by Lisa Plumley
Curious, she stopped. Hmmm. That was new. Could it be that Perfect Patrick Goodger was actually flirting with her?
He’d never looked twice at her before. Maybe she was emitting I’m available pheromones without realizing it. It was possible, now that she’d officially decided to try dating again.
Turning to face Patrick, Angela inhaled his cologne, admired his deft hand with hair gel…and felt her face flame into a million shades of red. “You, too. Have a good day.”
“You already said that.”
“Umm. I know.”
“You’re cute when you’re flustered.” He leaned against the doorjamb, idly toying with her purse strap. He leaned his movie-idol face toward her, then lowered his voice an octave. “You look all pink-cheeked and flustery. I like that in a woman.”
Hold on. Full stop. Flustery? That wasn’t even a word. She ought to know. Also, Patrick liked flustered in a woman? As in, he preferred ditzy, rattled, and/or disconcerted dates?
Alarm bells jangled in her head. Unfortunately, they were overridden by the unprecedented thrill of realizing that a man saw her as something besides an erudite, five-foot-six, brown-haired dispenser of handy synonyms, useful literary references, and Band-Aids (she kept a box in her purse at all times).
“Um. I’m getting a jump on tomorrow,” she explained. She hoped her excuse sounded wittier to him—the man who enjoyed, as he’d probably put it, flusteriness. “Now I’m a whole day ahead.”
“That’s admirable.” Patrick gazed into her eyes. “As it turns out, there’s something I’d like to get a jump on, too.”
Ewww. Obvious and a faulty metaphor at the same time.
On the other hand…wow! Patrick had noticed her! Her, among all the other teachers. He was worldly, too. It was rumored that he’d left his former school in Connecticut amid reports of a scandalous affair with a married, well-connected colleague.
“If you’re not busy over winter break,” he said, leaning even nearer, “maybe we could get together sometime and—”
“Step aside,” someone said. “Out of the way. Let’s go. People coming through. Move along.” A pause. “Bell’s rung.”
“The bell’s rung?” Panic at the thought of being late finally wrested Angela’s attention from Patrick’s baby blues.
Automatically, she moved toward the door—and almost bounced off the brawny chest and gigantic, sneaker-clad feet belonging to Nate Kelly, industrial arts (and home economics) teacher extraordinaire (at least in his own mind) and her brother Reno’s best friend. Nate was hard to miss, given the way he filled out the door frame, almost edging aside Patrick altogether.
Clearly, being flirted with (especially by Perfect Patrick) was completely outside Angela’s realm of experience, if she’d become clumsy enough to try to bulldoze past Nate Kelly.
“Whoops! Sorry.” Angela reached out to steady herself.
She was too late—Nate already had his hand on her arm. After assuring himself she was steady, he released her. Then his gaze sharpened on Patrick, who’d watched their interaction with an impatient expression. “Hey, Goodger. How’s it hanging?”
“Fine, fine. How’s the pie baking coming along?”
Nate’s lips compressed. “It’s excellent.”
“Good. I was just about to get Angela’s phone number, then I’ll be out of your way.”
Both men shifted their attention to her, Patrick’s making Angela feel warm all over—kind of the way she felt when slipping into a hot bubble bath. She’d have to ease herself into this experience, too. She didn’t want to get burned…again.
“Um. Right.” Angela gestured beyond the doorway at the students moving past. “Some other time though, okay, Patrick? If the bell’s already rung, I don’t want to be late. Bye!”
With an alacrity that surprised even her, she slipped between Nate and Patrick, then made a safe getaway down the hall toward room 224, her heart and mind both galloping ahead.
Perfect Patrick had asked for her phone number. Hers! Angela thought in amazement. This was going to be easy! Just like diagramming sentences! She might have been out of the game for a while, but clearly Angela Wright was on her way again.
Damn, Angela was fast. Probably because she was small—at least compared with him—Nate reasoned as he pursued her down the hallway, carving a path amid the student body. He ducked his head and went faster, inhaling the high school’s characteristic smells of wet backpacks, teenaged attempts at cologne, and the peppermint candy canes currently being sold by the DECA club.
