Jones made her way through the halls of the administration building, trying to keep calm, and wishing she'd had more coffee before attempting this. It felt uncomfortable on a lot of levels, from the skirt and pantyhose all the way to the damned visitor's badge on her collar.
Stifling. Jones tried to keep her mind on staying professional, on slipping back into the role of good little government employee for the day, but it chafed more than ever, and she realized how much she enjoyed her freedom out at Western Summit.
Room 219 loomed ahead, and Jones pushed her way through the double doors into the Personnel office, looking around. No clerks rushed to her aid at the front counter, so Jones waited for someone to notice her.
She thought about Nathan, and the memory of his mouth on hers made Jones want to squirm, even now. She'd relived those kisses nearly every hour since they'd happened, and the jolt of pleasure still hit her just as strongly each time; a hot pang of desire flaring down her belly.
Chemistry, Jones admitted to herself. Clear, unmistakable, male-to-female attraction that hit at the cellular level. Something she must have sensed from the first moment she'd seen Nathan Gardner.
Something she'd never experienced before, and it scared the daylights out of her.
"May I help you?" a motherly looking clerk asked, breaking into her reverie. Jones set aside thoughts of Nathan and cleared her throat.
"Yes, I'm trying to find out why my employment paperwork is still being held up?" Jones rattled off her social security number and name, then followed the clerk to a cubicle down a hallway. The tiny square held two uncomfortable chairs barely separated by an empty desk.
"Wait here, I'll see what's going on," the clerk assured Jones, and left her.
Time passed. Jones tried to occupy herself with lesson plans and shopping lists, but her thoughts kept circling back to Nathan. He'd been so . . .
A jumble of descriptions rose to fill that sentence. Tender. Hungry. Passionate. Delicious. Sexy.
God, definitely sexy, Jones sighed. His button down wardrobe and 'I know what's best for you' reading glasses belied a man with insanely good kissing talent; a talent she wanted to experience again, that was for certain.
"Ms Jones?" a voice interrupted her thoughts, and she flinched guiltily as the clerk returned, looking slightly harassed. "I'm sorry, but you're to go up to 533 and speak to a Mr. Lankandros."
Jones shut her eyes for a moment, and then rose to her feet, feeling the sharp sting of irritation well up in her. "Thank you."
The clerk shrugged. "Out of my hands. Do you know the way?"
"Yes," Jones admitted, and made her way back out to the lobby, and the bank of elevators there, trying to hold back her rising annoyance. She waited for an empty car and stepped in, punching the button with more force than was necessary, then took a deep breath.
She'd known this was coming; inevitable, really, given the circumstances. He hadn't taken the break-up well, and although Jones had tried to be gentle, Nick Lankandros wasn't the sort to let go easily, if at all. The man was used to getting what he wanted, and keeping what he'd acquired; useful for the CIA, but not so much for relationships.
Jones stepped out and reluctantly made her way to 533, opening the door and nodding to the receptionist there. Mrs. Carlyle gave her a wry smile. "Miss Jones."
"Mrs. Carlyle. Is he in?"
"He's on the phone," the receptionist replied. "Should be done in a few minutes. How are you dear?"
"I'm fine," Jones lied sweetly through her teeth. She settled down in one of the chairs in the tidy reception area and tried to ignore the seething in her stomach.
On the phone was probably a lie, Jones knew. More than likely, Nick lounging in his office, playing with his GS to kill time and build her irritation. It was just the sort of thing he'd do, and knowing it didn't make it any easier to deal with. Jones forced herself to be patient, and think of other things.
Something did occur to her, and she pulled out her PDA, smiling to herself. With a few quick texts and her credit card number, the order was placed, and she barely looked up when Mrs. Carlyle coughed for her attention.
"You can go in now, Miss Jones."
"Thank you, Mrs. Carlyle." Jones put away her PDA, picked up her purse and carefully stepped into Nick's office.
And there he was, carefully posed behind his desk: Nick Lankandros—blonde blue-eyed poster boy for the CIA.
He rose from his seat and came over to her, hands outstretched. Jones steeled herself for his hug, which was lingered a little too long for her comfort. "Justy! How are you?"
