“Our . . . Oh. Right. And you came in to give it to me.” Pleasure flustered him nearly as much as embarrassment. “I thought you’d be angry with me after I . . .”

“Kissed my brains out,” she finished. “That would be stupid. Besides, if I’d been pissed, I’d have kicked your ass at the time.”

“I suppose that’s true. Still, I shouldn’t have—”

“I liked it,” she interrupted, and rendered him speechless. Turning, she wandered the room. “So, this is your classroom, where it all happens.”

“Yes, this is mine.” Why, dear God, why couldn’t he make his brain and his mouth work together?

“I haven’t been back here in years. It all looks so much the same, feels so much the same. Don’t people usually say the school seems smaller when they go back as an adult? It actually seems bigger to me. Big and open and bright.”

“It’s a strong design, the building I mean. Open areas, and . . . But you meant that more metaphorically.”

“Maybe I did. I think I had some classes in this room.” She walked around the desks to the trio of windows along the south wall. “I think I used to sit here and look out the window instead of paying attention. I loved it here.”

“Really? A lot of people don’t have fond memories of high school. It’s often a war of politics and personalities, set off by the cannon fire of hormones.”

Her grin flashed. “You could put that on a T-shirt. No, I didn’t like high school all that much. I liked it here, because Parker and Emma were here. I only went here a couple of semesters. One in tenth and one in eleventh, but I liked it better than Jefferson High. Even though Laurel was there, it was so big we didn’t get to hang out all that much.”

She turned back. “Politics and warfare aside, high school’s still a social animal. Since you’re back in the classroom, I bet you loved every minute.”

“For me, high school was a matter of survival. Nerds are one of the low levels on the social strata, alternately debased, ignored, or reviled by those on others. I could write a paper.”

She eyed him curiously. “Did I ever do that?”

“Write a paper? No, you meant the other part. Not noticing is different from ignoring.”

“Sometimes it’s worse,” Mac murmured.

“I wonder if we could go back to the other night, and your ‘I liked it’ response. Could you be more specific, in case I’m misinterpreting?”

He just made her smile. “I don’t think you’re misinterpreting. But—”

“Dr. Maguire?”

The girl hesitated in the doorway, radiating freshness and youth in the prim navy uniform of the academy. Mac noted the signs—the rosy flush, the dewy eyes—and thought: serious teacher crush.

“Ah . . . Julie. Yes?”

“You said I could come by this period to talk about my paper.”

“Right. I just need a minute to—”

“I’ll get out of your way,” Mac said. “I’m running behind as it is. Nice to see you again, Doctor Maguire.”

She strolled out, passing pretty young Julie, and made the turn for the stairs. He caught up with her before she’d made it halfway down.

“Wait.”

As she stopped and turned, Carter laid a hand on her arm. “Would not misinterpreting include it being okay for me to call you?”

“You could call me. Or you could meet me for a drink after school.”

“Do you know where Coffee Talk is?”

“Vaguely. I can find it.”

“Four thirty?”

“I can make five o’clock.”

“Five. Great. I’ll . . . see you there.”

She continued down, glancing back as she reached the base of the staircase. He stood at that halfway point still, hands in the pockets of his khakis, his tweed jacket just a little saggy, and his hair carelessly mussed.

Poor Julie, Mac thought and continued on. Poor little Julie, I know exactly how you feel.

“YOU ASKED HER TO COFFEE TALK? WHAT’S WRONG WITH you?”

Carter scowled as he loaded files and books into his briefcase. “What’s the matter with Coffee Talk?”

“It’s a hangout for staff and students.” Bob Tarkinson, math teacher and self-proclaimed expert on affairs of the heart, shook his head sadly. “You want to make it with a woman, you take her out for a drink. A nice bar, Carter. Something with a little sense of atmosphere and intimacy.”

“Not every contact with a woman’s about making it.”

“Just every other one then.”

“You’re married,” Carter pointed out. “With a baby on the way.”

“Exactly why I know what I know.” Bob rested a hip against Carter’s desk, putting his wise expression on his pleasant face. “Do you think I got a woman like Amy to marry me by taking her out for a cup of coffee? Hell, no. You know what turned the tide for me and Amy?”

“Yes, Bob.” Because you’ve told me a thousand times. “You cooked her dinner on your second date, and she fell for you over your chicken cutlets.”

Still wise, Bob wagged his finger. “Nobody falls for somebody over a latte, Carter. Trust me.”

“She doesn’t even know me, not really. So the falling-for portion is irrelevant. And you’re making me nervous.”

“You were already nervous. Okay, you’re stuck with coffee, so see how it goes. If you’re still interested, do the follow-up call tomorrow. Next day latest. Dinner.”

“I’m not making chicken cutlets.”

“You can’t cook for shit, Maguire. Besides, this coffee thing isn’t officially a first date. Take her out. When you’re ready to close the deal, I can give you a recipe. Something simple.”

“God.” Carter rubbed the space between his eyebrows where tension built. “This is why I avoid dating. It’s hell.”

“You’ve avoided dating because Corrine screwed up your self-confidence. It’s good you’re getting back on the horse, and with somebody outside our sphere.” In support, he clapped Carter on the shoulder. “What did you say she does again?”

“She’s a photographer. She has a wedding business with three of her friends. They’re doing Sherry’s wedding. We—Mackensie and I—went to high school together for about five minutes.”