Chapter Four

Sawyer

She’s here.

The woman from the bar. She’s sitting next to me in the teachers’ lounge on the first day of my new career. That can only mean one thing. I almost slept with a coworker.

Of course, at the time, she wasn’t a coworker. I was here merely for the interview–for a job I thankfully received.

Leaving her in my bed that morning was the hardest thing I had ever done. She looked like a goddess, brown hair fanned out on the pillow, and pert little mouth slightly agape. Okay, so maybe it was more like wide open, with a soft snore slipping from her throat, but whatever. She was cute as hell, and it did a number on me.

Unfortunately, when I returned from my interview, she was gone. The damn thing took longer than anticipated as the principal took me on an extended tour of the school and wanted to talk baseball. When I finally got free and could get back to my hotel room, I was disappointed to find the bedding slightly rumpled and the room empty.

She was gone without so much as a trace left behind.

And now here she is. Sitting right next to me, cute little reading glasses perched on her nose. She looks just as gorgeous as I remember. Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, free and begging for my fingers. Her green eyes are the color of emeralds, sparkling and bright. Her mouth gapes open, plump and ripe for my own lips. She’s a wet dream, and for the past month, she’s been mine.

“AJ.” Just saying her name, even after a month, is already causing all of my blood to rush south.

“Sawyer.” My name on her lips comes out a croak. It also makes my dick twitch in my pants.

“Welcome back, everyone. We have a lot to cover today, including the introduction of a couple new teachers. Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves. Name and what subject you teach,” Mr. Stewart directs, filling up his own coffee cup.

I listen as we go around the room, each new coworker sharing a name that I won’t remember today. Finally, we get to the woman sitting next to me. It should be embarrassing how quickly my heart rate escalates in anticipation. I also hold my breath.

“AJ Summer, eighth grade math.”

That’s all she says, but the words go straight to my cock. I glance her way, unprepared for the reaction my body has to hearing her voice. She stares straight ahead so I take the opportunity to study her features, refreshing my memory of how delicate each curve and feature of her face is while she sleeps. She has no idea that I stayed up for hours that night watching her sleep.

Creepy? Probably.

But I don’t give a shit. I felt something the moment my eyes connected with hers back in July. The moment she feels my eyes on her now, she turns my way. Electricity sparks between us, alive and powerful. Her hypnotic green eyes search mine, for what, I’m not sure. But I can tell the moment she seems to recall our previous meeting.

“Sawyer Randall, PE,” I state without removing my eyes from my neighbor.

AJ blushes a pretty shade of pink that spreads from her neck down and disappears into the collar of her flowy purple tank top. My own flashbacks assault me, one right after the other. The connection. The invitation. The car ride.

The kiss.

My God, I relived that fucking kiss like some lovesick loser for weeks. Hell, I’m still enjoying the instant replays. Her lips were soft and urgent, her taste as sweet as sin. I was instantly hooked, craving more.

But then she turned that weird shade of green. I had a split second to move her to the bushes before she puked all over the place, including my shoes. Thank God I’ve always had a strong stomach because as soon as she was done, the fight and every ounce of energy she possessed just seeped from her small body.

Carrying her up to my room felt a little too good. Almost like I was carrying her over the threshold.

Wait.

What?

No. No threshold. No romance or relationship.

Sex. That’s what that was.

Well, almost sex…

And now here she is, sitting beside me and trying to pretend like I didn’t watch her vomit alcohol like a college co-ed after her first kegger. Well, too bad, AJ Summer, eighth grade math teacher. I don’t forget. I’m not going to forget. Not the way she felt in my arms and definitely not the way her lips tasted.

The problem is…what do I do about it?

* * *

After an hour of sitting on a hard chair, listening to my new boss drone on and on about policies and procedures (which I’ve already reviewed in great lengths with my welcome packet), we’re finally dismissed. Teachers jump up eagerly, excited to start another school year. For me, I’m excited to start my first.

“Hey, man, it’s an honor to meet the Sawyer Randall,” the other newbie teacher says, his eyes shining with eagerness as he comes over and shakes my hand. I glance over to AJ, hoping that she’ll hang around a few minutes, but find her quickly slipping from her seat and heading to the door.

