If I Could - B. Celeste Page 0,4

where some of the students in the back would struggle to see it.

Blowing out a breath, I set the box down on the floor with the others. At least they moved the shelving I asked for in here. Currently, it stretches across one of the cement-block walls, empty, dusty, and ready to be filled with the book selections I’ve chosen for the year.

“This your first position?” I find myself asking, watching him glide along the boxes I’ve started opening to peer at the novels inside, fingering a few of the paperback covers.

The soft snicker I get in return pinches my brows, but when he clears his throat and glances at me, only a friendly smile remains. “Yeah, this is my first teaching gig.” His carefully selected words are apparent, but not as much as the mischievous glint in his eyes that makes me curious as to what he’s thinking about.

Putting my hands in the pockets of my tan pants, ones my former best friend would have certainly told me to change out of had she seen my business casual attire today, I say, “You ready to see Richman? I saw him arrive shortly after I grabbed the last box from my car. He should be in his office.”

A head nod later, we’re walking back down the hall. His eyes go along the framed pictures of previous graduating classes, from the time the school was founded in the 90’s, to last year’s small forty-something student class. It gives me a chance to scope out his confident strut, the same one I’ve seen on a few others in this school. But never first-year teachers. They’re usually too nervous and panic-stricken to be this at ease. I know I was. Lawrence doesn’t seem to be in his head about the school year. I almost envy him.

Like me, his outfit is on the casual side, but something tells me his clothes aren’t from the clearance rack at Target. I’ve been around enough designer clothes to know them when I see them, I just don’t don them. Not since—

He breaks me from my downtrodden thoughts. “What happens when they run out of space?”

I blink, realizing he’s talking about the frames. Shrugging, I stop at the one he’s staring at. The class of ‘99. Lots of denim. “They’ll find other places to display these. There are a few wings of the school that aren’t even used anymore. Back in the early 2000s, they put an extension on the school expecting more enrollment, but it didn’t happen.”

The new coach frowns. “That bites. So, it just sits empty now?”

“Most of it,” I reply casually, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “Some poor sucker will get moved there every now and again. The plus side is,” I dip my head at the side entrance of the lunchroom we’re passing. “It’s right next the cafeteria.”

He blinks for a moment, looks over his shoulder at the direction we just strolled from, then back at me. I startle at his abrupt laugh, loud and deep rumbling his brawny shoulders. “You’re the sucker,” he chortles. “What’d you do to piss off the wrong person?”

I grin, his amusement cresting my own need to joke back. “Or what did I do right? As far as I’m concerned, I’m in the quietest section of the school. None of those lockers are used, the other rooms are empty, and I’m the closest to those damn Little Debbie cinnamon rolls that they have in the vending machine in the cafeteria.”

The snort that comes from him makes me chuckle lightly. “You do know those things are basically plastic-wrapped poison, right?”

It shouldn’t surprise me that he thinks so. He’s built, clearly evident in the tight shirt he wears that stretches over broad shoulders and large biceps, and tailored pants that show off his long, lean legs. I should warn him that girls are going to eat him alive, but I’m sure Richman will fill him in on teenage hormones and how to avoid getting into sticky situations. If not, he’ll figure it out on his own. A guy like him, attractive—something I haven’t allowed myself to notice in a long, long time—confident, and seemingly down to earth, is going to attract a lot of attention from his students.

“Probably,” I agree. “But they’re still a guilty pleasure of mine. I’ve always had a sweet tooth. It’s why I keep quarters in my desk.”

“Don’t tell me that,” he muses, “I may be tempted to take some. Only if the