I returned his smile, gave his shoulder a small, congratulatory squeeze and told him I was going back to bed. On my way out I noticed some paintings stacked by the door. They were copies of old masters, Vermeer and Rembrandt mostly. Oddly enough, reproduction was how Alfie started out painting. Growing up, his mother liked to decorate their home with replicas of famous pieces, so Alfie used to create imitations. The accuracy was actually kind of spooky. Anyway, after a few years he finally progressed to doing his own original works, but the replicas were how he honed his skills to what they are today.

I turned back to him, nodding at the paintings. “Do you want me to drop those off at a charity shop during the week to clear up some space?”

My cousin rubbed his chin, his signature I’m considering it action. “Let me think about it. You know I hate giving stuff away, and those have sentimental value.”

“Well, let me know what you decide.”

When I woke up to my alarm at seven, the flat was quiet like usual. Alfie wouldn’t be awake until well after midday, as was his habit.

I showered, dressed, ate breakfast, and climbed into my Nissan to head to work. I taught an adult education class, designed specifically for those seeking to return to college as mature-aged students. Most of my pupils had been out of school for years, if not decades. The course helped improve their writing and grammar, as well as identified their strengths and/or weaknesses in preparation for higher education.

My class had fifteen students, ranging in ages from twenty-one to sixty, and was held five days a week, from nine to three. Running for six months, the course was intensive. We were only three weeks into the new school year, but already I had my favourite students.

Mary was a no-nonsense cockney in her early fifties, with dyed black hair and ever-present matte-red lipstick. She was at least a few stone overweight, with a penchant for leopard print, and always had the best advice about relationships and paying your council tax. Kian was the youngest member of the class, a goth rocker from Camden who suffered from Tourette’s. Despite his purple Mohawk and frequent obscenities, he was one of the kindest, most adorable people I’d ever known.

And then there was Larry, barely over five feet with endless stories about his days on the markets. He used to run a stall selling pirated videotapes, before DVDs and Internet streaming came along and made them obsolete.

They were all there, chatting with the other students and drinking their morning coffee. I entered the class and exchanged hellos, remembering there was a new student arriving today. The information on my schedule said his name was Stuart Cross, and he was thirty years of age, with very little previous schooling. Actually, he’d just gotten out of prison after a two-year sentence. His crime wasn’t listed, though, and I had to wonder what he’d been in for.

I was wary of someone new coming in, someone with a record, because in my experience it only took one bad egg to ruin the carefully cultivated atmosphere of friendship and learning. I wanted everyone to feel at ease, to look on this room as a place without judgement, somewhere they could express their dreams as well as frustrations without cause for worry or criticism.

Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Thankfully, this year I’d been blessed with a class where everyone genuinely liked one another and got along. Hopefully, Stuart would fit in well.

Organising my things and opening my laptop, I pulled up the morning’s lesson plan when I heard the friendly chatter quieten down. Glancing up, our new student had arrived, and I had to take a second to catch my breath.

Stuart Cross looked dangerous, in a James Dean, careless-male-beauty, leather jacket wearing sort of way. He was tall, with chestnut-brown hair, hazel eyes and dark, expressive brows. He looked like he drank beer straight out of the bottle and drove a motorcycle.

Mary placed a hand on her hip and smirked as she looked him up and down in a very I’ve got your number, Sonny Jim fashion. I imagined she’d eat him for breakfast if he even gave her so much as a hint he was interested in becoming her boy toy.

And I, well, I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off him either. He was just so unexpected. It was like entering Alfie’s bedroom and discovering a newly finished painting. He seemed too much for our ordinary, comfortable little classroom.

He made eye contact with me just as he pulled out a chair in the third row and sat, a whoosh of air capturing my lungs. I rubbed my palms on my skirt and leaned forward, about to introduce myself when a student approached him. It was Harold, a small, bespectacled man in his early fifties, who liked everything to be done just so. In other words, he was set in his ways, and Stuart was currently occupying his usual seat.

“Pardon me, but I sit there,” he said, tapping Stuart on the shoulder.

Stuart rested an elbow on the desk and slowly turned to look at him. “You what?”

Harold cleared his throat. “This is where I sit. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to move.”

Stuart let out a quiet chuckle, shook his head, and leaned back to spread his legs. “I don’t think so. I’ve just gotten comfortable, mate.”

I frowned and rose from my seat. Making my way past the desks, I felt the others watching as I approached our new student. I stopped just in front of him, briefly placed a reassuring hand on Harold’s shoulder and levelled Stuart with a strict look.

“We actually have a set seating plan. Come with me and I’ll show you where you can sit. I’m Miss Anderson, by the way. Your teacher.”

Stuart took his time raising his eyes to mine, slicing his teeth across his full bottom lip for a second as he contemplated me. I rested my hands on my hips, trying not to fixate on his mouth as I felt a tiny flicker in some long-neglected part of my body.

“All right then, Miss Anderson. I wouldn’t want to cause a fuss,” said Stuart, standing to his full height and allowing Harold to take his seat. His attitude rubbed me the wrong way, but nevertheless, I led him to the only free seat in the front row. He stepped forward, his chest brushing mine before he sat. I caught my breath for a second; the contact took me by surprise. In fact, it almost felt like he’d done it on purpose.

Yep, I was definitely going to have to keep an eye on this one.

Clicking on my laptop, I opened the file with the discussion points for the morning lesson. But first, we’d have our usual start-of-the-week chat, where my students talked about what was going on in their lives.

“I hope you all enjoyed your weekend,” I said. “Did anybody do anything fun?”