Free The Force of Gravity by Kelly Stevenson Page A

hobbit, right? But panic ripples through me as I hear him call out, “Mr. Slate!”
    What. The. Hell.
    Mr. Slate whips around and sees the boy. Why do I think of him as a boy? He’s clearly around my age.
    “Duncan!” greets Mr. Slate with a dignified smile. He’s so smooth, so sure of himself all the time. I, however, can’t even remember how to breathe.
    Duncan flicks his stare back and forth between us. “What are you doing here?”
    Mr. Slate glances at me and then back to Duncan. “Watching a movie, of course,” he answers with poise. “I just ran into Kaley, do you two know each other?”
    As I shake my head, I notice Duncan nodding. He knows me? I swear I have never seen him before in my life.
    Duncan gives me a toothy grin. “We have gym together. Fourth period.”
    “Right,” I say, trying not to hurt his feelings. His expression turns quizzical, rattling my nerves, and I slide my hand through my hair. “Uh, my date wasn’t able to make it.”
    He nods, but seems to be teetering on the edge of suspicion.
    “See you on Monday, Duncan,” says Mr. Slate, giving a quick wave.
    He leads me to the parking lot as Duncan continues to gawk at us. Get a life, nosey little hobbit.
    It’s a short walk before I am forced to part ways with Mr. Slate. After we say goodnight, I tear myself away and trudge down the aisle toward my car. Almost immediately, an uninvited longing stirs within me. I immediately scold myself.
    He’s a grown man — your teacher! You are pathetic.
    But my boyfriend was a complete asshole tonight . . . don’t I deserve to be appreciated by a gorgeous man? It’s not like anything happened.
    Nor will anything ever happen.
    He’s harmless. He’s . . . an innocent crush.
    Innocent? He checked you out tonight.
    A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth.
    Stop! He’s your teacher! He’s forbidden.
    I tune out the condemning voice as I slip into the driver’s seat, my pulse still racing. Releasing a deep sigh, I turn the key in the ignition, but it just clicks. No, not now! I try again and again. Click-click-click. I hit the steering wheel with my fists.
    “Damn!” What else can go wrong tonight?
    As if on cue, a shiny black Tahoe pulls up beside me. Mr. Slate gracefully hops out as I step out of my car.
    “Need help, Kay?”
    My heart skips a beat. Did he just call me Kay? Only my closest friends and family call me that.
    “It won’t start,” I grumble, hoping to hide my embarrassment.
    “Let me see what I can do.”
    I hold out my hand, and he takes my keys, his fingers leaving a trail of heat across my palm. He ducks into the driver’s seat, and I try to cope with the fact that Mr. Slate is now sitting in my car.
    My dirty, unwashed—and now broken—piece-of-junk car.
    Please kill me.
    Why didn’t I at least take the trash out? The backseat alone looks like a water bottle graveyard. It’s mortifying enough to be driving a beater, but does it have to resemble a recycling center, too? I glance at his gleaming Tahoe and cringe. Even the huge rims shine as if they’ve never encountered a speck of dirt.
    Okay, chill. Maybe there’s an upside to this. Maybe his scent will linger in my car so I can enjoy it on my way home.
    He steps out of the driver’s seat. “Pop the hood for me. I’ll try to jump start it for you.”
    Unable to respond, I slide into my car and watch him attach the jumper cables between his beautiful SUV and my junkyard-bound Chevelle. When he gives me the command, I try to start it, turning the key in the ignition and pressing on the gas.
    Still nothing.
    “I’m beginning to hate this car,” I groan, stepping back out.
    “I think it’s the alternator,” he says, slamming my hood down. “Sounds like you need a new one.”
    “Great.” I glare at the Chevelle . Unreliable piece of crap. As frustrated as I am, I don’t want to leave my car here, and I definitely don’t want a ride home from him. I’m afraid my body can’t handle it.
    “I’ll