She cut to the chase. "Why are you holding up my paperwork, Nick? I'm getting flack from the personnel office at the school district."
"These things take time; you know that. Background checks, especially around here are always slow. You look good."
"Thanks. I need my paperwork to keep getting a paycheck, Nick. I was hired on the provision that my files would be delivered within a week. What's going on?"
"Nothing serious, I'm sure," Nick told her smoothly. "Tell you what—let's have lunch, and then we can mosey on back to 219 and see what we find out, hmmm?"
Jones gritted her teeth; to aggravate Nick now would guarantee further delay, but to agree would be an extended afternoon of fending him off. It was a lose/lose situation, and she racked her brain for some third, better option.
"I can't do lunch, Nick; I'm seeing Phil in an hour, and doing some shopping after that. I just need to know you're going to take this seriously."
"I always take you seriously," he practically purred back at her. "You know that."
Jones managed a frosty smile. "Nick, you know if I mention this to Phil, he's going to make suggestions."
He would, too—her father might be retired, but his legal expertise was still sharp, and his influence far-reaching.
Nick gave a little sigh. "I'm sure your verifications will be out by this week, No need to get pushy, Justy. At least, not here." He said this last with a smarmy smile, and Jones pretended not to pick up on the insinuations in it. Nick's mind was never too far out of the bedroom, and while that had been fun in the early months, it was pretty much the only direction he liked to go with her.
She moved over to his desk and picked up the phone, handing him the receiver. "Fine. How about you get a little pushy then?"
He slowly moved to take it from her, leaning close as he flashed her a confident smile. "I love it when you're angry."
"You won't love it when I'm litigious, Nick. There's no reason for the delay."
He put the receiver up to his ear reluctantly and spoke in a polished voice. "Mrs. Carlyle, have the Jones files verified and put into the mail this afternoon please."
Nick hung up and shot Jones a smug little smile. "Good enough?"
"It's a start." She added, "Thank you."
"Oh you can thank me better than that, Justy," Nick murmured, and bent towards her. Jones quickly turned her face, letting his lips land on her cheek.
He let his kiss linger, and Jones pulled back as swiftly as she could, managing a cool smile. "Same old Nick."
"Yeah," he agreed easily. "So. Not bored yet with upstate New York and teenagers yet? You know you can have your old job back anytime, along with all the benefits."
"Generous," Jones murmured, and fished in her purse. "But I'm okay with the kids and the job. It's relaxing."
"You'll get tired of it in a year," Nick predicted. "So when's the housewarming? I'll bring you a nice big lamp."
Hiding her wince, Jones pretended to smile. "I'll let you know when I can celebrate my paperwork getting into town. Have to run, Nick, I'll see you later."
He nodded, smiling back, looking hungry. "Yes, I'd love to see what's so wonderful about this job of yours. I'll let you go; I know you'll want to get on the road before sunset."
Jones managed to walk serenely all the way to the elevator and hold her rage long enough for the doors to close; once they did, she pounded her fist hard on the lobby button and contemplated petty revenge. She wanted to key his car, or flatten his tires, but the security cameras would catch her, and in any case, Nick would probably love the proof that he'd gotten to her.
She pulled off her visitor's badge and tossed it in the bin, then strode out of the lobby, grateful that each step was taking her away from her old life.
*** *** ***
The door was ajar.
Nathan steeled himself and then slipped into the room across the hall, clearing his throat as he did so. "About yesterday . . . we need to talk."
"We do?" The pudgy man with horn rim glasses looked up, startled.
Nathan blinked, staring back. "Who are you?"
"Alvin Bischoff. Who are you and what happened yesterday?" he replied in a slightly squeaky voice.
"You're . . . a sub," Nathan realized quickly, noting the man's clip-on name badge and slight air of desperation. Subbing at the high school level was a make or break job, and not everyone lasted in it. Bischoff looked as if he might be on the verge of joining the Foreign Legion very soon.
"Yeah. What happened yesterday? Is it something I need to know? Another riot? I heard about what happened last year. It was on the news. I have pepper spray, you know. That doesn't require registration!" he spluttered, pushing up his glasses nervously.
