Hard Crush by Mira Lyn Kelly
Yeah, I know what Abby wanted. It’s the only promise I’ve ever made I didn’t keep, but my shot at giving Abby that life—
I straighten, turn back to Greg, and feel that familiar rush through my chest as I start to nod like some kind of bobblehead.
He raises a brow.
“You’re the genius. I know what to do.”
ABBY
WILSON AND I have talked a few times since “the incident” and agreed to forget the whole thing. Obviously, we’re both liars because no way are either of us going to forget what happened anytime soon. But saying we will is the first step. Still, I’m surprised, looking up from my desk Monday morning, to see him practically skid into my room.
“Wilson?”
His eyes are wide, something between panic and awe shining bright in them. “Did you know about this?” He shakes his head. “Of course you knew. I mean, you could have told me. It’s not like—”
“Wilson, stop. Back up. I have no idea what you’re talking about. What’s going on?” His eyes narrow and I hold my hands out to the sides, laughing. “What?”
“Wagner.”
One word and the smile is wiped from my face. “Hank? What’s he done?”
I haven’t heard from him since Thursday night and while I’ve been telling myself he’s probably just found something new to distract him, a part of me has been waiting for what he’ll do next.
“He’s here. Again.”
“Here?” I realize after it’s too late to stop that I’m already smoothing the fitted sweater over my button-down. Touching my hair. “In the building?”
Wilson and I speed to the teachers’ lounge, my steps leading the way, despite his longer legs.
I can hear laughter before we reach the door, and when I step into the faculty retreat, I have to blink. Because this can’t be real.
Hank leans against one of the tables in the lounge, his arms crossed over his chest, legs hooked at the ankles… laughing with Jenny Klowski and Abe Nichols. He looks up and, seeing me, straightens.
“Morning, Abby.”
My breath leaves me in a little punch. We’ve been talking almost every night, but I haven’t seen him since the night he backed me against my door and called me a liar, and it takes my breath away. He’s dressed casually today, looking more like an academic in his chinos and fitted vest than the tech mogul staring back at me from one media source after another.
He looks like the guy I thought I would marry, and it’s more than a little disconcerting.
There’s a click from the kitchenette area, and his smile goes wider. “Coffee’s ready. Pour you a cup?”
“No thank you.” I say as Hank says, “Please.”
Three of my colleagues shuffle over to the full pot, positioning for a pour, but neither Hank nor I move.
“Hank, wha-what are you doing here?”
His eyes move down the length of me and then, so slowly I start to blush, back up. Pushing up from his lounging stance, he walks over to where the others are congregated. “Just getting some coffee before class starts.”
Class.
I shake my head.
“You don’t have class.”
A shrug. He takes a sip of the coffee and frowns, looking from the mug to me and back before shaking off that first offensive sip and answering.
“Not class, exactly.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “But I’ll be talking for a few minutes in the auditorium to each of the grade levels this morning.”
“I’m still confused. About what?”
A smile. “The new robotics team.”
Ahh. Relaxing, I take a step back, only to realize I’ve completely forgotten about Wilson behind me.
I apologize and turn back to Hank.
“You’re sponsoring a team? Hank, that’s incredibly generous of you.”
He nods like it’s nothing, lifts his mug, but then at the last second, sets it aside.
“I am sponsoring the team, but what I’ll be talking about today is my role as primary mentor for the program.”
My eye starts to twitch. “What?”
There’s no way he’s saying what I think he’s saying.
“Yeah, the money is important, but they can’t start a program without someone to set things up, help the kids. Keep them on track and offer guidance. So I guess I’ll be teaching”—our eyes lock and his smile is wide and confident—“just not grading.”
“You’ll be teaching. Here.”
Hank steps closer. “I guess so. I’ll be here two afternoons a week. And Saturday mornings.”
This has to be a joke. Maybe I’ve hit my head and I’m actually unconscious in the street somewhere. God, I hope so.
The first bell rings and Hank gives me one of those winks I’m starting to hate. “Better get to class, Ms. Mitchel.”
THERE’S NO ESCAPING it. Hank Wagner’s new robotics program is the talk of the school. The students, the faculty, and even the media have picked up on his latest contribution to the next generation.
What he’s doing is amazing and generous… and I’m the worst person in the world because all I can think is that I’m going to wring his neck.
My last class ends, and I linger in my room. I know he’s still in the school.
I can feel it.
He doesn’t keep me waiting long. I hear his voice from down the hall… with Novak, I think. There’s some conversation I can’t quite make out and then the sound of footsteps outside the classroom.
My door is open, but Hank knocks anyway.
“This is because I wouldn’t go on a date with you?”
I’m zero to shrill in point-six seconds flat and Hank raises a brow, closing the door behind him.
“Wow, that’s some ego you’re lugging around there. Sure you don’t need a hand with it?”
