Page 24 of Play the Last Card
Scott:No.
Ivy:I do love to be right.
Scott: Coffee order, if you will.
Ivy:Can I ask why?
Scott:Coffee is your second love. You’ve said that every morning for the past week.
I wanna know what specific coffee I’m up against here.
Ivy:… cheeseball.
Scott:Please?
Ivy:Venti iced latte with two pumps of vanilla, a pump of sugar syrup and extra cold foam.
Scott:I hope you're covering the walls of your classroom with something soft.
You’ll be bouncing off them with the amount of sugar you inhale.
Ivy:Helps me stay on the same level as the kids.
How was your morning?
Scott:Good, just spent it in the gym for a work out.
I text back a reply asking him what he did in the gym, and push my phone into my back pocket before eyeing the chair and the corner of the banner that is now lying on the ground. My stomach growls as I walk back over to the banner and try—and fail—to muffle the sound with a hand.
I’ll put the banner up and then go for coffee. Scott asking for my go-to order now has me craving the sugar hit. With my venti iced coffee in mind, I step back up onto the chair with the end of the banner in tow.
It takes me another eight sweaty minutes to secure it to the hook in the corner and by the time I’m done with it, I’m cursing my decision to go into kindergarten teaching and not something that doesn’t require so many colors … like middle school teaching. Middle schoolers aren’t impressed by anything. I wouldn’t have to work so hard to impress their parents with my colorful posters and educational knick-knacks lying around the room.
I step back from the wall, hands on my hips, admiring my work.
My thoughts begin to drift towards the venti iced latte I’d promised myself earlier—surely I’m deserving of a muffin now too—when a low, appreciative whistle comes from the doorway of my classroom behind me, interrupting my thoughts.
“Looking good.” I whip around on my heel, trying desperately to keep myself from blushing as I realize who’s interrupted my self-admiring. “Very … colorful.”
Scott.
Freaking Scott, in the flesh and not just over text.
In my classroom.
Surrounded by the hand drawn posters I spent hours over the summer making.
Oh. Shit.
He’s more attractive than I remember. Why was I such a lightweight? My single shot and a beer induced mind had dampened the memory of his looks. But now, with him standing in front me, still as tall and as broad as ever there is no way I’m ever going to forget this.
He stares at me, his cap pulled low over his eyes again and his hair beneath it curling at the ends. It’s damp. He must have showered after his workout.
Images of him in a towel, seeing exactly what all those workouts are doing to his body plagued me. He probably has a six pack … no, an eight pack.
Most definitely a pack.
“Are you drooling over me or the sugar drink in my hand? I can’t tell.”