“Oh.” Emma shuddered in pure delight. “I love those.”

“You love any type of lip-lock,” Laurel pointed out.

“Yes, yes, I do. I’d have guessed Carter more for the sexy, slow, and shy type.”

“Maybe he is, usually. Because while my head was busy exploding, he stopped, apologized—a couple of times—then slipped and slid his way back to his car. He was gone by the time I regained the power of speech.”

Parker nudged her plate away, picked up her coffee. “Well, you have to go get him. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Emma concurred, and looked toward Laurel to complete the vote.

“Could be trouble.” Laurel shrugged. “He’s not her usual type, and he has moves that don’t coincide with his general demeanor. I smell complications.”

“Because he’s a nice, sweet, slightly klutzy guy who kisses like a warrior?” Emma gave Laurel a light kick under the table. “I smell romance.”

“You smell romance in a traffic jam on ninety-five.”

“Maybe. But you know damn well you want to see what happens next. You can’t just let a kiss like that hang there,” Emma added, turning to Mac.

“Maybe, because as it stands it’s a nice sexy breakfast story, and nobody gets hurt. Now, I have to go call the bank and toss away three thousand dollars like it was confetti.” She scooted out of the nook. “I’ll see you all outside, with shovels.”

Parker plucked a raspberry out of the bowl after Mac left. “She’s not going to let it hang there. It’ll drive her crazy.”

“Second contact within forty-eight hours,” Laurel agreed, then scowled. “And damn it, she skated out of helping with the dishes.”

AT HIS DESK AT THE ACADEMY, CARTER WENT OVER THE DISCUSSION points he planned to introduce in his final period class. Keeping energy and interest up were keys in that last class of the day, when freedom was only fifty short (or endless depending on your point of view) minutes away. The right slants could snag the wandering attention of the clock watcher.

They might learn something.

The problem was he couldn’t keep his own attention focused.

Should he call her and apologize again? Maybe he should write her a note. He did better writing things down than saying them. Most of the time.

Should he just let it go? It had been a couple of days. Well, one day and two nights to be anal about it.

He knew he was being anal about it.

He wanted to let it go, just let it go and mark it down on the lengthy list of Carter’s Embarrassing Moments. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About her.

He was right back where he’d been thirteen years before. Suffering from a pathetic crush on Mackensie Elliot.

He’d get over it, Carter reminded himself. He’d gotten over it before. Almost entirely.

He’d just lost his head for a moment, that’s all. And it was understandable considering the rest of the experience.

Still, he should probably write her a note of apology.

Dear Mackensie,

I want to offer my sincere apology for my untoward behavior on the evening of January fourth. My actions were inexcusable, and deeply regretted.

Yours, Carter

And could he possibly be any more stiff and stupid?

She’d probably forgotten about it anyway, after having a quick laugh with her friends. Who could blame her?

Let it go, that was the thing to do. Just let it go and get back to leading the class on a discussion of Rosalind as a twenty-first-century woman.

Sexuality. Identity. Guile. Courage. Wit. Loyalty. Love.

How did Rosalind use her dual sexuality in the play to become the woman at its end, rather than the girl she was in the beginning, and the boy she played throughout?

Say “sex,” and you drew teenagers’ attention, Carter thought.

How did—

He kept scanning notes, and called out an absent, “Come in,” at the knock. Ah, evolution, he thought, of identity and courage through disguise and . . .

He glanced up, blinked.

With his mind full of the engaging Rosalind, he stared at Mac.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt.”

He lurched to his feet, scattered his papers so some sailed to the floor. “Ah, it’s all right. No problem. I was just . . .”

He bent to retrieve papers as she did the same, and knocked his head against hers.

“Sorry, sorry.” He stayed down, met her eyes. “Crap.”

She smiled, and the dimples came out to play. “Hello, Carter.”

“Hello.” He took the papers she offered. “I was just going over some launch points for a discussion on Rosalind.”

“Rosalind who?”

“Ah, Shakespeare’s Rosalind. As You Like It?”

“Oh. Is that the one with Emma Thompson?”

“No. That’s Much Ado. Rosalind, niece of Duke Frederick, is banished from his court, and disguises herself as Ganymede, a young man.”

“Her twin brother, right?”

“No, actually that’s Twelfth Night.”

“I get them confused.”

“Well, while there are some parallels between As You Like It and Twelfth Night as far as theme and device, the two plays address markedly divergent . . . Sorry, it doesn’t matter.”

He laid the papers down, took off his reading glasses. And prepared to face the consequences of his actions. “I want to apologize for—”

“You already did. Do you apologize to every woman you kiss?”

“No, but under the circumstances . . .” Let it go, Carter. “Anyway. What can I do for you?”

“I dropped by to give you this. I was going to leave it at the front office, but they told me you had a free period, and were in here. So I thought I’d give it to you in person.”

She offered him a package wrapped in brown paper. “You can open it,” she said when he only looked flustered. “It’s just a token—appreciation for letting me dump on you the other night, and for the hangover you spared me. I thought you might like it.”

He opened it carefully, peeling up the tape and flapped ends. And took out the photograph matted in a simple black frame. Against the black and white of snow and winter trees, the cardinal sat like a living flame.

“It’s wonderful.”

“It’s nice.” She studied it with him. “One of those lucky breaks. I took it early yesterday morning. It’s no belly-crested whopado, but it’s our bird, after all.”