“You have some experience in education. Nice.”
“Yes.”
He steeples his hands together and gives me a friendly look. “Well, Ms. Morgan, we’d like to offer you a position here at Blue Belle High.”
Surprise ripples over me.
No questions about my strengths and weaknesses? No calling my references?
I scoot a little closer to the edge of the seat. “I don’t have a teaching degree.”
He nods. “Our enrollment exceeded our expectations this year. Basically, we’re overcrowded and scrambling to get our class size down and hire new teachers. This position has been open for two weeks, and no one with a teaching degree has applied. Thankfully, the state allows special accommodations for this, and, well, Mrs. Meadows vouched for you. She’s one of our board members.” He smiles. “She came to my barbecue this weekend and told me this story about you climbing her apple tree.”
I let out an unsure chuckle.
“Anyway . . . we’d love to have you on board as a Bobcat. And . . . if you find that you want to continue here as a teacher next school year, we’d ask that you find classes to get teacher accreditation. Many places are online these days. You can even count your teaching experience this year as your practicum credit. I feel confident our enrollment is going to soar, especially with our football program. Everyone wants to be at a winning school, right?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, we’d have you back next year if things work out.” Then he tells me the salary, one that’s considerably more than I made in New York.
“What would I be teaching? Art?” I ask hopefully. Whatever it is, bring it, but please don’t let it be algebra . . . or English . . . or history . . . or, Jesus, any kind of science.
He removes his glasses and sets them on the desk. “You’ll have a part-time English position. Juniors. How do you feel about Julius Caesar? I do believe that’s on the curriculum.”
I know nothing about Julius except that he got stabbed in the back by his best friend. I can relate.
He must see the disappointment on my face.
“Miss Burns has taught art for years,” he says, studying me. “Perhaps one day that position will be open, Ms. Morgan, but not today.”
“I see.”
“We already filled the algebra job, and the English one is the only—”
“I love English,” I gush. “Adore it. My favorite subject. You said part time?”
He nods. “Officially, you’d be a Blue Belle teacher, and you’d report to me for those duties, but we also need a personal assistant for Coach Smith, which makes it a full-time job. The booster club is covering that portion of your salary. Does that sound doable?” He smiles. “Lois mentioned you’re quite the football fan.”
A sharp breath comes from me. This feels a little like a bait and switch. Get the girl excited about teaching America’s youth, then throw in the wrench. “Right . . .”
He pulls a sheet of paper from his desk and slides it over for me to take. “Here’s the syllabus for the classes if you want to be sure you’re up for this.”
I glance over it, the words running together. Yep, there’s Julius Caesar, poetry, a term paper—oh my God. I may have to study for this.
“As far as helping Coach, here’s a list of some duties, but you two can work that out. It’s up to him.” He gives me another paper. “Our goal is to free up time for Coach. He’s hardworking and talented as hell—pardon me—and we want him to stay. He put in a request for a part-time PA, and we’ve been waiting for the right person . . .”
He says more things, and I’m nodding, my mind racing as I think about Ronan. Yes, we had a chat in the bookstore where I said way too much to him, and we fake kissed, but I haven’t heard a peep from him or noticed him walking at night. Which is fine. I don’t want to see him.
Plus, that kiss is going to complicate things if we work together.
Honestly?
I’d rather teach a bunch of horny teenagers throwing spitballs at my face than be his PA.
He awakens something in my body; therefore, he is dangerous.
I glance down at the duties.
Answer phones in Coach’s office. (Doable.)
Manage calendar/Book travel. (Fine. Anyone, even Sparky, could do this.)
Social media. (Take pics and post them.)
Management of fan mail. (People do that? Yes, this is Texas.)
Manage personal appearances. (Ronan needs help for the Waffle House?)
Manage pep rallies. (Seriously?)
I’m in high school all over again—only I’ll have to hang out with the super hot, full-of-himself football coach.
Sweat rolls down my back. Plus I’ll be around my ex . . .
“Well. What do you think, Ms. Morgan? Can you handle this?”
This is money and stability, and it might mean a job next year. Hope rises, a little thing that flutters in my chest, painting a vision of me teaching art someday . . .