Wilde for You. Dawn Atkins

too.”

      “So that’s how you get the big bucks—coming up with big hairy labels for fun stuff.”

      “Pretty much. It’s a great idea, Cricket. Innovative.” And a fire hazard. He had to tell her so. It was his job. “The only thing is we can’t have anything flammable within six inches of the ceiling tiles.”

      “What? Oh, right. Good one.” She slugged him gently on the arm.

      “I’m serious. It’s the fire code. And the trees will have to be dealt with, too—the branches trimmed and that one—” he pointed “—needs to be moved so it doesn’t block the exit.”

      “It took me four hours to get this stuff up. And the trees took forever to situate.”

      “I’ll help you move them.”

      “How about if I just take my chances with the fire marshal?”

      “I’m afraid I can’t allow that. You’ll still have the jungle effect with your animals and bulletin boards.”

      “Come on, Tucker. You’re not one of those rules-are-rules guys, are you? In college, you were at the demonstrations, ready to get arrested with the rest of us.”

      “We had permits.”

      “Please, sir, can we protest? Sheesh.” She rolled her eyes.

      “The petitions and meetings with the university president achieved what we wanted. The demonstrations were mostly to make us feel better.”

      “That’s not true, is it?”

      “More or less. The point is that if you play by the major rules, you can bend the minor ones. And safety’s major.”

      “So I’ll pat down the kids for matches.”

      “I’ll get another ladder and help you.”

      “I’ll handle it,” she said, her eyes sparking with irritation. And stubbornness.

      “Okay, then.” He lifted his clipboard, pen at the ready. “Is there anything else you need in the way of furniture, equipment or textbooks?”

      “What I need is for you to forget the fire code.”

      “No can do.”

      They held each other’s gaze in a High Noon stand-off. Something told him this wouldn’t be his last run-in with Cricket.

      He blinked first. “Anyway…I know the first few weeks of teaching can be overwhelming, but we’re here—Harvey and I—to make your job easier.”

      She rolled her eyes in a yeah, right. But her wry smile softened the effect.

      “In the long run, you’ll thank me.”

      “You sound old, Tuck.” She patted him on the shoulder.

      Part of him bristled, but having her think of him as an old married administrator was probably a good thing. If they were in a different place, a different time, he’d be after her in a heartbeat, eager to see if time had altered the heat between them. He rubbed his ring with his thumb, grateful he wore it. Melissa had been a mere echo of Cricket. Without this gold emblem on his fingers, God knows what career-killing indiscretion he’d be tempted into beneath the branches of her papier-mâché trees and the reptilian eyes of her terrarium dwellers. The school board would never buy “Cricket Fever” as a defense at his hearing.

      Unless, of course, they knew Cricket.

      WHAT THE HELL HAD happened to Tucker Manning? Cricket couldn’t believe a guy who kissed like a porn star would stand there like an old geezer and tell her to rip down her jungle. In the long run, you’ll thank me? Please.

      On top of that, he was married. She got a smidge of concern that she was more disappointed about that than she was over her soon-to-be-deforested jungle.

      Tucker Manning was married. Unavailable. Taken.

      Not that it mattered. Hell, she hadn’t seen him in years, though he did cross her mind from time to time. They’d connected in such a warm, easy way that night. She’d felt understood, honored, almost urged to say any outrageous thing she thought or felt.

      He’d also starred in some sexy dreams. Maybe because she’d been surprised by how much and how fast she’d wanted him. Major lust had hit at max speed.

      Of course, he was hot, with down-slanted, bedroom eyes—George Clooney/Kyle Chandler eyes. And he had this great look—earnest and smart-ass and know-it-all. The boy next door with a Harley and a Mensa membership. Trustworthy, wicked and brilliant. A killer combo.

      Plus, his voice was low and confident, with a sexual undertow that sucked her in. Also his mouth was dramatic—sculpted lips, full and so there. She’d just had to have a taste…. And wow…. But Tucker had come to his senses, completely mortified and guilty as hell. She could have told him about Sylvia and the professor, but that didn’t seem right and she’d been a little shaken up by her reaction to him.

      And she still thought about him with lust. Probably because he was The Forbidden. Or maybe because after that night, he disappeared. Or maybe she had disappeared. Whatever. Absence makes the heart more horny? Or curious? Or something.

      Now here he was, turning up again like a sexy penny, with that same kissable mouth and all those fabulous features and that thick, dark hair—she’d forgotten about the hair—but he was taken. Locked down. Married. She hoped the woman knew what she had.

      On the other hand, he’d turned into an administrator. And not a progressive, authority-sharing one, either. A rules-are-our-friends, by-the-book administrator. He’d probably expect to see her lesson plans for the upcoming week on his desk every Friday. She watched him cross the quad. What a great backside. She was window-shopping only, of course. The man was married.

      He’d sounded nervous about it, though—it has its ups and downs—fiddling with his wedding ring like he wanted to yank it off. She hoped he wasn’t unhappily married.

      Anyway, enough of the sexual road not taken. She had a new career to explore and no time for good kissers with up-and-down marriages. Small towns meant flat-line on the entertain-o-meter. But that was okay. Her goal was to be the best teacher she could be and really give this career a fair test. Discarding two professions—even if one was because of a physical reflex…good point, Tuck—made her feel, well, flaky.

      It was time to get serious. And teaching was it. She was pretty sure. She’d loved the summer camp. Teaching the kids how to boat and ride horses, guiding them through conflicts, shoring up their self-esteem, helping them explore their ideas and interests had been extremely rewarding. She’d felt as though she made a difference in their lives. She wanted more of that. A career of it, in fact.

      As the summer ended, she’d recalled that her friend Nikki Winfield’s father was a principal. Cricket had worked for Party Time Characters, the kiddie party company Nikki’s best friend Mariah had started back then, and had gotten to know Nikki through her.

      Before she knew it, Cricket had an interview with Nikki’s father, Harvey—a formal, old-fashioned guy, but sweet and completely in love with his school. Her science background and enthusiasm—and the fact they had no other applicants—earned her the job. She would refresh her biology with the textbooks, get teaching tips from colleagues and figure out the chemistry somehow.

      The point was that she now had her very own classroom. She had a curriculum to cover, but how she presented it was up to her. She wanted her students to love learning and to figure out how they could make a difference, too.

      When she sat still for long, though, doubts assailed her. Was she up to this? Could she stick to it even when it got hard? Would she get hit with the same disappointment she’d felt about social work? Maybe she was too idealistic. She had these great dreams, but the day-to-day getting there wore her down. At least so far.

      This had to be different. She felt different.