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Jet jerked her head up Heart pounding, face hot, she looked into dark eyes
Him It was him
“There are no open tables”
Herever so slightly as she gathered her papers and pulling her laptop closer, giving him space
“You’re fine,” he said, setting his leather backpack on top of the empty chair “Don’t move your stuff”
“It’s okay I don’t need—” She broke off, sing the words, since he’d walked away, returning to the counter to collect his order
Blushing furiously, she forced her attention to the paper in front of her She felt stupid and gauche and she wished she could disappear, and she kept her head down even as he placed the bagel and tea on the table and drew his chair back
Focus, focus, focus
“I’ a seat
Shane Not the Shane…the one renting the Sheenan house…the one that had everyone talking?
“Jet,” she replied, extending her hand, amazed at how calm she sounded because on the inside she wasn’t calm
On the inside she felt positively wild
His hand closed around hers One black eyebrow lifted “Jet?”
His grip was firle all the way through her “It’s Dutch”
“You’re the first Jet I’ve ever met”
“Then you need to go to Holland It’s a popular name”
“Are you Dutch?”
“Both sets of grandparents erated from Holland, some before WWII, and so, trying to ignore all the crazy butterflies filling her uer who couldn’t handle herself
“Did your parents speak Dutch at home?”
“To their parents, yes, but only a little bit with us kids But our grandparents would only speak Dutch to us, which proved useful when I was traveling this year”
He nodded at the stack of papers in front of her “You’re a teacher”
She grimaced “It’s that obvious?”
“You’re always grading papers” He paused “Which grade?”
“All grades, K-8” So he’d noticed her before Another shiver coursed through her “I’-term sub,” she added, “at a one room schoolhouse in Paradise Valley And you? What do you do? I always see you with a stack of books and papers”
“I’m a writer”
He had to be the Shane Swan renting the old Sheenan homestead then She sat up a little taller, aware that the Sheenans were not happy he was in their home, but she didn’t knohy
She’d like to know, though “What kind of writing?”
“Nonfiction”
“That’s a pretty broad subject area You can squeeze a lot into that…biographies History Crime War”
“Exactly”
“And so you write…?”
“History, crime, war”
Her eyebrows arched “Pretty dark stuff”
“Can be My job is to try to make it personal Make people care”
“And do you?”
He laughed, flashing white teeth “Sometimes”
“Have you been published?”