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“But he might’ve, given the chance. You need to stop putting up walls like this.”

Georgie tersely flipped a page then another, the glossy paper snapping with each turn. “E, for the millionth time⁠—”

“I know, I know,” Eden interrupted. “You’re not looking for romance or a boyfriend.”

Which was right. Sort of.

It wasn’t that Georgie didn’t want a romantic relationship. She did, but only if certain needs were met, things like affection and trust, respect and kindness, an acceptance of her long-held passions. Settling for anything less was not an option. Having learned the hard way too many times, the hopeful romantic in Georgie had taken a leave of absence, allowing her pragmatic side to invest her considerable talents and energies elsewhere.

She flicked away a striking photo of Michelangelo’s David. “If I want a night out with a guy, I have Michael. And he never lets me down.”

Rolling her eyes, Eden shook her head. “Eating nachos with your best friend at a ’50s-themed restaurant is not the same thing as sharing mussels with a hot date at Bistro 990.”

Georgie paused her frenetic page turning. “You’re right. I despise overpriced French food.”

“But what about S-E-X?” Eden trilled. “C’mon, Georgie. Don’t you miss it? It’s been, what? Eighteen months?”

Try twenty. Swallowing hard, she surveyed the room again. Her colleagues were debating the Jays’ World Series aspirations, so Eden’s prying query withered unheard. But what was there to debate? Georgie did miss it, so much she’d worn out the Magic Wand massager she kept in her bedside table. She picked up her fork and glanced at her friend. “Change the record, please.”

But Eden—being Eden—wouldn’t give up. “I know you’ve had shit luck.”

Georgie blew out a noisy breath and raked the fork through her lasagna, wishing she could slip under the table unnoticed.

“But not all guys are egotistical a-holes,” said Eden.

“You’re right,” Georgie deadpanned. “It’s only the guys I meet.”

“Till now. You know, I can feel it. Things are changing. The right guy’s already in your orbit. You haven’t seen the last of him either.”

The thrice-married music teacher shuffled through the door, followed by a procession of tracksuit-clad gym teachers—one gay, the other two serial misogynists—all three stuffing their faces with colourful, chocolatey Smarties.

“Don’t give up the day job, E. You’re a terrible psychic.” Georgie laughed as Eden tsked into her Alphagetti.

“Have no fear…” The booming voice of Houdini arrived before he did. Swooping around the doorjamb, he cradled something large and round inside a Bulk Barn shopping bag. “…the winner is HERE!”

A dismissive “In your dreams” came from one of the business teachers sat on Eden’s right. He was also the school’s hockey coach and the founding member of the unofficial ‘Brian Sawyer is a Dickhead’ club.

Georgie refused to look up from her brochure until Eden’s pointy elbow to the ribs pinched her breath. She gasped. “Wh⁠—?”

Eden nodded toward her spoon, its scoop tilted. The small pasta letters spelled out PRICK.

She bit back a laugh and glanced across the table.

Flicking his head, Brian tossed the blond curtains of hair from his eyes and crouched forward. “And he brought candy!” He yanked away the plastic bag and slid his sugary haul onto the table already crowded with lunch dishes and splayed newspapers. The round plastic container divided into sections boasted milk chocolate Rosebuds, Smarties, and Willocrisp.

“Sweet treats to ease the pain. You all know you’re wasting your time, right? Doing this?” He squinted at Georgie and mouthed, ‘Hey loser, I’m gonna win!’

Arrogant ass. Her expression unreadable, she glanced away, refusing to rise to Brian’s latest bait. It was always something—insults disguised as jokes, backhanded compliments, inappropriate digs. Regardless, Georgie always reacted professionally, keeping her tone cordial and collected, exactly how a future department head was supposed to behave.

But not everyone saw through Brian’s passive-aggressive bullshit.

“Oh, go on, then!” Duncan shoved back his chair, its metal feet squealing in complaint. “Can’t let those sweeties go to waste.” Lunging forward, he seized fistfuls of Willocrisp from the divided tray. “Cheers, Bri! You rock!”

The feeding frenzy didn’t end there. The custodians and geography department helped themselves as Laporte stormed in with a lid-free shoebox. Tie askew and his long nose and high forehead mottled by a weekend sunburn, he kicked the door closed with one of his size fourteen leather loafers.

“Right, you know the drill,” he snapped in his Québécois accent. “Pay Duncan your ten-dollar fee then take a number from me.” He scratched his dark brown Caesar haircut then vigorously shook the box, shuffling the small, folded pieces of paper inside. “The person who finds a 1 will choose first. The person who finds a 2 will go second, etcetera, etcetera.”

Five- and ten-dollar bills were foisted upon the biology teacher, and all the scraps of folded paper were swiftly claimed.