It was a world-class tush. No, a Greek-god tush. It should be carved in marble and mounted in the Acropolis.
“Excuse me, may I speak to you for a minute, Mr. Price?”
Mile-wide shoulders stiffened. Like the tush, the shoulders were prime specimens of perfection. God had truly blessed this man with an incredible body.
“It’ll have to wait, Ms. Johnson. I’m busy.”
Of course, the rest of him was classic jerk.
Exasperated by the attitude he seemed to reserve for her alone, Candy jammed one hand on her waist and canted a hip. Her head cocked as she pursed her lips. Any of the teenagers milling around on the volleyball court or scattered across the bleachers could have warned George Price that it was time to watch his step.
“I’m afraid it can’t wait,” she said. “I have to talk to you before class starts.”
Heaving a sigh, he turned. At five-ten Candy looked most men in the eye. Right now she really resented the fact that she had to look up to six-foot-three-inch Pinhead Price.
“All right, Ms. Johnson,” he rumbled in that deep-as-the-ocean voice, “you have the floor.”
Maybe, but it was a second before she could do anything with it, mostly because his voice never failed to ruffle her nerve endings and get her flustered. Evidently, her ears didn’t know the difference between a well-built moron and Sean Connery.
But after seven years’ teaching experience, she had her poker face down pat. She would eat dirt and die before letting Price know he could give her goose bumps with one bass-clef word from those chiseled lips.
While her brain was numbed by his voice her eyes sneaked down to his chest, which was covered in a tight red Donnerton High T-shirt. Her eyes continued on up to skim his throat and granite jaw, snagging on the aforementioned chiseled lips before meeting his smart-aleck gray gaze.
At this point Candy barely suppressed a grimace.
God had coupled a mouthwatering face and body with a fashion flare that would have to stretch to be nonexistent. Price’s clunky glasses were a sad blast from the long past. The nerd strap belting them to his thick skull bisected a black mane that might be impressive if it wasn’t slapped flat with a pound of greasy kid’s stuff.
His mouth curled into a snide grin. “Thinking of doing my portrait?”
Chagrined to be caught staring, Candy muttered, “I’d rather draw flies.”