Catching His Eye. Jo LeighЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter Two

      The lunch bell rang, and twenty-one copies of Romeo and Juliet slammed shut at the same time. It was no use going on. Her fourth-period senior English class had already gone to lunch, even though they waited, albeit impatiently, for her to give the homework assignment and excuse them.

      “Read pages eighteen through thirty, and write two pages about the relationship between the Montegues and the Capulets.”

      A collective groan almost obscured the scraping of chairs as her students rushed to escape. But today Emily didn’t care. She had her own agenda.

      Day four of the regimen had started out badly. Because she was a fool, she’d started her exercise program with far too much vigor, and her muscles, particularly her leg muscles, were proving her folly.

      She winced as she erased the blackboard, cursing her own stupidity. Why had she ever agreed to this cockamamy scheme? It was dumb, it hurt, and she didn’t want to play anymore.

      She wouldn’t tell the others, though. Not yet. There was plenty of time to disappoint her friends.

      And herself.

      Damn. There went a perfectly good opportunity to quit. Now she’d have to eat her salad with balsamic vinegar dressing, no oil. She’d have to drink her eight ounces of water. She’d have to keep her word.

      But she didn’t have to like it.

      It took her ten minutes to gather her things and straighten up the classroom. Unfortunately, she had papers, lots of them, to correct. But after lunch, she had drama, and she didn’t want to lug her things around. Since the auditorium was right there at the parking lot she’d put her stuff in the car, and after sixth period, she’d be out of here.

      By the time she’d picked up everything she needed, her arms were full and her muscles protested in a most vivid way. But she went into the hall, lined with lockers and kids and banners announcing the upcoming football game. She put all her things down so she could lock the door, then picked them up again. She headed toward the door, the parking lot, wondering if she was too young to use Ben-Gay.

      She heard the accident seconds before it even happened. Tennis shoes slapped the linoleum. Rushed at her like a freight train. But it was too late to get out of the way and she squeezed her eyes shut as she was hit broadside.

      Her book bag flew out of her hands. She struggled to keep her balance, but there was no way. She fell hard, landing on her right hip.

      The kid, someone she didn’t recognize, didn’t even stop to say he was sorry. He just ran like hell to the end of the hall, and exited, stage right.

      Gretchen Foley stared at her from in front of her locker. “Are you all right, Ms. Proctor?”

      “Yes, Gretchen. I’m fine.”

      “Should I go get the nurse or something?”

      “That won’t be necessary.”

      Gretchen nodded and headed toward the cafeteria. She didn’t even bother to pick up a single piece of paper. What was it with kids today? Had they all been raised by wolves?

      Just then, a masculine hand came out of nowhere, extended in front of her. She sighed, glad that at least one student on campus had some manners.

      She looked up at her Lochinvar, and her heart froze. Scott Dillon. Oh, God! Anyone but him! She’d gone out of her way to avoid him. She didn’t want him to see her like this. Especially not like this!

      He frowned, making his perfect dark brows come close together. “Are you really all right?”

      She nodded, unable to speak.

      He glanced at his hand, and she took hold of him, praying she wouldn’t give him a hernia as he helped her up. To her utter relief, he didn’t strain himself at all.

      “Hey!” he said. “I didn’t know it was you.”

      “It’s me.”

      “Well, how do you like that. What are you doing here?”

      “I work here.”

      “Right. That’s right. I remember.” He shook his head and she wasn’t sure if it was because she was still living in Sheridan, or because she had come to teach at their alma mater. But he didn’t stay perplexed for long. Instead, he started picking up her books and papers.

      “It’s great to see you. How you doing, Emily?”

      “I’m fine, Scott,” she said, lying through her teeth. “You’re looking well.” And he was. Oh, mama. He was more beautiful than ever. He towered over her at well over six feet. His dark, wavy hair was slightly unkempt, and he looked devilishly handsome. Dark chocolate eyes sparkled behind sinfully long lashes. And that smile. She’d been a sucker for that smile since day one.

      He waved away her compliment, handed her the last of her papers, then glanced down the hall. “I’m supposed to meet Coach for lunch. I’m late.”

      “Go. Go on.”

      “But you need help with your books.”

      “I can handle it. Honestly. Now go. I know Coach hates it when anyone’s late. It was good to see you again.”

      “Yeah. We’ll have to get together for coffee or something.”

      She nodded, but he didn’t see. He’d already started down the hall. Down the very same hall where she’d watched him, five days a week, and loved him from afar. Where he’d kissed Cathy Turner, blissfully unaware that he’d broken her heart.

      Her smile died. She had to congratulate herself. She’d sounded perfectly normal. Perfectly calm. Despite the turmoil swirling inside. He’d seen her at her worst. Splayed on the floor like some giant amoeba, arms and legs akimbo, hair a horror, and she’d even managed to lose one shoe.

      Perfect. A fairy-tale reunion if she’d ever seen one. She’d managed to blow it before it had even begun—

      Wait.

      This wasn’t about Scott, right? The sudden urge for fast food might be about him, but her determination not to give in was hers and hers alone.

      So he’d seen her. So what? It was bound to happen. So it wasn’t in the most flattering light. Big deal. The truth was, they’d been friends, once. Good friends. They’d talked about their dreams for a shining future. Shared their fears and laughter as they sat in the last row of the auditorium waiting for their turn on the stage. Despite her crush, she’d liked Scott. She’d never understood what he saw in Cathy, but hey, who knows? Maybe Cathy had hidden depth. Really well-hidden. But that was neither here nor there. What was relevant now was Emily’s desire to go the distance. To be the best she could be.

      It was time to eat her salad. With balsamic vinegar, no oil.

      SCOTT HURRIED DOWN the familiar halls, wishing he’d come earlier so that he could have lingered, savored his memories. But as Emily said, Coach hated to be kept waiting.

      Emily Proctor.

      He hadn’t expected to see her again. It surprised him that she’d stayed in Sheridan. She was so bright, he imagined her in New York or something, writing books or in politics. She’d be a good teacher, though. Her students were lucky.

      He’d thought about her from time to time. About their talks, mostly. About how he’d looked forward to his classes with her. He’d taken out his yearbook once and seeing her picture was like a dose of medicine. She’d been a better