Page 85 of Playing for Keeps

“I’m thinking,” I corrected, underlining a paragraph. “There’s a difference.”

He smirked, that lopsided grin threatening to break.

I tried to hide my smile behind my tea, but it was useless. “You’re distracting,” I said.

He just looked pleased. “I’ll take it.”

“It’s a warning, not a compliment.”

He laughed, low and soft. Under the table, his hand found mine, thumb tracing lazy circles across my fingers, like he didn’t even realise he was doing it. The café was crowded – couples, students, a mother and her toddler near the window – but with that small touch, we had our own little pocket in all the noise.

He nodded towards my laptop. “You’re not really grading, are you?”

“I’m trying.”

“Liar. You’ve been on the same page for ten minutes.”

I sighed, closed the laptop, and gave in. “Fine. You win.”

He leaned back, all smug. “Always do.”

A passing waitress smiled at us as she refilled our cups. “You two are adorable,” she said cheerfully. “Married?”

I blinked. “Oh – no, we’re–”

Max smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not married. Just lucky, I guess.”

She laughed and moved on, but her question hung in the air between us, swirling around like steam.

I tilted my head, softening a little. “Lucky, huh? You sure?”

He met my eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. Pretty sure.”

Something tight and warm bloomed in my chest. “You’re still insufferable.”

He reached across the table and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle and unhurried, like he didn’t care who was watching. “And yet, here you are,” he said, voice low.

I couldn’t think of anything clever to say back. Just the conversations, mugs clinking, snow falling outside – and his hand resting on mine.

If I ever leave, this is what I’ll miss. Not the city. Just this – this easy kind of peace that feels like belonging.

40

EMMA

Grace looked so happy sitting in my classroom, her pen tapping lightly on the edge of her notebook as if she had been waiting all day to be here. It wasn’t every day you had a guest at the back of a class, but she had quietly slipped in at the start and promised to stay out of the way. Given her enthusiasm, I didn’t believe that for a second.

The students and I had been discussing symbolism in Jane Eyre, and we kept coming back to the infamous Red Room. We had taken apart its scary, claustrophobic quality, its feeling of punishment and suppression, and now I wanted them to go further and think about the broader patterns that Charlotte Brontë used throughout the book.

“Okay,” I said, sitting on the edge of my desk. “We’ve figured out that the Red Room is a place of fear, shame, and control. But what about the things that Brontë keeps coming back to? Fire and ice. Let’s get into that. Can anyone give an example of when those are more than just background imagery?”

A few students started to go through their notes. Grace’s hand shot up in the air with complete confidence before anyone else could even look up.

“Yes, Grace?” I said, smiling.

She leaned forward with excitement. “The fire in Rochester’s bedroom,” she said, her voice full of confidence. “It’s not just danger; it’s passion. Jane saving him is about more than just keeping him from burning to death. It’s her first act of power in the relationship. When his passion threatens to kill him, she literally puts it out.”

I blinked at her, surprised for a moment by how sharp her reading was. “That’s… a very good point,” I said, my voice getting warmer. “Thanks, Grace.”