Page 12 of The Do-Over Girl

KALI

Watching him leave the room after dinner was a mistake. His butt is world-class tight and sexy, even though these thoughts aren’t the ones I should be having about Nash, especially not after his rude behavior at dinner toward Steve. I just can’t help it. Hell, even Mrs. Pike—well past the age of hormonal driven lust—noticed Nash’s drool-worthy body.

“Kali, would you like to go for an after-dinner stroll?” Steve says, with a lop-sided boyish grin, expectant and hopeful, almost puppy-like. Not at all like the hungry and dangerous grin Nash aims at me routinely, the kind that takes a bite out of my resolve every time. If I don’t watch out, he’ll eat me up and spit me out—again.

In spite of Steve’s harmless and sweet invitation, I can’t bring myself to say yes. “I—thank you, but I have some last-minute prep to do for school tomorrow.”

“Another time, then?”

As I rise from my chair in a sudden rush to go upstairs—not because Nash is up there in the room right next to mine—I nod and thank Mrs. Pike for a lovely dinner.

If Nash had made the same offer, would I have said yes?I shiver, then shut down the stupid devil whispering temptation from the wrong shoulder. Don’t forget how untrustworthy he turned out to be, how he still enjoys toying with me, how apparently, that’s all he’s capable of since he’s still a bachelor after all these years.

Never mind that I’m still a bachelorette—that doesn’t count because I was engaged, almost married, and that counts. It means I’m perfectly capable of commitment—to the right person. Climbing to the top of the stairs, I pause at my door and glance at Nash’s closed door, wondering what he’s doing.

Stupid to wonder. He’s probably texting with some woman or calling them, having phone sex or something— Stop it, Kali! Why the heck did my mind just go there?

I rush inside my room and close the door a little harder than is polite, wincing when there’s a thud against the wall adjoining Nash’s room, admonishing me. Oh, God no—we share a bedroom wall—the wall my bed backs up against.

Glancing across the room, I realize the closet and en-suite bathroom are on the other side of my room. I’d assumed his closet and bathroom were on the other side of my wall. Shit. What a horribly designed floor plan.

What was Charline thinking?

Well, that’s unfair—Charline certainly didn’t design the house. No, but she put you in the room right next to Nash—and then makes a point to tell you she won’t tolerate hanky-panky. Seems a little counter-productive to me. Not that I’m tempted. Even Nash, despite his teasing and toying, couldn’t be interested in me even a little after how we left things all those years ago.

It’s not even nine p.m., but despite a premature yawn, I sit at the desk in front of a window facing the back of the house where a scented breeze wafts in, and open my computer to the lesson plan file. I’ve never taught high school English before. Hell, I’ve never taught anything to anyone under the age of twenty-five.

First school day jitters drive me to study my plans and refine them as the familiarity of the new school year comes back to me in nostalgic waves, settling me down. So what if I’m a teacher now instead of a student? I can do this. I’ll hunt down my new friend Mia for tips and advice if I get into trouble with the age gap.

* * *

Once I’min bed under my covers, satisfied with my readiness to tackle teaching high school students, the other reason I’m here rises up. Our mission to save the school should be daunting, but it’s in my wheelhouse, the kind of thing I’ve tackled professionally over the years one way or another.

Or it wouldn’t be daunting if it weren’t for the presence of one co-conspirator named Nash Lewis. Shit. I’ll have to see him and work with him every day. Plus, he’s made it clear he’s more interested in teasing and taunting me than working with me. Double shit.

There’s only one way to deal with that, to shut him down, and that’s to remain unaffected by his mean flirtations. I can do that. All I need to do is remember who he is, what he did to me at the graduation dance and that he can’t be trusted. No matter what.

I turn over and try to keep the image of him at bay, the image of how he’d been back then, and then the image of his more mature and somehow hotter self now. I try not to think about his generosity of money and time being here. So what? So, he’s not all bad. That doesn’t mean he’s not bad for me.

* * *

Loud bells make me squirm,spoiling the delicious feelings, blurring his face hovering over mine, obscuring his heated gaze, and muting the feel of his body close and sweaty… I moan, “Don’t stop, Nash.” But the sound intrudes, and then there’s banging. No, don’t go. I want to scream the words as he fades away. Maybe I do scream the words as I startle awake, sitting up in the dark room lit only by moonlight and the stars, blinking.

There’s a distinct thud at the door, pounding and purposeful, and I shake my head to dispel the disturbing dream, trying to concentrate on the here and now and all the noise.

“Kali, wake up.” I know that voice shouting from the other side of the door. It was all a dream, right? But he doesn’t stop banging on the door and the urgency in his voice registers.

“All right, I’m coming. Keep your pants on,” I say as I slip from bed, a rush of heat flooding my revved-up body. It was a damn dream—or I was reliving scenes from my past with him. Either way, it means nothing. Stepping into my slippers, I shuffle to the door and open it a crack.

“What the hell—”

He pushes the door open and yanks me from the room in a quick efficient move, without explanation, and starts dragging me down the hall toward the stairs. I’m about to protest when the meaning of the ringing alarms makes sense in my foggy brain. Fire alarms.

“Is there a fire?” Now, I cooperate with his quick pace down the flight of stairs, and we rush out the front door.

“Not sure, but not taking any chances, right?” His gaze falls on mine for a brief examination, filled with that same intense emotion that always took my breath away once upon a time. My heart pounds, either from the threat of danger from the fire or him, I’m not sure which.

He pulls me across the front porch and pounds down the stairs, half-carrying me as the sound of sirens shrieks in the air, and two fire trucks halt in front of the inn. He drags me across the lawn toward the ambulance that pulls up behind the trucks, out of the way of the ascending melee of firemen armed with hoses and axes rushing in the open front door.