The man had a world-class tush. A freaking Greek-god tush. Oh, yeah. That tush that should be carved in marble and mounted in the Acropolis.
“Excuse me, may I speak to you for a minute, Mr. Price?”
Mile-wide shoulders stiffened. Like the tush, the shoulders were prime. No two ways about it, God had blessed the new boys’ gym teacher with an incredible body.
“Sure. When I get a minute.”
Right before He cursed him with the personality of a three-pound dumbbell.
Exasperated by the attitude he seemed to reserve for her, personally, Candy jammed one hand on her waist and canted a hip. Her head cocked as she ran her tongue across her teeth. Any one of the thirty or so teenagers milling around the volleyball court or scattered across the bleachers could have interpreted the signals for him. Watch your step, pal.
Candy drew a long breath through her nose. “I’m afraid it can’t wait. I have to talk to you before the match starts.”
Heaving a sigh, he turned. At five-ten Candy looked most men in the eye. The fact that she had to look up to this six-foot-three-inch bozo counted as one more mark against him.
“All right, Ms. Price,” he rumbled in that deep-as-the-ocean voice, “you have the floor.”
Maybe, but a couple seconds ticked by before she could remember why she wanted the floor in the first place. Price’s voice never failed to ruffle her nerve endings and leave her flustered, mostly because her idiot ears couldn’t seem tell the difference between a well-built moron and Sean Connery.
Fortunately, thanks to seven years in the shark tank known as Donnerton High, she had her poker face down pat. She’d rather eat dirt than let Price know he could stud her arms with goose bumps with one bass-clef word from those chiseled lips.
As she waited for her mental gears to mesh, her eyes took an unauthorized side trip, traveling from his broad chest—currently painted fire-engine red in a tight Donnerton High t-shirt—to his strong neck and granite jaw, snagging briefly on the aforementioned lips before climbing to meet his smart-assed gray gaze. At that point, she barely suppressed a wince.
In addition to withholding anything remotely resembling a personality, God had coupled the face and body to die for with fashion anti-flair. Price’s clunky black glasses were a sad blast from the long past. The nerd-strap belting them to his thick skull bisected black hair slapped flat with a pound of grease.
“Well? Is there a point to this interruption? Or do you need another minute or two to memorize my face so you can paint my portrait?”
Candy snorted. “I’d rather draw flies.”
A disconcerting glint of ... amusement? Nah. The ability to be amused was limited to intelligent life forms, and Price didn’t qualify.
“Huh. Well, in that case, what can I do for you, Ms. Johnson?”
God, she hated it when he called her Ms. Johnson in that snotty tone. Obnoxious twerp.
“As I said, I’d like to talk to you.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Not here. In the hall.”
When he rolled his eyes, she had to quash an almost overwhelming urge to brain him with her clipboard.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he drawled, “but this game between the boys’ and girls’ JV teams was your idea.”
She shook her head. “What does that have to do with wanting to talk to you in the hall?”
“I figure you want privacy, so you can save face when you back out. No problem. Just say the word, and we’ll all go home.”
“I’m not trying to back out! Why would I?”
“Because you’re finally ready to admit your women don’t stand a chance in hell against my guys?”
Candy narrowed her eyes. “Why you—”
“Okay,” he said, holding up a hand, “not backing out. In that case, I suggest we get this cockeyed battle of the sexes underway. The sooner I prove my point, the sooner I take the team out for pizza.”
She jerked her chin toward the gymnasium door. “In the hall, Price. Now.”
Pinhead smirked and followed her across the hardwood floor to the double doors. Once in the hallway, he braced one foot against the wall and leaned back, casually turning the ball cradled in his big hands.
“Okay, we’re in the hallway.” He hoisted a brow. “Why are we in the hallway, Ms. Johnson?”
“Well, George,” she began, smiling sweetly, “we’re here to discuss your balls.”
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