Mmmm. Candy canes. He’d totally have to hit Reno’s store on the way home today and scam on more of that candy bonanza.
Reminded of his friend and the question he wanted to ask his sister, Nate picked up the pace. Angela’s dark-haired figure bobbed into view as she moved with warmth and authority among the students, exchanging greetings with them. As always, he felt in awe of her ability to connect with the kids she taught. Sure, he’d come to teaching late. He did cut himself some slack there. But even after several years at Kismet High School, Nate didn’t have the same aura of serenity and patience that Angela did.
God knows, he tried. But then some knucklehead would cram an educational DVD into a toaster oven or try to drill-press a nerdy kid’s euphonium, and he’d lose it. Plain and simple.
“Hey, wait up.” Finally reaching her, Nate positioned himself between little Angela Wright and the raucous student body. He straightened his shoulders. “I’ll walk you to class.”
Angela rolled her eyes, scarcely breaking stride. She obviously wasn’t surprised to find him there beside her.
She gestured ahead. “I’m halfway there already.”
“You wouldn’t have been, if I hadn’t come along. Too busy making goo-goo eyes at Patrick the Prick to hear the bell?”
“Nate! Be nice.”
He grinned. “That’s what everybody calls him, you know.”
They didn’t. But a little white lie could be forgiven in this instance. Angela was too gullible to protect herself.
She shook her head. “Not the female faculty members.”
“Only because they’re swayed by his big dumb cow eyes.” Nudging Angela with his elbow, Nate gave his best lovesick Guernsey impression. She hooted. Yes! It made his day to crack her up like that. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
A few more measured strides. “Look, just forget you saw any of that between me and Patrick Goodger, okay?” Angela darted a hesitant glance at him. “It was nothing.”
“What, are you kidding me?” Nate stopped them both at the corner, touching her elbow to keep her nearby. She smelled delicious, like gingerbread, but beneath all that spiciness he felt fragility, too. “It was something, all right. I saw it.” The first bell hadn’t rung yet either. He’d been bluffing to break them up. “A woman like you is easy pickings for a guy like him.”
Angela shrugged off his hold. Her green eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
Her lips tightened, too. Normally, her mouth looked soft and inviting and sweet. Whoops. This was more serious than he’d thought. Regrouping, Nate decided to hold off on his original question for her and proceed with some friendly advice. The way Reno would have wanted him to, in his absence.
“Okay, first lesson. Whatever you do, don’t talk that way to Patrick the Prick. He’ll just get off on your outrage.”
“What?” Her eyes widened. “That’s crazy.”
“He’ll probably convince himself it’s unleashed passion, or some bullshit. And don’t give him those innocent eyes either, whatever you do. He’ll interpret that look as an invitation.”
After all, it did appear pretty inviting.
Angela scoffed. “That’s nonsense.”
“The more riled up you get, the more he’ll like it,” Nate said earnestly. “That’s part of the prickishness about him.”
“Prickishness isn’t a word, and I’m not riled up!”
“Uhh…yes, you are. You’re definitely…differe
nt, that’s for sure.” Stricken by that realization, all of a sudden, Nate scrutinized her. He’d never seen Angela look quite so…ripe before. So glowing and eager. In a heartbeat, the unbelievable truth occurred to him. “Oh shit. I’ve got it. You’ve entered the horny stage of motherhood, haven’t you? I should have guessed!”
Her mouth flattened. “That’s it. I’m going to class.”
She pushed away from the wall they’d been standing beside, then easily reentered the flow of student traffic. The warning bell rang, alerting Nate to the fact that only a few minutes remained until the start of classes. Until Angela got away.
“Wait.” Concerned, he loped after her. After a few strides, he caught up. “Don’t be embarrassed. Once my nieces and nephews started school and got more independent, my sisters all went through this stage, too. I’ll never forget it. It was horrible.”
Angela slowed down. Her face paled. “Horrible?”
Soberly, Nate nodded. “Horrible for me! They wouldn’t shut up about jumping their husbands in the laundry room, buying sex toys online, and test-driving phone sex.” He shuddered. “Eww.”
