Too Good to Be True. Kristan Higgins
Apparently, he’d gotten into the Chinese food. He whined affectionately and wagged. “What’s that? You love my hair? Oh, thank you, Angus McFangus. Excuse me? It’s Ben & Jerry’s time? Why, you little genius! You’re absolutely right. What do you think? Crème Brûlée or Coffee Heath Bar?” His little tail wagged even as he bit my earlobe and tugged painfully. “Coffee Heath Bar it is, boy. Of course you can share.”
I disentangled him, then turned to go, but something outside caught my eye.
A man.
Two stories below me, my grumpy, bruised neighbor was lying on his roof, in the back where it was nearly flat. He’d put on more clothes (alas), and his white T-shirt practically glowed in the dark. Jeans. Bare feet. I could see that he was just… just lying there, hands behind his head, one knee bent, looking up at the sky.
Something contracted down low in my stomach, my skin tightened with heat. Suddenly, I could feel the blood pulsing in parts too long neglected.
Slowly, so as not to attract attention, I eased the window up a crack. The sound of springtime frogs rushed in, the smell of the river and distant rain. The damp breeze cooled my hot cheeks.
The moon was rising in the west, and my neighbor, too irritable to tell me his name, was simply lying on the roof, staring at the deep, deep blue of the night sky.
What kind of man did that?
Angus sneezed in disgust, and I jumped back from the window lest Surly Neighbor Man hear.
Suddenly, everything shifted into focus. I wanted a man. There, right next door, was a man. A manly man. My girl parts gave a warm squeeze.
Granted, I didn’t want a fling. I wanted a husband, and not just any husband. A smart, funny, kind and moral husband. He’d love kids and animals, especially dogs. He’d work hard at some honorable, intellectual job. He’d like to cook. He’d be unceasingly cheerful. He’d adore me.
I didn’t know a thing about that guy down there. Not even his name. All I knew was that I felt something—lust, let’s be honest—for him. But that was a start. I hadn’t felt anything for any man in a long, long time.
Tomorrow, I told myself as I closed the window, I was going to find out my neighbor’s name. And I’d invite him to dinner, too.
CHAPTER SIX
“SO ALTHOUGH SEWELL POINT wasn’t a major battle, it had the potential to greatly affect the outcome of the war. Obviously, Chesapeake Bay was a critical area for both sides. So. Ten pages on the blockade and its effects, due on Monday.”
My class groaned. “Ms. Em!” Hunter Graystone protested. “That’s, like, ten times what any other teacher gives.”
“Oh, you poor little kittens! Want me to prop you up while you type?” I winked. “Ten pages. Twelve if you fight me.”
Kerry Blake giggled. She was texting someone. “Hand it over, Kerry,” I said, reaching out for her phone. It was a new model, encrusted with bling.
Kerry raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow at me. “Ms. Emerson, do you, like, know how much that cost? Like, if my father knew you took it, he’d be, like… totally unhappy.”
“You can’t use your phone in class, honey,” I said for what had to be the hundredth time this month. “You’ll get it back at the end of the day.”
“Whatever,” she muttered. Then, catching Hunter’s eye, she flipped her hair back and stretched. Hunter grinned appreciatively. Tommy Michener, painfully and inexplicably in love with Kerry, froze at the display, which caused Emma Kirk to droop. Ah, young love.
Across the hall, I heard a burst of sultry laughter from Ava Machiatelli’s Classical History class. Most Manning students loved Ms. Machiatelli. Easy grades, false sympathy for their busy schedules resulting in very little homework, and the most shallow delving into history since…well, since Brad Pitt starred in Troy. But like Brad Pitt, Ava Machiatelli was beautiful and charming. Add to this her low-cut sweaters and tight skirts, and you had Marilyn Monroe teaching history. The boys lusted after her, the girls took fashion notes from her, the parents loved her since their kids all got A’s. Me…not such a fan.
The chimes sounded, marking the end of the period. Manning Academy didn’t have bells—too harsh for the young ears of America’s wealthiest. The gentle Zen chimes had the same effect as electric shock therapy, though—my seniors lunged out of their seats toward the door. On Mondays, Civil War was the last class before lunch.
“Hang on, kids,” I called. They stopped, sheeplike. They may have been, for the most part, overindulged and too sophisticated for their tender ages, but they were obedient, I had to give them that. “This weekend, Brother Against Brother is reenacting the Battle of Bull Run, also known as First Manassas, which I’m sure you know all about, since it was in your reading homework from Tuesday. Extra credit to anyone who comes, okay? E-mail me if you’re interested, and I’d be happy to pick you up here.”
“As if,” Kerry said. “I don’t need extra credit that bad.”
“Thanks, Ms. Em,” Hunter called. “Sounds fun.”
Hunter wouldn’t come, though he was one of my more polite students. His weekends were spent doing things like having dinner with Derek Jeter before a Yankees game or flying to one of his many family homes. Tommy Michener might, since he seemed to like history—his papers were always sharp and insightful—but more than likely, peer pressure would keep him home, miserably lusting after Kerry, Emma Kirk’s wholesome appeal lost on him.
“Hey, Tommy?” I called.
He turned back to me. “Yeah, Ms. Em?”
I waited a beat till everyone else was gone. “Everything okay with you these days?”
He smiled a bit sadly. “Oh, yeah. Just the usual crap.”
“You can do better than Kerry,” I said gently.
He snorted. “That’s what my dad says.”
“See? Two of your favorite grown-ups agree.”
“Yeah. Well, you can’t pick who you fall for, can you, Ms. Em?”
I paused. “Nope. You sure can’t.”
Tommy left, and I gathered up my papers. History was a tough subject to teach. After all, most teenagers barely remembered what had happened last month, let alone a century and a half ago, but still. Just once, I wanted them to feel how history had impacted the world we lived in. Especially the Civil War, my favorite part of American history. I wanted them to understand what had been risked, to imagine the burden, the pain, the uncertainty President Lincoln must have experienced, the loss and betrayal felt by the Southerners who had seceded—
“Hello, there, Grace.” Ava stood in my doorway, doing her trademark sleepy smile, followed by three slow, seductive blinks. There was one…and the second…and there was three.
“Ava! How are you?” I said, forcing a smile.
“I’m quite well, thank you.” She tipped her head so that her silky hair fell to one side. “Have you heard the news?”
I hesitated. Ava, unlike myself, had her ear to the ground when it came to Manning’s politics. I was one of those teachers who dreaded schmoozing with the trustees and wealthy alumni, preferring to spend my time planning classes and tutoring the kids who needed extra help. Ava, on the other hand, worked the system. Add that to the fact that I didn’t live on campus (Ava had a small house at the edge of campus, and speculation was that she’d slept with the Dean of Housing to get it), and she definitely heard things.
“No, Ava. What news is that?” I asked, trying to keep my tone pleasant. Her blouse was so low-cut that I could see a Chinese symbol tattooed on her right boob. Which meant that every child who came through her classroom could see it, too.
“Dr.