“I can’t believe I’m teaching with the Sawyer Randall.” My attention is pulled back to the man in front of me.

“I’m excited to be here,” I tell him honestly.

“Shouldn’t be too hard from what you’re used to, right?” he asks with a snicker. “I mean, aren’t major leaguers like wrangling adolescents sometimes?”

I don’t find his joke humorous, but I smile the same. “Something like that.”

I try to politely excuse myself, but the guy just isn’t having it. “How do you think the baseball team will be this year?”

“Well, I’m not quite sure yet.” You know, considering school hasn’t even started yet.

“I did a little research. Last year’s team went ten and six and we only lost three eighth graders. We seem to still have solid swingers and pitchers,” he states, lightly hitting my arms with his knuckles. “You know, I was interested in the head baseball coach’s position and applied. They told me they’d keep me in mind, but then I found out they hired you for PE, and of course, gave you the baseball coaching job. I mean, they’re not about to give it to me over a former pro like yourself. I wasn’t bad back in the day. I played college ball, man. So when you’re ready to pick your assistant, I’d be more than willing to help. I played centerfield. I have a lot to offer the team,” he says, eyes eager and hopeful.

“Oh, well, I’ll keep that in mind. It was great meeting you,” I start, leaving it open to fill in his name.

“Bryce. Bryce Lehman. Sixth and seventh grade math.” Again, he offers me his hand.

“Bryce, right. Well, Bryce, I’m gonna head to my office and try to get a calendar set for the first few weeks of school. Gotta keep our youth active.”

“True, true. Well, it was great meeting you, Sawyer. Mr. Randall,” he corrects in a rush. “Anyway, we’re both new here so we should stick together. Anytime you need a friend or want to grab a beer after work, let me know.”

“Sure, Bryce. Talk to you soon,” I say, trying to pull myself away from the young, energetic teacher. He’s a different character, that’s for sure, but the one thing I pick up right away is that he’ll be working closely with AJ in the math department.

It takes me another twenty minutes to get out of the teachers’ lounge. I’m used to being recognized most places I go, and I expected no different in Jupiter Bay. Though, I’ll admit an opportunity to be inconspicuous would be welcome right now. I wonder how it’s going to be on our first day of school? Has word gotten out yet that Sawyer Randall, former Major League Baseball All-Star, is coaching high school baseball and teaching PE?

I’m sure it hasn’t since I’m not being hounded for interviews or being trailed by jackasses with cameras. Even after my injury and being cut from the team, sports broadcasters and tabloid hounds still love to snap a pic of me having coffee or leaving physical therapy. The sports reporters don’t bother me as much, though I’d prefer them to focus less on the end of my career and more about the stats I had while I played.

The tabloids can take a hike, though. Throw my name on People’s Sexiest Man Alive list a few years in a row, a trending hashtag in the Twitter-verse calling me #SexySawyer, and one very high profile relationship, and suddenly I’m tabloid fodder right next to Miley Cyrus.

Everyone seems to want a piece of me.

Everyone except a certain brunette with the brightest green eyes and the lips of an angel.

AJ Summer didn’t seem to care who I was. Either she doesn’t know or it’s an act. I’ve met my fair share of gold diggers, pretending to not care about my fame or fortune, yet only to discover that’s all they really cared about in the first place. Being someone’s arm candy and looking good for the press. My gut tells me that’s not AJ.

I make my way back to my new office, nestled right in between the gym and the boys’ locker room. Barb Jordan is the girls’ PE teacher and is already in her office on the opposite side of the gym. I met her first thing this morning when I arrived at the school and dropped my bag off in my new office. She’s easily in her fifties and holds quite a few coaching records at the school for girls’ basketball and volleyball. I could learn a lot from her.

Sitting down behind my desk, I can’t help but wonder what kinda teacher I’ll be. I have dick for experience when it comes to teaching, but have more than enough to contribute to the baseball team.

My goal is to be firm, but fair, while having fun. Athletics can be enjoyable; you just have to find the things that spark and hold their interest.

I get to work, but can’t help the way my mind occasionally wanders back to AJ.

Miss Summer.

After months of surgeries, recouping, rehab, and public scrutiny, I think my luck is finally changing. The thought of seeing her five days a week? Yeah, I’d say things are definitely starting to look up.