Page 63 of Class Act

“This is amazing!” Lizzie clapped. “How was it?”

“There’s no way he’s a bad kisser,” Ruby said dreamily. “I hope you grabbed on and pulled him close and made sure those arms were wrapped around you nice and tight.”

I giggled. “It wasn’t like that. We were barely touching.”

“Oh my gosh,” Aryn said. “Those kinds of kisses make my knees weak.” She playfully shivered and closed her eyes.

“I have to say, it feels good to be proven right,” Meredith smirked. “I knew something was brewing there.”

I bit my lips. “Then he texted me that night and told me he’d be busy this week with those out-of-town visitors we saw tonight, so he couldn’t get together, but that he’d like to be in touch.”

“And?” Lizzie asked.

“We’ve talked or texted every day.”

“Swoon,” Ruby called, slapping her hand to her heart. “This is better than baby kittens crawling all over your face.”

I looked to Ruby, distracted by her statement, and played a mental video of kittens crawling on my face. I’m not sure I’d call that the best thing ever. The others seemed to be, momentarily, doing the same thing before Meredith called us all back.

“What now?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I seem to have fallen into a possible budding relationship with the man of my dreams.”

“No one deserves it more than you,” Aryn came over and gave me a one-armed squeeze. “I’m happy for you.”

They all agreed, reaching out to pat my hand or shoulder, and we got back to our respective duties as conversation flowed to other topics. As the others chatted lightly, laughing and occasionally giving me a delighted look, I stayed quiet as the image of Ford, his hair dripping wet, his face close to mine, kept playing in my mind. Let me just tell you that no drink has ever been more stirred than the one I was making that night.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A message on the interschool messaging system popped up on my computer screen after school a few days later, asking me to call Ford Whittaker and leaving his number. My hand froze over the mouse, and I reread the little box, unsure that I’d seen the message correctly. He’d never contacted me at work before, and even though I felt a little spark over seeing his name on the screen, I was curious what it could be about.

I wasn’t going to be able to finish my lesson plan until I’d found out, so I stood and closed my classroom door before picking up my desk phone and calling him.

“Ford Whittaker,” he answered authoritatively, and for some reason the business-y sound of it made me smile.

“Yes, hello Ford Whittaker, this is Miss Hailey Thomas returning your call from Washington Elementary School here in . . .”

“I know where you’re located, Miss Thomas,” he replied, cutting me off with a laugh. “I’m sorry I had to contact you through the school. Time is of the essence, and I was going to leave you a message, but your mailbox on your cell is full.”

“Oh, yeah. I don’t use voicemail. It’s for old people,” I teased.

He was silent, and I wished I could see his expression now. “I’ll ignore the old people comment,” he said in a totally dry tone. “Listen, the reason I’m calling is to ask you a favor.”

“Oh?” Well blow me down with a feather, I did not see this coming.

“I sent off those international people this afternoon, but another group is coming to town tomorrow, and I’m hosting a dinner for them and their significant others or whomever they decide to bring as a guest. Anyhow, I thought it would make them all more comfortable if I had a guest, too, and I was hoping you’d be willing to come with me.”

He was sort of asking me out, which caused unparalleled delight. “So what you’re saying is that you’re looking for a warm body to fill a chair?” I teased. “I’d be flattered, except you could have asked a chimpanzee to fulfill the same function.”

“A chimpanzee spills their drinks more. Oh, wait . . . maybe I should ask someone else,” he teased back, referring to that first meal at my parents’ house and my drink tsunami.

I wanted to laugh, but I bit my lips and said, “I’ve never been asked to be an official companion and possible bodyguard.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“Hey, I’m not making any assumptions about what this night will hold. Maybe one of the other women will set her sights on you.”

There was a noise like the shifting of a leather chair, and I could imagine him leaning forward, elbows on his desk as we talked. “Doubtful,” he replied.

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