“Thanks,” I say, nodding. “I really appreciate that. But, I promise I’m fine.” He rocks back on his heels a bit, like he’s trying to decide on his next move. After standing there a beat longer than necessary, he gives a little shrug.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, I guess.”

“Sure.” I smile up at him. “Thanks, Jeremy.”

He wanders back out of my classroom, leaving a little more slowly than he came. Once he’s past my door and out of sight, I look back down at my quizzes, feeling a little warm around my collar.

Smith clears his throat. When I look up at him, he’s got his arms crossed and he’s sort of smirking.

“What?”

He chuckles a little, then sets down the eraser and comes around to the front of my desk, pulling a nearby chair along behind him. When he sits down, it almost feels as though we’re sitting across a dinner table from each other. Almost as though we’re on a date.

“Someone has an admirer.”

I roll my eyes. “He was just being nice.”

“Bullshit.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you trying to annoy me or was there something you needed?”

“Maybe.” His smile widens. Man, he has great teeth.

“Can you get to it, then?”

“I want to know who your favorite author is.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because I’m curious. And because you’re an English teacher, or you’re going to be. You’ve gotta inspire your students by showing them who inspires you.”

I lift a brow. “What is this—the Asher School for Meaningful Teaching?”

He shrugs.

“Something like that.” Then he winks. “The tests are hard, but I never give homework.”

I shake my head.

“Okay, well—I don’t think I can answer the favorite author question. Favorite book, though? That I can do.”

“Yeah?” He leans back in his chair, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Shoot.”

“Actually, I can do you one better.”

I reach down into my desk drawer and pull out my bag. Smith eyes me as I open the back zippered section and dig out a worn paperback. I set it down in front of him and he leans in to inspect it.

“Bram Stoker’s Dracula,” he reads aloud, then looks up at me. His gaze is a cross between surprised and impressed. “I never took you for one of those Twilight groupies.”

“Please.” I roll my eyes. “This isn’t about vampires—well, it’s not just about vampires. It’s about love and suspicion. It’s about not understanding things beyond our capacity for reason, then condemning them. It’s about humanity—being human—not the opposite.”

Smith presses a finger to his mouth and I have to force myself not to lick my lips. I don’t know if it’s a nervous response or if focusing on his mouth just gives my tongue ideas of its own.

“So, can I borrow it?” he asks.

I blink at him. “Borrow what?”

He chuckles. “The book—can I borrow the book?”

“Oh.” I bite my lip and look down at the paperback. “Um—sure. If you promise to return it.”

Then, before I can even blink, Smith reaches out and cups my chin. Gently, he uses his thumb to pull on the skin below my bottom lip.

“Don’t do that.”

His voice is gruff. I just stare at him.

“Do what?”

My voice is almost unrecognizable to my own ears—it’s breathy, but heavy, like I’ve been running for far too long and can barely manage to speak.

“Don’t bite your lip.” Smith’s eyes flash as he meets my gaze. “Unless you’re trying to torture me on purpose.”

I manage to maintain eye contact, even though it’s almost impossible to do. I take a long, slow breath, then shake my head.

“Smith, you’re making this really hard for me.”

I try to keep my tone even and firm.

“You’re in this class and we have to work together, but spending time alone with you—it’s clearly a bad idea. We should just say you’ve served your detentions and move on.”

He sighs and leans back in his chair.

“You’re right.”

I am? Is this him admitting he’s as rattled by me as I am by him?

“Okay, then. I’ll just tell Mr. Weathersby that you’ve served your time. Hey, speaking of time—where were you for class this morning? You missed all of act two.”

For a second, he looks caught off guard by the question.

“Oh—I had an appointment. Dentist,” he says.

“Okay, well, you should take a book home.”

I stand and walk over to the shelf to grab a copy of Hamlet. When I turn back around, I see my copy of Dracula still sitting on my desk. Impulsively, I grab it and hand both books to him. He looks down at my paperback, then back up at me.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” I shrug. “Don’t you think you should broaden your definition of vampire-themed literature?”

Smith chuckles and shakes his head, tucking both books under his arm. His eyes scan my face briefly. Without another word, he turns and saunters out of the room.

I take a deep breath.

Apparently, I’d forgotten to breathe in the last minute.

Again.

Why? Why am I still so affected by this man?

This whole situation is beyond frustrating. Not only am I crossing lines that I have no business to cross, but I’m also losing control of my own body. The heart pounding, the breath catching, the goose bumps, the blushing—all of those reflexes aren’t following the standard operating procedure for the Hyacinth Hendricks that I’ve always been. The girl I’ve always been? She’s rational. She’s reasonable. When it comes to boyfriends, she likes things simple. Comfortable. She likes to cuddle under a blanket and watch late-night talk shows. She likes cooking pasta dinners on Sundays. She likes the beautiful monotony of a long-term relationship.

Or, at least I thought she did. Now I’m not so sure. Now I’m wondering if the Hyacinth I’ve always been is the kind of girl who needs sparks. Who needs to speak her mind and feel comfortable enough to push back when she’s being challenged.

The kind of girl who turns banter into foreplay.

The kind of girl who wants tough love in all its forms.

The kind of girl who doesn’t take the easy way out.

***

On Thursday evening, I decide that I need something other than dry turkey and cafeteria-style seating for dinner. Bridget is at the front desk when I get to Holly Fields, and she grins at me when I get through the door.

“Hey, stranger!” she says, coming around the side to wrap me in a big Bridget-style bear hug. Football linebackers have nothing on her.

“Listen, I want to spring Dad for dinner. Will that be a problem?”

Bridget walks back around to the other side of the desk. She glances over the night chart on the wall, then looks back at me.

“He’s had his night meds already, so he’s good to go. Just no alcohol, alright?”

“You got it.”

“Where are you gonna take him?”

I grin. “I was thinking Dino’s, unless you’ve got a better suggestion.”

Bridget snorts. “There is no better suggestion than Dino’s—it may be a little rough around the edges, but damn they can make a hamburger.”

“You got that right.”

I practically skip down the hall at the idea of a big fat juicy non-turkey burger.

“Hey, princess,” Dad says when I make it to his room. “Check it out!”

He’s staring up at the TV, watching some guy pull something enormous, terrifying, and covered in scales out of the ocean on one of those Discovery Channel shows. I make a face at him.

“That’s gross, Daddy. Turn it off and get yourself ready. We’re busting outta this place tonight.”

He frowns and smooths a pale hand over his jeans.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I say, leaning over to kiss his cheek, “that I am taking you to Dino’s for a real hamburger and fresh-cut fries and some hockey or basketball or whatever sports game is on right now in the bar.”

Dad seems genuinely excited about leaving Holly Fields, but I can read him well enough to see the nerves that are playing on the surface. Once I’ve gotten him settled in Carson’s passenger seat and I’ve packed up the wheelchair in the back, I turn to face him from the driver’s side.