A Small-Town Girl. Shelley Galloway
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that, too, which made him wonder why he’d been so complacent for so long. Maybe it was time to think about other things besides dating women he’d known for years, work and family obligations.
Maybe it was time to shake things up a bit.
“Most of my day is spent handling regular stuff,” Gen said. “Domestic disputes. Kids drinking and driving. The occasional traffic stop.” Pausing, she added, “I bet I’ve unlocked more car doors and investigated more dog-barking violations in the past month than I did during the whole time in CPD.”
“I’m fascinated.”
“You’re nuts!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “Being a cop is not fascinating. But I do love the job. I’d go crazy if I had to sit at a desk all day.”
“I feel the same way about my job. Teaching high school assures me that I’ll never have a dull moment.”
“I guess you can get pretty attached to your students.”
Cary nodded as he thought of the fine line he walked between confidant and authority figure at Lane’s End High. “I have gotten to know quite a few of them well. Some need another person who cares about their lives…others just need someone to listen. It comes with the territory.”
Genevieve relaxed and realized with some surprise that she was enjoying herself. Cary was interesting and easy to talk to. Maybe this little coffee date would lead to another date. And another.
Maybe then she’d forget all about Keaton.
Maybe—
The sharp ring of her cell phone broke through that little daydream. “Sorry, I’ve got to answer this,” she murmured when she saw it was the precinct calling. “Slate.”
“I know you’re off the clock, but we need some backup on east I-275. You anywhere near there?” Allison, the dispatcher on duty, asked.
With a frown, Gen mentally figured how far she was from the highway. “Five minutes. Eight tops.”
“Good.” With practiced, measured tones, Allison launched into details about the accident.
Gen processed the information quickly. “I’m on my way.”
“Problem?” Cary asked, standing up as she did.
“Yeah, sorry.” Quickly she fished for a five in her jeans pocket. “Here. I’ve got to—”
“Save your money. My treat.” When she looked at him in surprise, he added, “It’s just coffee, Slate. No big deal.”
Though she knew he was right, Gen felt her spirits deflate. Slate. Men who wanted to be only friends called women by their last names. For a brief moment she’d hoped they could have been more.
As she strode to her car, Gen realized she was glad she’d taken the time to get to know Cary Hudson. Even if they never saw each other again, it had been good to put herself out there and meet new people.
Gen also had a feeling that Sadie was probably worming her way out of her metal kennel at that very moment, irritated her Mighty Munchies were nowhere in sight.
As Gen imagined a hungry Sadie foraging in the kitchen unsupervised, she hoped she’d remembered to shut the pantry door.
Chapter Two
Cary wrote the last of the theorem on the whiteboard, then turned to face his class. “Don’t forget to refer to these notes when you do page one hundred fifty-six for homework.”
As expected, groans erupted across the room. There was a big pep rally planned for the afternoon as the basketball team was now two games away from making the district finals. Glancing at the clock, he feigned surprise. “Would you look at that? I must have miscalculated the time. We still have fifteen minutes of class. Some of you might be able to get the majority of the assignment done before the bell.”
Almost simultaneously, twenty pencils hit the desks. Well, twenty pencils except for the one belonging to Amy Blythe, the curly-haired blonde in the front row. “I don’t think you know how to miscalculate, Mr. Hudson.”
Because he was no actor, Cary merely smiled and motioned to the clock over the whiteboard. “There’s thirteen minutes left of class, Amy.”
Taking the hint, she, too, buried her face in the math book. Cary used the time to erase the board for the following day, then take a quick tour of the room to make sure everyone was on the right page. He’d learned his first year that just because he was on task it didn’t mean all his students were.
As he nodded, pointed to correct answers and high-fived the kids who finished, he thought again about something that was the complete opposite of math and equations—Genevieve Slate. The cop. Total brunette perfection. He’d been mesmerized the moment she’d tromped out of the pet store, full of determination.
She’d been all business and grit. Though not really. There’d been a flash of vulnerability in her blue eyes, as if someone had hurt her. He knew the feeling well.
Sitting on the edge of his desk, he waited for the last three minutes of class to tick by.
One of the boys near the front caught his eye. “Mr. Hudson, you going to the game?”
“Of course.”
In the back row, Ben Schultz raised his head. “I heard Jamestown’s pretty good. I hope we’ll have a chance.”
Cary hid a smile. Until recently, Ben had only paid attention to computers and science labs. It looked as if everyone—teachers, students and townsfolk—was rallying behind the Lions. “Brian McCullough’s pretty good, too,” he said, referring to their team’s star forward.
“He’s better than that, Mr. Hudson,” Amy chimed in. “College scouts have been to the last four games. I heard he’s about to get offered a scholarship to Ohio State.”
“You know more than I do. I hope he gets it.”
“Amy likes him,” Jeremy called out snidely. “Too bad he’s dating Melissa.”
Cary wisely said nothing. Amy lived down his street, and Melissa was his niece.
“Everyone likes Brian McCullough,” Amy retorted, though her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
A couple more books closed just as the bell rang.
“Thanks, Mr. Hudson,” a few kids called out as they ran out the door.
“No problem. See you tomorrow.”
“See you tonight,” Jeremy corrected with a grin.
“That’s right. I’ll see you tonight.”
One by one they filed out, leaving the room empty in seconds. Cary wandered back to his desk and sat down just as his best friend, Dave Fanning, strode in.
“Want to grab a burger before the game?”
“Sure, but I have to run home first and take care of Sludge.”
Dave scowled. “How is that crazed dog?”
“Great.”
“He tore up my new pair of loafers last time I was at your place.”
“You’ve been warned. All shoes are fair game if they’re not on someone’s feet.”
“Why didn’t you get a Lab like most normal people? I’ve never heard of a Labrador having a wool-and-shoe fetish.”
“No Labs at the pound.”
“Just psycho beagles.”
“He’s only three-quarters beagle. The rest is a mystery.”
“I’d bet money he’s one-fourth rottweiler.” After nodding to another teacher who walked by, Dave