“Trustme,beginningstudentssound ridiculous trying to swear. Learn the polite words first, and once you’re fluent, you can use bad words.” Trace denied one of her first-year student’s requests to learn how to cuss. “Outside of the classroom. Don’t get me into trouble.”
“Miss Perry?”
She wanted to ignore it. To pretend that the hand that shot up at every opportunity hadn’t popped up when there were ten minutes until the weekend.
“Oui? Wes?“ Was it bad that she enjoyed the quasi-alliteration of his name? Probably. Better than saying, “Yes Wes,” like she had to in third period poetry, his chosen elective. The other students rolled their eyes as he began to talk, all looking at the clock and realizing their early escape wasn’t happening. Suddenly protective of her eager student, who never tuned her out, Trace focused all of her attention on Wes.
Intelligent, inquisitive expression engaged, eyebrows drawn together and lips pursed pensively, he asked, “Why are you so picky about us learning to say it exactly the way you do, when it’s pronounced differently in different parts of the world, even different parts of France?”
As she began to open her mouth, twenty sets of eyes drifted toward the open door. Curious head tilts and whisperings amongst the already restless, waiting-for-the-weekend freshmen, she knew it wasn’t Haley or her mom, as they were practically regulars around here. Ellen had made a solid impression when she’d come for French cuisine week, with a different French-themed goodie each day she was there. Haley popped in after school often, and they’d go for a walk or grab an early dinner.
Nope. Neither of the usual suspects.
Thrill surged up the middle of her spine until she shivered with anticipation.
She couldn’t resist. Trace folded her arms over her chest and turned toward their visitor. “Would you care to explain why it’s important to master a single, common accent first?”
Leaned with his good shoulder against the door, decked out in his new low slung black jeans, crisp athletic fit black t-shirt, and unstoppable waffle-soled black leather boots that had shocked her mother, Cole fired her a playful promise of payback with a simple glance. With one side of that grin lifted higher than the other, hands in his pockets, he lingered eye contact with her before speaking.
“Bonjour, je m’appelle Cole Falk. Je suis un ami de Mademoiselle Perry. Je parle plusieurs dialectes.“ Completely understanding the assignment, he spoke with very simple words the students should recognize, but he used a different accent for each word.
Without even considering the point of the lesson, Marcy aimed straight for the question Trace suspected they all were eager to ask. “Miss Perry? You haven’t introduced us to your friend.”
Perfect. She fired a wink back at Cole and couldn’t help the ornery shrug back at her students. “He introduced himself just now, did you not understand?”
The sea of blank stares was priceless.
Not moving from his post, Cole said it again, this time with the crisp Parisian they were more familiar with.
“I get it,” Wes said brightly, grinning wide when Cole gave him an easy, cheek-biting smile on seeing the lightbulb shining over the eager student’s head. “We didn’t understand because you jumped between accents.”
Cole winked back at Trace, and she knew the questions about him were only going to get more personal. In the last few minutes of class, the barrage of questions ranged fromwas he her boyfriendtodid she meet him in Paristodoes he speak English.
Cole didn’t answer, but when the bell rang and the students began to pop up with their bags, he strolled into the classroom to stand out of the way.
“Hang on,” Trace called out over the chaos. “Homework. It’s a doozy.”
Groans echoed around the room, and she didn’t resist the snarky giggle that bubbled up in her tummy.
“Watch a French movie. Subtitles are okay, but not dubbed. Tell me ten words you recognized on Monday, and any idioms you heard that we don’t use in English.”
The wave of relief was priceless.
As they thinned out, Cole wandered closer and sat on the edge of her desk. Hands in his pockets, he waited quietly while she erased the board and straightened desks for the evening.
When she finally routed his way to grab her bag, he tipped a subtle nod. “Ready?”
“Did you grab my suitcase?”
“Of course.” Only a slight hitch in his movement and the first step, he moved back to let her lead the way out.
They made their way down the hall and toward the faculty and staff parking lot, his limp minimal. Even the mark on his cheek had faded from an inflamed pink to a shiny line that matched his skin, but she knew the scar would be permanent.
Trace halted as they stepped outside and scanned the parking lot. Cars rushed out like a frantic trail of ants, the other teachers ready to start the weekend, so it took her a moment to realize something was off. “Where’s my car?”
“At home,” Cole answered easily, sauntering toward her usual spot.
Her parking permit hung from the rearview window of… not her car. Brand spanking new, there was a black SUV with darkly tinted windows, black wheels, beefy tires. As menacing as his boots.
