No." He came around the car and opened the door, taking her briefcase in one hand. He feigned a stagger and the corners of his eyes crinkled. "What are you carrying in here? Bricks?" He put her briefcase in the backseat and pretended to stretch his back.

Jenna smirked as she got in the car. "Yes. I alone have discovered the secret for turning metal into gold bricks. I change a few folding chairs to gold every day in the hopes of early retirement."

He was chuckling when he slid into his seat. "I wouldn't say that too loud. The parents that don't hate you for benching the QB will torment you for your secret." He pulled his door shut with one hand and grabbed his cell phone in the other. "Let's go report the damage to your car and get you home and out of those ridiculous shoes." He winced. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"

Jenna smiled over at him as she buckled her seat belt, comfortable in their banter. "You did. But you're right." She held three fingers in the air, Girl Scout style. "I from here on out promise to put comfort and safety ahead of high fashion."

"My son would ask you to spit in your palm to, seal such a serious covenant."

Jenna raised a brow. "Brad?"

A shadow passed over his face. He put the Volvo wagon in gear and headed to the back corner of the parking lot. "No, not Brad." And just that quickly, the crinkles were gone from the corners of his eyes, replaced by the lines of worry across his forehead.

Friday_; September 30, 5:45 P.M.

Necessity truly was the mother of invention.