Joan Kilby 

Of all days--

Her office door burst open. Poppy, her bouncy young assistant, announced breathlessly, "Brett O'Connor's here."

"Already?" Renita sucked in her gut, tightened what tummy muscles she possessed and squeezed the button through the hole. "Give me two minutes then show him in."

Poppy left, closing the door behind her. Renita whipped a compact out of her top drawer and checked her hair, tucking a wavy dark strand behind her ear. She tried taking her glasses off. Nope, she was blind without them. Baring her teeth in the tiny mirror she made sure there were no lipstick smears or sesame seeds from her breakfast bagel.

She put away her compact and took several deep breaths to slow her tripping heart, coaching herself not to get anxious over this meeting. Her high school crush on Brett O'Connor was ancient history. Anyway, he'd never been interested in her that way so his visit was nothing to get excited about.

Sure, she was curious about why he'd returned to Summerside but her biggest concern right now was that, a) her jacket button didn't pop and, b) she didn't reveal by a single word, gesture or look that she'd ever had the slightest hint of romantic feelings toward him.

Professionalism, that was the key. She was no longer a nerdy chubby fifteen-year-old infatuated with the school jock who broke her heart. She was a business woman and the Loans Manager at Community Bank, just doing her job.

The knock came. Renita's mouth felt as dry as the paper she was clutching in her damp palms as a prop. Poppy opened the door, ushering in Brett O'Connor, gorgeous as ever in a casual suit jacket over an open-necked shirt and designer jeans. He carried a manila envelope.

At the last second she remembered the jar of jelly beans and whisked it off her desk and into a drawer.

"Hello, Brett." Renita rose, grateful that her voice, at least, was cool and calm. The sight of his thick sun-streaked hair and slightly crooked nose transported her straight back to grade eleven when a passing glance from him in the school corridor had been enough to send her into reveries of dreamy joy.

Not now, though. No way.

She rose to extend a hand. "How are you?"

"G'day, Renita. It's been a while." His clasp was firm, almost painful, as if he didn't know his own strength, and his blue gaze so direct it was like a stab to the heart. "What is it, thirteen years?"

"Something like that." She withdrew her hand and gestured to a chair. "Tell me, what can I do for you?"

He sat, but instead of getting down to business, he leaned back, and shook his head, a wondering light in his eyes. "I can't get over it. You look exactly the same."

"Gee, thanks, and here I thought I'd improved."

He flashed her his easy grin that could still put a quiver in her stomach. "You always had a wisecrack for every occasion."

"No, I speak the truth," she said, deadpan. "Everyone just thinks I'm joking."

"What I meant was, you look fabulous." When she raised her eyebrows skeptically, he insisted, "Honestly, you do."

"Don't flatter me, Brett." Renita knew she was well-groomed but definitely not glamorous; pretty but not beautiful. Most of the time, she thought she looked just fine--well, except for the extra weight. But she didn't think for one second that Brett, who was used to being mobbed by half-naked football groupies, could possibly think she looked fabulous.

"You look...real," he amended, having the grace to look sheepish at being called on his sincerity.

"Real. Yep, that's me." That was the greatest compliment he could pay her. Real meant eyeglasses, hair with a mind of its own, jackets that strained at the buttons.

She searched for signs he'd aged badly due to the debauched life he must have led as a professional football player. Brett had been hot in high school. Hotter still during televised footy games with his cheek smeared with dirt and his muscles all sweaty and glistening. But apart from a small white scar across his right eyebrow, laughter lines around his eyes and mouth and the way his lanky frame had filled out with solid muscle he looked pretty much the same as he had at seventeen--sexy and athletic.

"So, Brett, are you here for a loan?"

"We'll get to that," he said, still with that easy smile, that confidence that used to enthrall but now grated. "First I'd like to know how my favorite math tutor is doing."

He was trying to charm her. It came to him as easily as breathing and probably just as unconsciously. It took her back to afternoons around her farmhouse kitchen table, she trying earnestly to teach him trigonometry; he trying to distract her with jokes, making her lose concentration until she wanted to slap him.

Or kiss him.

In her dreams.

"How could I be your favorite tutor?" She gave a nervous laugh although she was anything but amused by the memories. "I dropped you two weeks before the final exam, remember?"

"Oh yeah." Brett frowned. "Why did you do that, anyway?"

"Dad needed my help with chores after school," she lied even as a tendril of hurt and anger pushed its way to the surface. What an idiot she'd been back then, imagining that just because they'd laughed together, just because he'd tweaked her ponytail, that he liked her.