scenes from a school fundraiser

“Need some help?”

Olivia looks up from the four pieces — four pieces! — of this stupid Cuisinart that she can’t put back together to find Hot Teacher grinning at her. He’d taken her ticket at the door and she’d just about passed out when his blazer sleeve pulled up and she spotted the hint of a tattoo beneath it. Combined with the Billy Joel t-shirt casually tucked into his jeans, this man is really doing something for her.

(Okay, so she shouldn’t be this affected by one attractive man smiling at her under fluorescent gym lights. She’s been single for two years now. Sue her.)

“I’ve got it,” she says, two pieces of the appliance in hand. “Thanks, though.”

“Sure,” he says, watching as she pushes and clicks and shakes the thing.

After another thirty seconds, she sighs, drops everything onto the table, and picks up her glass of cheap white wine. “Fine. I give up. It’s like the fucking silver monkey from Legends of the Hidden Temple.”

Hot Teacher laughs and steps closer. “May I?”

She nods, takes a sip and watches as he undoes her work and starts putting it back together.

“So,” he says as he carefully unclicks the plastic, “were you bidding on it?”

“Oh, God, no,” she says. “I just felt like I should look interested in something. Starting bid at four hundred? I could probably get it at Target for fifty.”

“It’s actually a pretty nice one,” he says. “Worth about three hundred. And it’s got some great functions.”

“Yeah? What’s it do, Bobby Flay?”

Hot Teacher grins and reaches for the box, opening the flap and pulling out more pieces. “So you saw the shredding disc,” he says, gesturing to the completely reassembled food processor on the table. “Great for cheese, veggies, you name it. But you also get the slicing disc,” pointing to one accessory, “and the chopping blade,” pointing to another.

“I assume they slice and chop respectively.”

“You’re correct,” he says. “Lets you control texture better, plus it cuts down on prep time.”

“What if I told you I live off takeout and food subscription boxes?”

Hot Teacher frowns. “I’d be sad for you. Cooking can be a real pleasure.”

“So you’re telling me that after a long day of dealing with snot-nosed kids and demanding parents, you’re excited to get home where you have to slice and dice and cook and clean instead of just calling the Thai place a block away?”

“Oh, fuck no,” he says. “I pretty much live off of Kung Pao chicken during the week.”

Olivia smiles and so does he.

“I’m guessing you’re not a parent?” he finally asks.

“What gave it away?”

“We just had parent-teacher night,” he says, “and I would have remembered you. Plus, all of the moms I’ve met so far love talking about their culinary skills.”

“I never said I can’t cook,” Olivia says, oddly defensive. “Just that I don’t.”

Hot Teacher holds up his hands in surrender. “I know. It’s just that after hearing about perfect primaveras and salmon Wellington, you’re a welcome change.”

Olivia bites the inside of her cheek before she says, “My brother and his wife are out of town. They asked me to show up and buy something. I’ve already got one of my niece’s weird horse drawings,” she adds, “but I feel like I’m supposed to put a bid down on something else.”

“Good old fundraiser guilt,” Hot Teacher nods. “What’s your niece’s name?”

“Mollie Tucker.”

He laughs. “I know Mollie and her horses well. I’m Mr. Haight, her art teacher.”

He holds out a hand and Olivia takes it, relishing the warmth of his fingers against hers. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Haight. Olivia Coulson.”

“Please,” he says with a growing smile, “call me Teddy.”

There’s a flutter starting in her chest that she’s trying to tamp down, but then she catches a glimpse of another tattoo peeking out under his shirt collar and she wants to swoon. If she keeps talking to him, there’s a very good chance she’s going to embarrass herself by asking her niece’s teacher out in the middle of a school fundraiser.

She definitely needs to stop drinking if she’s going to stay respectable, so she moves to set down her plastic wineglass — except the chopping blade is closer than she thought and she feels the sharp line against her hand. She knows before she looks that she’s going to pass out, and even as Teddy reaches out for her, she spies the blood dribbling down her wrist and feels her knees tremble as her vision goes black.

When she comes to, she’s lying on the plastic padded bench of the nurse’s station. Teddy is clearing the evidence of bandaging her up and smiles at her from the sink.

“You doing okay?”

She nods, sits up shakily. He washes his hands and joins her on the bench, supporting her shoulders as she takes several deep breaths.

“Sorry,” she says. “I, um. I don’t handle blood well.”

“Yeah,” he says with a softer smile. “Kind of got that.”

After a few minutes, she says, “I like your shirt.”

His brow furrows until he looks down and laughs. “Billy Joel fan, huh?”

She nods. “Saw him play the Garden once.”

“Bet that was amazing.”

“Best night of my life.”

“Better than tonight?” he teases.

“Less embarrassing, that’s for sure.”

“Well,” he says, “if you wanted to get me alone, you could have just asked.”

She looks at him and he groans, covering his face with his free hand. “Fuck. Sorry. That sounded way creepier out loud than it did in my head.”

“Yeah, not the best line I’ve ever heard.”

“Can I make it up to you?” he asks. “I think you have to buy the Cuisinart — with the blood and all — so maybe some cooking lessons?”

She shakes her head. “Let’s go out. Do you like Italian?”

He grins. “Whatever kind of mood you’re in tonight.”