"Nothing happened!" Nathan tried to reassure him. "Where's Miss Jones?"
"Hey wait—you're Gardner, right?"
"Yes," Nathan looked suspicious.
Bischoff gave a sigh and deflated a bit, like a balloon with half the air let out. "There was a note in the lesson plan—hang on."
Skittering to the desk, Bischoff pulled up a page and read it aloud. "If Mr. Gardner stops by, please remind him I'm expediting my paperwork and that I'll see him on Tuesday at the staff meeting, and she's drawn a smiley face after that." He held the paper up for Nathan.
"Art teachers; they like to draw," Nathan murmured, feeling his stomach do happy flip-flops.
Bischoff shrugged. "Most of them are a little dipsy-doodle, yeah. So, no riot?"
"No, not unless the cafeteria runs out of corn dogs," Nathan confided, moving for the door.
By third period, he was halfway through a review of the Monroe Doctrine when the flowers arrived. Nathan looked at the office messenger standing at the door with a vase in her hands. "Yes?"
"These came for you, Mr. Gardner," the girl chirped, holding out the red and yellow roses. The class watched, and a few low 'oooohhhhs' came from the back.
Nathan took the vase uncertainly. "Are you . . . sure?"
"Yes sir," the girl nodded, and bounced out the door again. Nathan set the vase down and fumbled for his glasses as he picked up the little card. He managed to pull it out and scan the unfamiliar handwriting.
I bet everyone's staring at you now, huh? It said, and after that, a smiley face.
Nathan blinked, feeling his cheeks flush.
Jenna Gonzalez spoke up. "Who's it from, Mr. Gardner?"
"Angelina Jolie," he muttered. "Okay people, the salient points of the doctrine established what in regard to American foreign policy?"
"Angelina Jolie sent you flowers? Damn!" Joel Higgins sighed from the second row. "Does Brad Pitt know?"
"Brad never sends her flowers," another voice broke in. "He just adopts another kid for her."
Snickers erupted throughout the class and Nathan regretted his glibness. "People, can we get back to Monroe, please?"
"Guys don't get flowers," Jenna persisted. "That's gay."
"Mr. Gardner's not gay," Joel argued. "You know he's not."
"Thank you, but I'm right here and I can vouch for myself, Joel," Nathan growled. "And I don't see why a man can't get flowers. Granted they're not practical--the way a nice basket of say, smoked ham and crackers would be--but that's not the point. It's the thought."
"Hammmm," someone murmured in a Homer Simpson voice, making the class laugh again.
"Or like, one of those sausage and cheese packs. I dig me some of that smoked cheddar!" another student added.
"Dude, you smoke everything, Zane," came the accusation, and Nathan sighed, resigning himself to giving up on the Monroe Doctrine.
Fortunately the bell rang at that moment and most of the class filed out quickly, with one or two of the girls lingering to sniff the roses.
"They're pretty," one told him shyly, and Nathan smiled at her. When the last student had filed out, he reached over and touched one of the velvety red buds.
"You are SO dead, Jones," he muttered through a grin.
*** *** ***
The staff meetings usually took place in the library, and Sedgwick droned at the podium in front. Generally most people managed to put on their best poker faces during them; while Sedgwick was not an inspiring leader, he did occasionally spring a surprise, and nobody wanted to be caught napping, literally or figuratively.
People clumped together in cliques, usually drawn by departments or friendships, and Nathan found himself by Newt and Gwen at one of the round tables near the door. The two of them were pretending they were ignoring each other, and Nathan tried hard to ignore both of them. He'd put the flowers in the back of his car and kept the note, which was tucked in the pocket of his slacks.
Somehow the Angelina Jolie story had spread, and Nathan had been the recipient of not a few assessing looks and thumbs-up from the male half of the school. Some of the females had done some staring too, but he worked hard at getting on with the rest of his day, not bothering to look at the bouquet on his desk for the most part.
One or two of the staff asked about it; Nathan admitted honestly that the card hadn't been signed. Newt gave him a knowing look, but Nathan deflected any further questions by asking about the football tryouts.