When I don’t answer, he crosses his arms and gives me a stern look from behind those stupid, sexy dark frames. The muscles in his shoulders and upper arms flex and the fabric of his shirt pulls tight, temporarily distracting me from the mad I’ve been working up all day.
He crosses to my desk, rounds to my side, and sits at the edge.
So casual.
So comfortable.
So infuriatingly close with his knee a scant inch from my shoulder.
“This is because I love science and technology, Abby.” His voice is low, steady. “It’s because I’ve dedicated my life to making the future a better place to live.” He leans closer, and the hint of cologne I pick up has me fighting against the urge to bury my nose in his neck. God, he has an unbelievable neck. “And I believe inspiring the next generation is a critical part of the process.”
He reaches out and tucks a few strands of hair behind my ear, letting his fingers linger around the shell.
That touch.
Refusing to let him see what it’s done to me, how my internal temperature has just shot through the roof and my belly has that rollercoaster feel… I narrow my eyes.
He lets out a gruff laugh, looks down at the floor, and then leans closer still. “And it’s because you wouldn’t go out with me.”
My breath catches, and Hank stands and pushes his glasses back up as he starts for my door. “But mostly because of the kids… Fine, it’s partly because of the kids.” He opens the door and shoots me a crooked smile. “The kids are getting a shit-ton out of this. Does it really matter what the ratio of intent is?”
It matters to me.
HANK
I’M HALFWAY HOME, at what’s pretty much a dead stop on the Eisenhower. I’ve already talked with my assistant and Nate about adjusting my schedule. I’ve got more calls to make, and while the first two were met with nothing but confidence and enthusiasm over my latest endeavor, I’m not naive enough to think that’s the reception I’ll get across the board.
People are going to be pissing themselves, but I’ve got a damn good team. Strong enough to step in and take over whether I’m stepping out to get a glass of water or to start up a new division
The robotics gig doesn’t begin in earnest until January, but with this being the first year for the program, I’ll definitely be using the next few months to get caught up. And yeah, I’ll primarily be making that happen on Wednesday and Thursday afternoons, when Abby has her young adult book club and AP study groups, and Saturday mornings, when she tutors reading for the older kids still struggling with it.
Coincidence that our programs will be ending at the same time? No. Not even a little.
I want to be the one walking Abby to her car when she wraps up with her favorite groups of kids from the whole school. The ones who really want to be there. I want to see her smile and the satisfaction in her eyes, not just hear it in her voice over the phone, when she tells me about a student who’s finally getting it. I want us to be alone in our parking lot. And hell, I want her to admit all that undressing-me-with-her-big-blue-eyes business—and her hands that one fantastic time—means she wants to be with me.
Until I can get another chance with the woman she’s become.
Because that’s all I need. Just a chance. Just some time for her to see what it could be like with us again. This time I know better than to promise her I’ll be staying. And this time, she’ll know better than to hope for it. This time maybe she’ll come with me.
So I’m spending another hour in traffic, getting back from Bearings. So what? My messages are playing one after another over the car speakers. I call back the next-highest priority, getting an update on the viscosity issue that’s been holding us back on one of the solar products. These calls had to happen one way or another, and the fact that they’re happening in my car just means I’m killing two birds with one stone.
This is going to work.
Five hours later, I push back from my desk and black the glass walls of my office. It’s nine on a Monday night and there are probably only three people still working on the whole floor, but I want the privacy.
Stretching out on the couch, I call, hoping she’ll still pick up after the stunt I pulled today.
One ring and I’ve got her soft voice humming my name. There’s a smile in her voice and I close my eyes.
“Hey, beautiful. How was your evening with your mom and dad?”
“A little rough. It’s their anniversary, so I think Mom might have been expecting something more. She said she was fine, but I could see how hard it was for her when we left. She hardly spoke on the ride home.”
“I’m sorry, Abby. I know how hard it is to see someone you care about suffering and not have anything you can do about it.”
I know because I’m experiencing it right this moment. She’s hurting and I’d do anything to make it so she wasn’t. But this is one of those things that’s outside my wheelhouse.
Yeah, I give money to all the right people and organizations… but there’s nothing I can do for Abby’s father. Nothing I can do for Abby.
We talk about the home and then about how her mom is doing in the house by herself.
She tells me that she offered to move home a few months back, but her mom wouldn’t have it.
“She wants you to have a life of your own.”
“I know. But it’s not like the life I’m living now isn’t something I could manage if I lived there.”
I think about that and while the part of me that’s a selfish fuck is glad Abby isn’t on her way to married with two-point-five kids… I can’t be happy hearing her say it. And I can’t let it stand either.
“That could change, Abby.” I know she hears what I’m saying. That all it would take is her simple agreement, and it would change. Everything could be different. Overnight.
Hell, if she said the word, I’d be out of this office in the next thirty seconds. My call with Korea later tonight be damned. I’d be at her place as fast as I could get there, making sure she was aware of all the ways living with her mother would get in the way. But she isn’t there yet.
And I hate it.
