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“Then who did?” said Eden. “Do you think one of the pupils…”
Georgie shrugged into a flurry of blinks. “Does it matter?” She lowered her shaky hand. “He said I abandoned my kids and they couldn’t risk it happening again.” Burgeoning tears prickled the back of her nose. “I screwed up, E. I shouldn’t have left.”
“You left for the benefit of your students, to ensure their afternoon lessons wouldn’t be compromised. Anyone with a brain can see that!” said Eden. “And what’s with this abandoned garbage? They weren’t! I was there! You made sure of it.”
“Doesn’t matter. He thinks I’m an irresponsible hypochondriac who just falsely accused him of discrimination.”
Eden gasped. “You did?” Her voice rose as she broke into a grin. “Way to go, babe, putting him in his place!”
“And me in mine.” Georgie sniffed. “I’ll never get the promotion now.”
The delight on Eden’s face withered into a scowl. “This is bullshit. Your actions should be commended, not penalized. You always put your students first.”
Fussing with her bracelet, Georgie’s harried, watery stare skated across the replica WWII posters promoting victory gardens and wartime rations. “But look where that’s got me.” Her gaze snagged on a Ministry of Food recipe for pancakes.
Unless…I could get an impressive reference, too. A spike of adrenaline surged through her. She had to get to a phone book. Quick.
“He’s SUCH a dick!” Hands balling into fists, Eden’s tight-lipped rant continued. “You did nothing wrong.”
“E”—Georgie dove into the bottom drawer of her desk—“I need to make a phone call before class.” She grabbed her purse as Eden glanced at the clock above the door. “Can we talk later?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Eden stepped aside. “Meet at lunch?”
“I’ll bring dessert.” Painting on a smile, Georgie rushed out the door.
SEVEN
OLIVER
Three days later, Friday, October 16, 1992
Leafs record: 1 win, 2 losses, 1 tie (in overtime)
Nerves fizzed in Oliver’s belly as he cleared a musty stack of hardcover research journals from his desk, placing them on the floor. “You sure I can’t get you something besides ginger ale?” He straightened up and glanced across his tiny office, meeting the gaze of the most welcome visitor. “Coffee? Tea?” He shifted another stack of books off his desk pad calendar and popped open a dark blue gable-style box with mmmuffins printed across it in orange and yellow lowercase lettering. “A muffin?”
A flicker of a grin bloomed as Georgie spied the six-pack of freshly baked treats: apple cinnamon, blueberry, chocolate chip, cheddar cheese, carrot nut, and oatmeal cranberry—each muffin crowned with a square-shaped, crunchy top. “I’m okay, but thank you.”
But are you? Narrowing his eyes, Oliver smoothed the front of his blue button-down and took his seat. A few days earlier when Georgie’s surprise call from a muffin shop interrupted yet another extensive presentation rewrite, she sounded raring to go, eager to assist. Oliver told her about the impending return of his boss, the sweary students, and the appalled CEO. None of these headaches seemed to phase her. She didn’t mention why she’d had a change of heart and Oliver didn’t ask, but ultimately, did it matter? Things were definitely looking up!
But sat on the far side of his desk with her long, purple wool coat hanging on the back of his office door, Georgie appeared preoccupied. The frequent forehead rubs and repeated glances at her watch suggested something was not quite right or she was counting the minutes till she could hightail it out of there. Was she regretting her offer to help? Late for a date? Whatever the reason, Oliver didn’t know her well enough to pry.
One thing was certain, though. Georgie was more gorgeous than he had remembered. Untethered, her hair pooled in soft, flaxen waves along the shoulders of her chunky cable-knit red sweater where a glimpse of lacey white blouse played peekaboo with its jewel neckline. Teamed with a black pencil skirt, opaque dark tights, and tall leather boots hitting just below her knee, the ensemble was stylish yet approachable, serving up intellectual vixen meets girl next door. Combined with her proven historical knowledge, she was exactly Oliver’s type—if he ever found the courage to date again, that is.
She’s lovely. Oliver’s gaze lingered as she bent over the side of the chair and reached into her tote bag. And WAY out of my league.
Georgie pulled out a pen and notebook. “I have to meet someone in an hour, so should we make a start?” As she straightened up, a ghost of a frown tugged the corners of her mouth downward.
Oliver glanced behind him. Several innocuous framed posters advertising past exhibitions were propped up against the back wall, so they weren’t to blame. Bollocks. He gulped. She caught me staring. He fumbled his fountain pen, and it flew clattering to the floor. “Of course…” He dove between his leather Oxfords, coming up for air with the pen and a blush heating his cheeks. “And like I said on the phone, I’m open to all suggestions and any constructive criticism. I can’t afford to fail again,” he babbled, gripping his pad of paper.
She flashed what looked like an apprehensive smile and caressed her temple. “Has your boss said something?”
“Not yet, but it’s coming.” He nudged aside a postcard of Toronto’s Gooderham Building, his latest snail mail destined for Rafferty. “The CEO of philanthropic support pulled me aside yesterday. Two financial backers have chosen to donate elsewhere. My boss will be furious with me when she finds out.”
Georgie opened the notebook on her lap. “Not if I can help it.” She flipped to a page filled with handwriting. “When we’re done, she’ll be your biggest fan.”
Glancing away, Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“Why?”