"Made linebacker," Newt muttered with satisfaction. "Means I can up my caloric intake."
"Glad to hear you have priorities."
"That's the one I'm permitted to talk about in public," came the retort, and then the staff meeting had started. Now Sedgwick was talking about some damned community project, and Nathan was doodling on his notepad, working on a pretty good sketch of a hangman's noose.
The door opened, and everyone glanced over as Jones slunk in, smiling a quick apology. She dropped into the seat next to Nathan and scooted in, nodding at Sedgwick to continue. He did, picking up the thread of his comments as Nathan shifted to make room for Jones.
He scribbled a note on his pad and passed it in front of her: You are in trouble. See artwork-à
Jones fought a smirk and took his pen, scribbling her own note on the pad. Me? What about you? From what I hear, Brad Pitt's gunning for you.
Nathan nabbed the pen again. I could take him. I reiterate: You. Big Trouble.
For what? Jones wrote back, sketching a quick face whistling with eyes averted.
For impeding my review of the Monroe Doctrine, among other things. How was DC?
Jones drew a scowling face on the pad, adding devil horns on it. Nathan shot her an inquiring look, but at that moment, Sedgwick called her name and they both looked up guiltily.
"Miss Jones, I'm putting you in charge of the new mural of course. Something appropriate and patriotic, design to be approved by the district and the site committee."
"Oh, of course," she agreed sweetly. "Something . . . historical?"
"Good idea. Gardner, you supervise the project since history's your department. I want something tasteful and non-controversial, got it?"
"That means no naked Betsy Ross," Newt muttered to Nathan. "Or Jefferson rolling a blunt on his desk in Monticello."
Jones smothered a giggle, and Sedgwick looked over at them sternly. "Settle down, people. Now, about the new nutritional guidelines regarding the soda machines . . ."
When the meeting was finally over, Gwen sighed. "Okay, I'm not going to name names, but someone was playing footsie with me under the table."
Newt looked disgruntled. "Who?"
Nathan looked startled. "Not me."
They all looked at Jones, who gave them a quiet smirk.
"She's trouble," Newt assessed.
"Oh I don't know," Gwen murmured back. "I had fun. Come on, Newt, or we'll be late to class."
The coach rolled his eyes but willingly lumbered after Gwen out the door, disappearing into the hallway. Other people filed out in twos and threes as Nathan took his time picking up. Sedgwick came over, his expression slightly sour, as usual.
"I hope you've managed to straighten out your paperwork issues, Miss Jones," he began in a pedantic tone. "It's essential we have everything in order before the holidays so I'm not forced to re-interview for the position."
"Yes, I believe you'll be receiving the files within the next few days, Mr. Sedgwick," Jones told him smoothly. "Just a little mix-up with HR on their end."
"Good. In the meantime, you can start drawing up plans for the mural," he countered with slight irritation. "I'm going to re-iterate here that it must be appropriate, and by that I mean—"
"—Conservative," Nathan smoothly interjected. "Non-controversial and aesthetically acceptable to the neighborhood."
"Absolutely," Sedgwick grunted, not pleased to have his thunder stolen. "Gardner, you know what I mean, so make sure it happens."
With a final grunt at the pair of them, he headed out.
They were the only ones left in the library.
Jones rose, and Nathan did too, moving in and catching her gaze. "We need to talk."
"We need to eat," Jones told him. "I'm starving, and I never listen on an empty stomach. I'll order pizza and we can beat the delivery guy to my house."
"I . . . actually, that sounds like a damned good idea," Nathan muttered. "I could go for pizza."
"Antoine's," Jones sighed happily, fishing out her cell phone. "On speed dial. What do you want on it?"
"Everything." Nathan replied. "I'm good with everything."
"Really?"
"Yep," he nodded. "Anchovies, green peppers, red peppers, pineapple, olives, I like it all."
"Who would have guessed?" Jones smirked at him, "under that traditional suit beats the heart of a nonconformist?"
"That's me; teacher by day, radical pizza fan by night," Nathan agreed. "Your place?"
"My place."