Page 6

Am I in over my head? Oliver exchanged the pen for his coffee cup, searching for a way to answer no to that question.

In all fairness, the museum’s public education program for grades 9 through 12 was just a small sliver of his considerable to-do list. There were the sizable research projects with substantial funding attached, managing the professional development of the museum’s postgraduate Egyptology students, and his ever-demanding curatorial duties—all of which mirrored his daily grind back in London where he held the grand title of Curator, Funerary Culture of the Nile Valley. In that position, he presented sold-out lectures and seminars, published academic papers, and spoke at conferences far and wide, sharing his knowledge with the crème de la crème of Europe’s archaeological experts, even helping the British Museum secure financial support from wealthy benefactors. Yet despite all the power and prestige and his hard-earned PhD, Oliver couldn’t win over three classes of teenage history students in Toronto.

These failures tormented him. A lot. It didn’t matter that he was thirty-four with seven years of successful curatorship to his name. The smallest on-the-job hiccup could still topple Oliver’s confidence and unleash a surge of doubt, making him question his competence and calling as an educator.

The outreach curriculum had to be engaging to capture the students’ imaginations, and if the rumours were to be believed, his predecessor had been let go after failing to do just that. Oliver downed the last of his lukewarm coffee and grimaced, returning the empty cup to the table. If I keep screwing up, I’ll be back in London faster than you can say⁠—

“Refill?”

Glancing up, Oliver met the beckoning blue eyes of a coffee-pot-toting waitress, but it wasn’t the regular, dangly-earring-wearing server who had taken his breakfast order thirty-five minutes earlier. No, this woman had long blonde hair (corralled in a neat braid), statuesque height, a thick silver bangle circling her wrist, and…

You’ve got to be kidding me. A shiver shot up Oliver’s spine.

…firsthand knowledge of his embarrassing presentations.

The pretty teacher. He swallowed hard. The one who couldn’t get away fast enough, who I can’t stop worrying about!

Her surprise appearance was a harsh reminder that schools like hers were usually asked to provide feedback post-museum visit. Had she, her colleague, or the other two schools blasted him with a failing grade? If they had, they were well within their right, and there wasn’t much Oliver could say or do about it. His boss, though—well, she’d have plenty to say.

Brow knotting, his gaze jumped from the teacher/server’s friendly smile to the ‘Ask Me About Crepes’ button pinned to one of the burgundy straps of her unflattering uniform. The short-sleeved white blouse and burgundy polyester trousers were a far cry from the stylish ensemble she’d worn at the museum.

But why was she working in a pancake house?

Her countenance didn’t brighten with recognition or surprise. “More coffee?” she asked again.

Didn’t she remember him? If she did, was she just being polite?

Oliver sat up straight and hoped for the former. “Sure. Please.” As she poured the steaming beverage into his cup and its comforting aroma teased his nose, he prayed she wasn’t a fan of small talk, specifically small talk related to mummies and pyramids and his knack for putting Canadian students to sleep on their feet.

“On holiday?” She dipped her chin in the direction of his half-written postcard.

She doesn’t recognize me. Leaning back in his chair, Oliver unleashed a slow grin as she finished pouring. “No, I’m here for work. Arrived a few weeks ago.”

“Oh! Where’s home then?”

“The UK—London.” He swept away a dusting of toast crumbs from his trousers.

“London? Lucky.” The waitress placed a saucer full of small creamers—some containing milk, others half-and-half—on the wood table. “I’ve always wanted to visit.”

“You should. It’s great,” said Oliver, avoiding eye contact. It didn’t matter that her full lips curved into the most incredible smile or that adorable freckles sprinkled her nose and cheekbones. Idle chitchat with strangers was not his thing, especially when that stranger was beautiful and curious—a flustering combination.

“London’s top of my wish list. What’s your favourite tourist spot?”

He fought back a groan. Normally, he’d say the British Museum, but under the circumstances…

“Big Ben,” Oliver blurted.

“Oh, I’d definitely like to see that. It’s so iconic.”

Oliver scooped up one of the tiny polystyrene creamer cups and peeled back the top. “I’m sure you’ll love it.” He tipped the milk into his hot coffee, but unfortunately, the waitress didn’t realize his polite yet succinct reply was her cue to move along.

“One good turn deserves another.”

He snuck a look, catching her gorgeous grin as she set down the almost empty pot on an unoccupied table.

Staring out the window, she pointed. “There’s my Toronto pick over there—Maple Leaf Gardens.” A cluster of little kids, some in baggy team jerseys, others in minor hockey jackets, gleefully shouted and tugged open its glass front doors. “People come from all over the world to see where the Toronto Maple Leafs play. If they’re lucky and the team’s in town, they might even score an autograph or two.” She sighed as if lost in a reverie. “I love it, all of it.” Glancing back, she fiddled with the bangle on her wrist, her eyes locking with his. “You like hockey?”

God no. But instead of admitting his distaste aloud and appearing rude, Oliver dragged his gaze away and busied himself with another creamer of milk. “I played a bit in Stockholm when I was young.” He left the empty milk containers on his side plate and retrieved the glass sugar dispenser.