Angela gave him a curious look. “You don’t like phone sex?”
For one taut moment, all he could do was stare at her.
Unbidden, his libido offered up a wholehearted endorsement of phone sex—and conjured up a likely scenario featuring him and Angela, too. Him, her, a pair of phones, and his own overactive imagination…mmm. That could be really, really hot.
No, it couldn’t. Jesus. What was the matter with him?
Whatever it was, he refused to discuss S-E-X with his best friend’s little sister. Even if she appeared to want him to.
Instead, Nate did the manly thing. He changed the subject.
“Have you seen Reno?” he asked, reverting to his original purpose for tracking down Angela this morning. “I stopped by the store on my way to work today, but he wasn’t there.”
“Hmmm.” Thinking it over—and blessedly letting the whole fantasy phone sex scenario drop—Angela trod the last few yards to her classroom with Nate on her heels. “Well, he went to pick up someone at the airport last night. Late though, really late—the flight came in from L.A. at midnight or so. At least that’s what Reno told me. But he ought to be back by now.” Looking concerned, she bit her lip. “Maybe I should call him.”
“I already tried. I got voice mail, which means he probably turned off his phone. Or ran out of juice.” Stepping aside to let a few straggling students enter snug, poster-filled room 224, Nate scratched his head. “Who’d he go pick up, anyway?”
Maybe if he knew who it was, he could call them. Almost everybody knew everybody in Kismet. It was a nice small town.
“Um, Rachel Porter?” Angela searched for her cell phone, probably planning to pull one of her full-on mother-hen routines with Reno. She turned out her purse to reveal peanut-butter-cracker snacks—undoubtedly for her cutie-pie daughter, Kayla—vitamins, tissues…“You probably don’t remember her—”
Nate blinked. Had Angela actually said…“Rachel Porter?”
“Yeah. She went to KHS, too, but in my class. The Porters live down the street from Reno, so they asked him to pick her up. And you know Reno. If someone needs help, of course he—”
“Rachel Porter was my dream girl,” Nate blurted.
An incredible sense of excitement gripped him. Rachel Porter was coming here. Coming to Kismet. Coming home. He could hardly believe it. Automatically, he reached up to smooth his close-cropped haircut. This time, when Rachel Porter got a look at him, he wouldn’t be sporting that dorky curly hairstyle and stupid Boyz II Men T-shirt he’d worn all through senior year. This time, she’d see him as he really was—Nate Kelly, Macho Man.
“Really? Your dream girl, huh? Another one?”
Indignantly, Nate set Angela straight. “Rachel Porter is the only one. The original and the best.”
“Hmmm. I seem to recall your saying the same thing about Melanie, Anna, Renee…and that German teacher from last year.”
“Ingrid!” Remembering her, Nate sighed. He glanced dreamily at Angela…whose know-it-all expression sucked him straight out of his happy daze. Was it his damn fault all his dream girls turned out to be wrong for him in the end? “This time it’s different. Rachel Porter is different. You’ll see.”
“Mmm-hmmm. You’re cute when you’re delusional.” Smiling hugely, Angela patted his biceps. “I want the whole dream girl scoop while we’re on lunchroom monitoring duty today, you hear?”
She ducked inside her room, offered him a final cheesy grin through the window in the door, then waved good-bye.
That grin of hers nagged at him. Sure, he’d had his share of misguided crushes, Nate told himself. But that didn’t mean he was wrong about Rachel Porter…or that Angela wouldn’t realize it. He still wished he’d kept his mouth shut though.
It was one thing to advise Angela on her rampant horniness problem. That was only charitable, especially since they’d known one another since his peewee soccer days, when Angela had hung out on the sidelines with all their parents and her pink plastic My Little Pony and cheered on him and Reno. It was something else to admit (yet another) crush on the girl who’d gotten away.
But this time…this time Nate Kelly would have a second chance. With plans already coursing through him, Nate pumped out a few adrenaline-fueled pushups against a nearby drinking fountain, then hotfooted it to his own first-period class.
Dork no more, he was on the prowl!
