Tempting Teacher (The Pierce Family)

"He read spreadsheets?" I ask.

A laugh spills from his lips. "He'd like that joke."

"Is it hard talking about him?"

"Yes, but it's good to remember." He looks to me. "What did the school say?"

"About his death?"

He nods.

"Nothing, really. The usual balance of 'he was impossible to replace, but here's this new teacher replacing him.'"

"Cynical."

"Maybe."

"Honest too," he nods. "He was… He was a lot of things I'm not."

"You're a good teacher."

"It's been a week."

"And you've done well. And you're here, volunteering help." And he did a fantastic job teaching me last weekend. But I can't say that. "I'm sorry you lost your friend."

"Thank you."

"My brother died in a car accident… almost two years ago now. It was sudden and tragic and I kept wishing I had more time with him. More time to get to know him, to soak up his joie de vivre. He was a lot like Raul. He had that same romantic spirit."

"I'm sorry."

"No, I… I'm not trying to take the space. That's what happened when my brother died. I had to be strong for my brothers. And I was glad to be there for them, but I wanted someone to be strong for me."

"How old were you?"

"Sixteen."

"When did your mother die?"

"Two years before."

"That's a lot of loss for someone so young."

"I know." My cheeks flame. Fuck. I'm doing this all wrong. "I'm not trying to—I just want to say I get it. I know it's hard. If you want to talk about it, I'm here. And if you need to stop because something makes you think of Raul, I get it. You don't have to explain."

"Thank you."

I want to say more. I want to do more. I want to throw my arms around him and hold him forever. He's holding it together, but I can see the cracks in his facade. And I know that feeling. It's hard.

But maybe this is what he needs. Maybe Izzie was right.

Our night was a distraction.

This, too, is a distraction.

But that's okay. It's romantic even. I'm the break in his day, the relief from his pain.

"I, uh, I promise the project isn't depressing," I say.

"Raul didn't leave any notes."

"I asked him to keep it a secret." But only because I was shy about the content. "Until it was done."

"Of course." Max half-smiles. "He loves the intrigue. I'm surprised he didn't mention you."

"Why would he?"

Max looks at me carefully, studying me, turning over some thought in his head.

About me? Or his friend? Or something else?

Maybe his desire to pin me over the counter and push my jeans to my ankles.

Beep.

The timer pulls me from my dirty thoughts.

Max turns to the French press, finishes fixing the coffee, pours the java into two clean white mugs.

I warm the almond milk in the microwave, add it to the coffee, stir in a spoonful of honey. "Do you want any?" I hold up the carton.

"Black."

"Really?"

"You don't like black coffee?"

"It's trying kind of hard, don't you think? The brooding artist who only drinks black coffee? What next? A beret and a box of Marlboros?"

"Is that the artist's cigarette?"

"No idea."

"Me either."

"Cigars and scotch then?"

"Where does the black coffee fit into this stereotype?"

"I'm still working on it."

He smiles. "Are you suggesting I drink it this way to fit some kind of role?"

"No. It's to stay in shape."

"It is?"

I nod. "You act as if it's a preference, because you're tough, but really, you want abs."

"How do you know I don't have them?"

"You do," I say. "And you want to keep them. It's your artistic vanity, wanting to be as divine as David."

"David, huh?"

The very famous, very naked statue, yes, and his well… relatively small dick. David, that is. Not Max. I didn't get to see Max up close, but I—

And now that's the only thought in my head.

Max naked and hard and ready for me.

My blush deepens.

"I can't believe you figured me out." He reaches for the almond milk and adds a little to his glass. "I don't drink milk."

"Lactose intolerance?"

He nods. "Not severe but enough I can't tolerate more than a macchiato."

"There's almond milk at every coffee shop."

"At every hip coffee shop in New York, maybe."

"Not where you're from?"

He smiles. "There too."

"Where are you from?"

"California."

"No."

"I'm afraid so," he says.

"The bay? Or the sunny part?"

"You realize the state is over seven hundred miles long."

"No," I say. "That means nothing to me."

"There's more than the bay and the sunny part."

"Which part?" I ask.

"The Pacific Northwest starts in Northern California," he says.

"So there are trees?"

"Lots of them."

"Are you from that part?" I ask.

"No. The sunny part. Orange County."

"Do you miss the trees?"

"The palm trees."

That doesn't fit the image I have of him. But I guess everyone loves home in their own way. "You're not one of those people who says they don't like the city because there aren't enough trees, are you?"

"I'm not."

"But you don't like it?"