The Force of Gravity(12)

My pulse races through my veins as I drape the jacket over my lap and pull it up to my chest like a blanket. The intoxicating scent invades my senses, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. I shoot my eyes back open to see if he noticed my reaction. He’s still focused on the movie screen—I can only hope he didn’t see. I steal a glance at the label on his jacket: Armani. I’ve never been the type of girl who valued designer labels, so why does seeing this turn me on even more? I still can’t figure out how he can afford it, but it doesn’t matter. My mind wanders to what label is on his underwear, and I’m thankful the room is dark enough to hide my blushing cheeks. I sink into the seat and snuggle into his jacket as we watch the rest of the movie in silence.

The film ends in what feels like two minutes instead of two hours, and neither of us move while the movie credits roll up the screen. I dread giving him back his jacket—I want it around my body all night since it is the closest I will ever get to the real thing. Stealing one more whiff before I stand up, I regretfully hand it back to him. He’s still seated as he takes it from me, and his eyes wander down my body causing me to tremble once more.

“Are you sure you still don’t need it? You’re shivering.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “No, I’m fine.” If only he knew how hot I felt.

He slings his jacket over his arm and rises. We exit the theater together, talking briefly about the movie, even though I barely watched a single frame.

We step outside into the darkness, and the desert warmth envelops me once again. I’ll have no excuses if I shiver now, so I try to keep my body relaxed. The lines of palm trees are decorated in white twinkle lights, and I imagine what it would be like to be on a date with him. I imagine my hand wrapped safely inside of his as we stroll through the crowd . . . I imagine his lips on mine as he kisses me goodnight. Running my tongue over my lips, I taste the faint watermelon flavor of the candy we shared and wonder if his lips taste the same right now.

The blond hobbit yanks me out of my daydream when I feel his stare as we pass by the box office. His quick observation of my dress again is not lost on me—I definitely feel nothing whatsoever as he gawks at my body. His eyes widen when he notices Mr. Slate walking next to me, and I remember how I lied about meeting my date here. Oops! Oh well, it’s not like I know the hobbit, right? But panic ripples through me as I hear him call out, “Mr. Slate!”

What. The. Hell.

Mr. Slate whips around and sees the boy. Why do I think of him as a boy? He’s clearly around my age.

“Duncan!” greets Mr. Slate with a dignified smile. He’s so smooth, so sure of himself all the time. I, however, can’t even remember how to breathe.

Duncan flicks his stare back and forth between us. “What are you doing here?”

Mr. Slate glances at me and then back to Duncan. “Watching a movie, of course,” he answers with poise. “I just ran into Kaley, do you two know each other?”

As I shake my head, I notice Duncan nodding. He knows me? I swear I have never seen him before in my life.

Duncan gives me a toothy grin. “We have gym together. Fourth period.”

“Right,” I say, trying not to hurt his feelings. His expression turns quizzical, rattling my nerves, and I slide my hand through my hair. “Uh, my date wasn’t able to make it.”

He nods, but seems to be teetering on the edge of suspicion.

“See you on Monday, Duncan,” says Mr. Slate, giving a quick wave.

He leads me to the parking lot as Duncan continues to gawk at us. Get a life, nosey little hobbit.

It’s a short walk before I am forced to part ways with Mr. Slate. After we say goodnight, I tear myself away and trudge down the aisle toward my car. Almost immediately, an uninvited longing stirs within me. I immediately scold myself.

He’s a grown man—your teacher! You are pathetic.

But my boyfriend was a complete asshole tonight . . . don’t I deserve to be appreciated by a gorgeous man? It’s not like anything happened.

Nor will anything ever happen.

He’s harmless. He’s . . . an innocent crush.

Innocent? He checked you out tonight.

A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth.

Stop! He’s your teacher! He’s forbidden.

I tune out the condemning voice as I slip into the driver’s seat, my pulse still racing. Releasing a deep sigh, I turn the key in the ignition, but it just clicks. No, not now! I try again and again. Click-click-click. I hit the steering wheel with my fists.

“Damn!” What else can go wrong tonight?

As if on cue, a shiny black Tahoe pulls up beside me. Mr. Slate gracefully hops out as I step out of my car.

