Free Lust - 1 by Robin Wasserman Page B

waste.
    “Sorry about that,” Beth said, snapping the phone shut and slipping it back into her bag. She turned back to the table, where a pile of old Haven Gazettes lay haphazardly in front of her, al flipped open to the articles she had deemed the best—and worst—of the lot. They were conducting a systematic investigation of everything that was right and wrong about the school paper, and at the rate things were going, it was going to take al night.
    “I hope I’m not keeping you from something important,” Mr. Powel told her, looking concerned.
    He looked so—dashing was the only word for it—when he was concerned. Who knew that there were real-life British people who looked like they came out of a Jane Austen novel? Or, more accurately, a Jude Law—Christian Bale Hol ywood remake of a Jane Austen novel. But here he was, sitting only a couple of feet away, poring through the old newspapers along with her, actual y listening when she talked, actual y seeming to care what she had to say. Not that it was easy for her to make much sense, not when she couldn’t take her eyes off the curly brown lock of hair that kept slipping over his left eye no matter how many times he impatiently flicked it away. She wanted to reach out and smooth his unruly curls, straighten the silk tie that was loosely knotted at a rakish angle … she just wanted to touch him and assure herself that he was real.
    “What?” she asked, suddenly realizing that he had asked her something and was, apparently, waiting for a response.
    “I said, if you’ve got somewhere else to be …,” he repeated.
    “No, don’t worry about it,” Beth assured him quickly.
    “ This is the most important thing right now” She tossed one of the old editions of the paper away from her in disdain. “It’s like I’ve been saying, I real y want to make this paper something . I want us to publish regularly and investigate stories and chal enge people’s preconceptions—I want it to be more than just a few pieces of paper that the kids laugh at and then use as a place mat on a monthly basis. And I think that—”
    “Whoa, whoa,” Powel cut in, laughing. “You’re preaching to the choir here. Aren’t I ordering us some food so we can get to work and stay at work on this thing? Trust me, you’ve sold me.”
    “Sorry,” Beth said, blushing. It was easy to get carried away—she’d never had a teacher like Mr. Powel , so young and energetic and—wel , she didn’t even know that they made teachers like Mr. Powel .
    “I hope I’m not keeping you from something important,” she said, suddenly realizing that a guy—man—like that probably had a number of better things to do.
    He laughed again and began ticking off Grace’s social limitations on his fingers. “Let’s see. I’m new in town, don’t know anyone, and from what I’ve been able to tel , tonight’s social options range from Wet T-Shirt Night at the local bar to Bingo Night at the local church.”
    Beth sighed quietly in relief and tried her best not to picture Mr. Powel parading across a makeshift stage wearing only a clingy wet T-shirt and a pair of boxers. Her best was far from good enough.
    “I suppose you should be very honored I’m wil ing to pass it al up for you,” he continued. “So, what’l it be? Chinese? Indian? Thai?” Beth rol ed her eyes.

    “You are new in town,” she scoffed. “The only place that delivers around here is Guido’s Pizza Shoppe—where the pizza’s guaranteed to come in fifteen minutes or ‘whenever the hel Guido feels like bringing it.’”
    “Sounds like a real customer-friendly operation,” he said. “I’l take it. A medium cheese should cover us, I think—do you know the number?”
    “Yeah, it’s in my phone.” Beth pul ed it out and made the cal . “Thanks again for working with me on this, Mr. Powel ,” she told him once Guido had answered and, with a surly growl, put her on hold.
    “It’s just wonderful to have a student