“Are we going to talk about what happened today?” she asks.
I wondered when we’d get to this.
“About that poison they call coffee from the lounge? I thought we were friends, Abby. How could you let me put that stuff on my tongue?”
“Mmm, yes, I really should have thrown my body between you and the coffeepot. I might have… except I was too stunned to move. So funny how you didn’t mention anything to me about your plans to infiltrate my workplace during all our recent conversations. I don’t suppose you have a reason for that.”
Sure do. “You’d have told me not to.”
Silence. Then, “So you knew how I’d feel about it… and you did it anyway?”
“Abby, I’m pretty sure I could come up with an instance or two where you knew I wouldn’t be behind your plans, but you went ahead with them anyway.”
It’s the closest I’ve come to talking about our breakup ten years ago, and frankly, I’m surprised I said it.
“It’s not the same thing, Hank.”
That’s where she’s wrong. It’s exactly the same.
ABBY
THANKS, MS. MITCHEL. See you tomorrow.”
Stella Greer slings her backpack over her shoulder and follows the rest of the kids from my AP study group out of my room.
I haven’t seen Hank today but I know he’s here. I heard about the delivery trucks showing up, and how “hot Mr. Wagner’s arms are” from the girls who saw him helping unload boxes labeled with HG Technologies, while the guys speculated what he could lift.
I know I’ll talk to him on the phone tonight. I know I’ll get all restless and squirmy hearing my name wrapped in his deep voice and listening to the sound of his breath between words. But I don’t want to see him. Not here. Not again.
Which is why I’m stuffing my papers and files into my bag with little to no regard for neatness, spilling a pile of the pens I prefer for grading in after them, and sweeping my jacket off the hook so I can get out of here.
“Leaving already?”
Too late.
I freeze, back still turned to the door, then take a deep breath, steeling myself against what I know I’m going to find behind me. Hank playing dress-up as a teacher again. Probably another chinos ensemble with rolled sleeves and a sweater.
My throat goes dry, making that clicky noise when I try to swallow.
God, he looked good like that. Better than any teacher I’ve ever seen. I imagine his top button undone at the neck, so I can see—
“Abby?”
Shoot.
Shaking my head, I pinch my lips together and turn toward the door.
Whoa.
My mouth hangs open a bit and the air leaks slowly from my lungs.
Hank is not playing dress-up as a teacher today. He’s dressed down in a Bearings T-shirt I’m about ninety-five percent sure I tried to steal from him eleven years ago. It’s thin and worn and pulling tighter across the muscles of his shoulders, arms, and chest than it ever did in high school. It looks good. Like I’m half tempted to pull out my phone and take a picture, because this is a look I never want to forget.
He clears his throat, crossing his arms over his broad chest, making all those mouth-watering muscles pop and flex even more. Making me stupid as I stand there, staring.
“You okay, Abby?” he asks, not looking too concerned at all.
Forcing my eyes up to his face, I nod. “Are you?”
His brow shoots up from behind the black frames and I feel it deep in my belly.
Wait… what did I ask him? If he was okay? Geeze, I’m pathetic.
Another shake of my head to knock all the dirty thoughts rolling through loose, and I venture another look at his face. “Sorry. Of course you’re okay. You look great—fine, I mean.”
The corner of his mouth ticks higher. “Thanks. You look great—fine—too.”
He steps farther into my classroom and hooks his thumb in the threadbare pocket of his jeans that fit in all the m
I really need to stop staring.
Dragging my focus upward, I hopscotch over the hard terrain of his abs, the corded muscles of his forearm, one solid packed pec, and the rounded ball of his shoulder. I get a little lost in the stubble of his squared jaw, and fumble around the cocky slant of his mouth, before following the push of one finger up the bridge of his nose to adjust his frames.
I love those frames.
But the eyes behind them are watching me all too closely.
“I should go.” I don’t know why it feels so much safer talking to this man on the phone than seeing him in person, but it does. A call lets me hide behind the distance between us. It lets me pretend the just attached to our friendship has a chance of surviving. It lets me believe that if I continue this balancing act atop my little fence, maybe this time I’ll get to keep him.
“But I just got here.” Two lines pull between his brows and he takes a step closer and then another, his eyes moving over me in a slow, blatant perusal, probably only half as obvious as mine.
I shiver, certain I can actually feel that hot stare as it moves along my body like trailing fingers. “And I-I need to leave.”
He’s standing in front of me now, and I’m hyperaware of how close we are. Of the heat coming off him. The smell of the soap he washed with and the clean sweat he’s worked up outfitting what will be the robotics lab.
So good.
I try to take a step back, but my legs bump my desk and I realize I’m trapped.
Eyes locked with mine, Hank takes a bit of my hair and winds it in a loose spiral, rubbing the coil between his finger and thumb.
I’m breathless, helpless to stop my eyes from dropping to his mouth.
He leans closer, and I catch a glimpse of his tongue running against his bottom lip.