“Need help, Kay?”

My heart skips a beat. Did he just call me Kay? Only my closest friends and family call me that.

“It won’t start,” I grumble, hoping to hide my embarrassment.

“Let me see what I can do.”

I hold out my hand, and he takes my keys, his fingers leaving a trail of heat across my palm. He ducks into the driver’s seat, and I try to cope with the fact that Mr. Slate is now sitting in my car.

My dirty, unwashed—and now broken—piece-of-junk car.

Please kill me.

Why didn’t I at least take the trash out? The backseat alone looks like a water bottle graveyard. It’s mortifying enough to be driving a beater, but does it have to resemble a recycling center, too? I glance at his gleaming Tahoe and cringe. Even the huge rims shine as if they’ve never encountered a speck of dirt.

Okay, chill. Maybe there’s an upside to this. Maybe his scent will linger in my car so I can enjoy it on my way home.

He steps out of the driver’s seat. “Pop the hood for me. I’ll try to jump start it for you.”

Unable to respond, I slide into my car and watch him attach the jumper cables between his beautiful SUV and my junkyard-bound Chevelle. When he gives me the command, I try to start it, turning the key in the ignition and pressing on the gas.

Still nothing.

“I’m beginning to hate this car,” I groan, stepping back out.

“I think it’s the alternator,” he says, slamming my hood down. “Sounds like you need a new one.”

“Great.” I glare at the Chevelle. Unreliable piece of crap. As frustrated as I am, I don’t want to leave my car here, and I definitely don’t want a ride home from him. I’m afraid my body can’t handle it.

“I’ll run up and tell them you’re going to leave your car here overnight. It’s under a light, so it should be okay. Do you have an alarm?”

I shake my head. “No one’s going to steal that thing, trust me.”

“It’s a classic,” he says as he pats the roof. “Just needs a little TLC.”

“More like CPR,” I gripe.

He chuckles as he locks my door. He returns my keys, and I’m careful to not make contact with his hand this time.

“I’ll take you home and maybe your parents or someone can help you with this in the morning.”

I hesitate. “A-are you sure? I can try to call someone.” My friends are all drunk, and I doubt my parents are awake. . . . “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble, Kaley.” Something inscrutable flickers briefly across his eyes. “I’m not leaving you here. Hop in.”

He opens his passenger door for me, and I hoist myself in—well aware that my dress is not meant for climbing into a Tahoe. As I sit down, I notice a fire in his eyes and my mouth goes dry. His gaze burns through me as he tells me he’ll be right back and shuts the door. Okay, I can’t be imagining the way he just looked at me. It was too real—too intense. I shiver again.

The inside of his SUV is spotless. Of course. Not a speck of dust, or a single empty water bottle. The interior smells like it was just hand-washed by angels, mixed with a hint of the same scent I enjoyed earlier on his jacket. A vibration on my lap jolts me out of my thoughts. Annoyed, I yank my phone from my clutch. It’s Tommy. A picture of the two of us locked in a tight embrace glows on the screen. Emotions tug at me as my thumb hovers over the display. I hit “decline” just as the driver’s side door clicks open. Mr. Slate hops in, and I drop my phone back into my clutch.

His eyes slide over my body. “Buckle up,” he says, his voice strained.

I do as I’m told and give him the directions, my throat becoming increasingly dry. We ride in silence for a few minutes before my anxiety can’t stand it.

“So, how’d you get this job so quickly?” I ask. “I mean, it just seemed really fast. I figured you were just a substitute.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Well, last summer they offered me a job teaching English of all things, but I turned it down. That would’ve been disastrous.” He chuckles. “I was teaching math part-time at two different junior high schools, which was exhausting. And I substituted a lot before that as well. I’ve known Stan—I mean your principal, for a few years. He called me up on a Sunday afternoon after we played golf earlier that day and offered me the job. I accepted and started the next day. Normally, I wouldn’t leave a job in the middle of a school year, but since there were only a couple months left, I wasn’t going to turn it down.”

It’s interesting to hear him talk about himself—even if it is just a snippet of his professional life. He seems so grown up and responsible. I’m surprised to find his life so attractive. I love that he’s mature and smart . . . and not doing keg stands in the middle of a party.