Chapter Eleven
“So…thanks for the ride. And…everything.” Standing beside her four suitcases and carry-on bag, Rachel kicked her boots at the snowy landing of her parents’ front porch. It wasn’t much more than a concrete slab with a minuscule roof and decorative wrought-iron supports (nothing like the palatial entryway to her Malibu beach house), but it was a relief finally to reach it. Even hours late. “I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” Reno grinned, hunched against the bite in the early morning air. After unloading her luggage and chivalrously transporting it to the porch, he’d tossed his coat and flannel shirt back in his truck’s cab, then escorted her in his T-shirt—his perfectly fitted, pectoral-muscle-outlining, James Dean-worthy, plain white T-shirt. “The trip turned out to be a little more than we bargained for though, didn’t it?”
“Um, yeah.” Feeling herself flush at the unexpected rapport between them—and everything else, too—Rachel wound her fingers around the wrought-iron porch support. “About that…”
She stopped, hardly able to articulate her feelings about the time they’d spent together. Their initial introduction might have been a bit rocky, it was true, but afterward…
Well, all she could say about afterward was that everything felt different between them now—now that she’d allowed herself to relax and enjoy it. Him. Them. Hot on the heels of the rough week she’d had, Reno’s kindness had felt amazing. Especially coming packaged, as it had, along with twinkling green eyes, a killer smile, and a definite knack for filling out a pair of jeans—jeans she insisted on thinking of not as ordinary old-as-rocks Levis but as ultradistressed vintage denim.
Not that she intended to go all goo-goo eyed over it.
“Well, let’s admit it. We were stranded,” Rachel continued in her own defense, wrenching her gaze upward. “In the snow! We can’t be held responsible for…you know.”
Reno gave her a dubious look. She stared back at him, filled with assurance now that they were about to part. She’d spent the night in an actual pickup truck! That had to count as some kind of penance for her momentary slipup. And she’d been tied in knots for weeks, ever since Alayna’s annual no-Christmas ban had kicked off. She deserved a little R & R, didn’t she?
In fact, considering everything that had happened to her during the past week, she was lucky she hadn’t lunged for Reno (and grabbed for his R & R) even sooner.
As though reading her mind, Reno stepped nearer.
In
voluntarily—and aggravatingly—Rachel stepped back. Apparently Hollywood-style wariness died hard.
But all Reno did was zip up her hoodie with nimble fingers, then gently brush her chin with his knuckles. “I hope the whole experience taught you an important lesson.”
“I doubt it.” She smiled. “But for curiosity’s sake…?”
“Don’t come to Michigan in wintertime,” Reno said, “when you’re not prepared.”
As if she could ever be prepared for the likes of him.
“You’re lucky you didn’t freeze to death,” he went on. “Next time I see you, you’d better be wearing something warmer.”
His teasing, bossy tone made her want to salute him. Or kiss him. After…everything…Rachel wasn’t sure which.
“You probably won’t see me. I plan to just hole up here”—she gestured to the house she’d grown up in, a three-bedroom ranch currently decked out in Christmas lights and a front-door wreath—“and enjoy a nice, laid-back Christmas getaway.”
“Oh. Okay. You’re going to the Christmas parade though?”
“Nope.”
“The municipal tree-lighting ceremony downtown?”
“Uh-uh.”
“The Glenrosen block party?” At her head shake, Reno winced as if wounded. “You’ve got to go to that. It’s tradition.”
“Not for me.” Feeling awkward—yet weirdly reluctant to part with him—Rachel hugged her Hermès. “Not anymore. I can do without the Midwestern holiday hoedown, believe me.”
Reno raised his chin. He was, she’d noticed, kind of sensitive about any trash-talking she did about Kismet. But she just couldn’t help it. The force of habit was too strong. Also, how else would anyone realize she’d moved beyond this burg?
“Besides,” Rachel said, driven to make amends in a way that would have shocked the proprietors of any trendy boutique she frequented (and haggled at) on Melrose, “by the time the Glenrosen block party rolls around, my mom will probably have stuffed me so full of eggnog, Christmas cookies, and ranch dip—”
“Ranch dip?”
“Don’t ask. It’s a family tradition.”
