“Christ’s sake.” Jude ducked his head, but it didn’t quite hide the reluctant curve of his lips. “Didn’t you lot get enough of the applause yesterday?”
“This is the encore performance!” Angie Patterson gestured grandly to the noticeboard.
Jude groaned.
Pinned above the sea of timetables, lunch rotas, and last year’s exam successes was the newspaper clipping. His own ash-streaked face staring back at him, along with the two firemen hauling him out of the wreckage and beneath the headline about the fire. Someone had drawn a bright red heart around his head. A speech bubble sprouted from his mouth with the words,I need a hero.
“You lot are deranged.” Jude made a beeline for the board ready to tug it down.
Angie slid in front of him, tapping his nose with the blunt end of a pen. “Ah-ah. That stays until something better knocks it off.”
“Better?” Jude dumped his hands on his hips. “What’s gonna top that? A meteor strike or Ofsted cancelling inspections forever?”
“Oh, could you imagine!” Miss Linley—Drama—looked up from the biscuit tin, already half-raided. “But don’t pretend you don’t like the attention. Or those strapping firemen holding you up.”
Jude groaned. “Can we move the summer play forward to next week? I’ll volunteer to play the villain and get booed off stage.”
“You? Villain?” Mr Hardy, Head of Maths, snorted into his tea. “Not sure you’ve got the range.”
“I have layers. Very deep layers.” Jude slung his satchel down by the sofa.
Laughter rippled through the room. Easy. Familiar. This was his crew. His rhythm. The clatter of mugs and rustle of crisp packets, the good-natured ribbing getting them all through twelve-hour days. And he was still half-grinning when he glanced towards the kettle.
He stilled.
Cause therehewas. Warren Bailey. The new PE teacher. Standing with one hand braced on the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. His smile was small but unmistakably aimed Jude’s way, amusement glinting in his eyes as though he’d heard every word of the nonsense. Heat rushed up Jude’s neck before he could stop it. So he ducked his head, reaching for a mug, desperate to look casual. But his fingers slipped on the handle, clattering porcelain against porcelain, and the sound drew another round of laughter from across the room.
“Careful, Ellison,” Angie called. “Hero of the hour can’t even handle a teacup.”
Jude muttered something about treason under his breath, but his pulse picked up, thumping his ribs. And when he risked another glance, Warren was still smiling.
Right at him.
And of course, the bloody kettle was over there. Right where Warren Bailey stood, broad-shouldered and nonchalant, as if he’d always belonged in this staffroom. Jude steeled himself and crossed the room, mug in hand.
“Here.” Warren held out his palm, reading Jude’s mug slogan—Don’t Be Such a Neanderthal—before returning to Jude’s face with the hint of a grin. “Let me make the hero a cuppa.”
Jude rolled his eyes, passing the mug over. “Can we please stop with the hero nonsense?”
“Happy to.” Warren’s fingers brushed his as he took the cup, and if Jude didn’t acknowledge the jolt, he’d forever be known as a big fat liar. “As soon as you stop being one.”
“Brilliant.” Jude folded his arms, dry as he could manage. “And how exactly does one… undo hero status?”
Warren tilted his head as if genuinely considering it. “Don’t think it’s possible. You either are or you aren’t.” He gestured atthe row of tea bags and jars lined up like soldiers. “What’s your poison?”
Jude leaned past him, close enough to catch the faint clean spice of his aftershave and plucked the Co-op branded instant coffee jar from the row. “Not the green tea, unless you fancy Sandra’s wrath. Nescafé is off-limits too—Mrs Turner will have your head on a spike. And Twinings…” he raised his brows, “…reserved for royalty. Also known as the Ofsted inspectors.”
“Good to know.” Warren’s smile tugged wider, one corner curved as if hiding a private joke. “Guess I’ll stick to the people’s choice then. How’d you like it?”
Why Jude blushed said everything. “Black. One sugar. Strong. Two teaspoons.”
“Like me.” Warren met his gaze a fraction too long before turning to the kettle. “Though I’m not sure I’ll ever think of you as a Co-op coffee man.”
Jude blinked, surprised by the softness beneath the tease. He ducked his head, pretending to rearrange the sugar packets, but his pulse had already betrayed him, beating faster than it should over a bloody cup of coffee.
“Why? What do you think of me as?”
Warren looked him over. “You strike me as a barista type. Someone who knows his coffee.” He handed over a mug as the bell shrilled for form time. Merciful timing before Jude could ask how Warren could possibly have known that. How he’d once worked as a barista. When he’d been trying to get his life back together.
