Chapter Nine

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I am yanked forcibly out of my mid-class daydream by the piercing trill of the school bell, signaling to the class of relieved students the arrival of lunch.

            As soon as my gaze lands on the algebra teacher at the front of the classroom, my cheeks begin to flame.

            Because, well… the previously mentioned daydream may or may not have consisted of a mildly inappropriate fantasy with Mr. Moore. As his eyes lock onto mine, the intensity of the color on my cheeks increases. I look away hastily, pretending to be totally absorbed in sliding my textbook and notepad – which, I’ll add, contains a whole lot of doodles but no actual math work – back into my bag whilst waiting for his attention to turn to someone else.

            You can’t blame me for daydreaming, though. Mr. Moore, although he happens to be way older than me (probably about twenty seven, give or take a few years), is the most attractive teacher in the school. Almost every girl in the school who’s aware of his existence will harbor an involuntary crush on him. It’s impossible not to; his dashing looks and naturally charming personality are enough to make any female swoon.

            I snatch up my bag and am about to make my escape when I’m cut off by the sound of a voice.

            “Georgie?”

            Crap. Please don’t let Mr. Moore have gained mind-reading powers in the last ten minutes. What’s just been going on in my head is something I’m not too keen on him seeing.

            I turn around slowly as the rest of the class begins to file out of the room. Biting my lip, I try to keep the impending blush down as my eyes meet with his. “Yeah?”

            “Can I talk to you for a second?”

            Inappropriate images flash through my mind again, causing me to curse my dirty brain. This is a teacher, Georgie. And that’s not even getting started on the fact that he’s over ten years older than you. Get a grip.

            I inhale deeply, nodding. “Yeah, sure.”

            He goes over to his desk, waiting until the remainder of the class have exited the room. As I stand awkwardly beside my own desk, I try to calm my frantic nerves. I’m only talking to a teacher, for God’s sake. It’s not like he’s going to confess his love for me and ask me to make out with him in the store closet.

            Damn fantasies.

            The door clicks shut after the last student, the quiet sound seeming practically deafening in the silence that’s settled between us. Mr. Moore leans on the edge of his wooden desk, looking way too attractive and calm – especially in comparison to my incredibly jittery state. He looks over at me, grinning when notices the distance I’ve put between us.

            “You can come closer, you know,” he mentions, with a short laugh. “I don’t bite, I swear.”

            “Um… right,” I say, clearing my throat. Hesitantly, I step closer. “So, um… what did you want to talk to me about?”

            Mr. Moore shoots another heart-stopping grin at me before reaching over for the top sheet on the pile of papers resting on his desk. Averting my gaze from his chocolate-colored messy hair and dazzling grin, which is way too distracting, I shift my attention to what he’s holding in his hand. Immediately, I recognize the marginally crumpled sheet covered in red ink marks as last week’s algebra quiz.

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