sitting there. "I'm afraid I have a little problem. Have you ever heard of quadraterciaphobia? I don't like to talk about it, but if I don't sit in the fourth seat of the third row, I start singing French nursery rhymes." He shook his head sadly. "It can get ugly."
Sara bit her lip to keep from laughing, but the girl behind her giggled openly, obviously skeptical of his story but just as obviously charmed by him.
As soon as he was seated, he tapped Sara on the shoulder. "My name is Charlie Sanderson, and I think I love you."
Her lips twitched, but she didn't turn around. "My name is Sara Love, and I don't think you were ready to leave the institution quite yet."
"Sara Love," he said slowly, as though savoring the words. "It's perfect. You're perfect."
The room quietened again as the instructor walked in. He was a middle-aged man, short, cute, and vigorous. "My name is Miller," he said, "and I'm your instructor for the Principles of Real Estate." He turned to the blackboard as he spoke, and wrote Miller in tall, spindly letters.
Charlie leaned forward and whispered, "So that's how you spell Miller. I knew this class would pay off."
Sara tightened her quivering lips and tried to concentrate on what, the instructor was telling them about the course.
"We'll be going into real-estate law a little," Mr. Miller said, "but you'll need the full course before you're through. This will give you a taste of all the different aspects of real estate."
Charlie leaned forward again and whispered, "Speaking of law—did you know that in the state of Montana it's illegal to look like Don Knotts?"
Sara almost choked as she turned her spurt of laughter into a cough. It was but an indication of things to come. For the next hour Charlie made irreverent comments to her, and sometimes to the class at large, not enough to disrupt the lesson, but just enough to keep enthusiasm high. Although soberness was evidently not his forte, his comments and questions were highly intelligent.
When the class ended, Sara didn't even have a chance to gather her thoughts before she was being ushered into the cafeteria to have coffee with him. A little dazed, she sat and listened as he talked about his job and his family and himself.
"I'm thirty-one—exactly right for you," he said without blinking. "I've worked for my father's firm—you've heard of Sanderson Smelting?—in the bookkeeping department for five years." He sighed heavily, trying to look pathetic. "My father doesn't understand me."
"I can't say that I blame him," Sara said wryly.
He grinned. "Me either. But I did try to fit his idea of what a son should be ... for a while. Rules kept getting in my way. Do you know what it's like to sit in a tiny little office with nothing but numbers for company, all day, every day?" He shook his head. "I was having people-withdrawal symptoms. It was really sad. I started listening for footsteps outside the door, and when anyone would walk by I would grab him by the throat, pull him into my office, and make him talk to me." He shrugged in bewilderment. "For some reason I started making the other employees nervous."
She laughed, her eyes crinkling with enjoyment. He was a true original, something rare in a world of copies.
"And so," he continued, "I decided I needed to do something that brought me legitimately in touch with people. It was either real estate or used cars." He fell silent, studying her face. "And why have you sought the benefits of this nocturnal mill of knowledge?"
She smiled, glancing down at her coffee cup. "I'm a legal secretary. Do you know what that means?"
"It means you spend a lot of time making coffee and sitting on the boss's lap and gossiping at the water cooler?" he guessed, his face carefully blank.
She drew in a swift breath, then shook her head and laughed. "I know you're kidding, but that's about all the credit I get. Technically I'm supposed to type and file and take dictation, but my boss believes in delegating. I work my
Sara bit her lip to keep from laughing, but the girl behind her giggled openly, obviously skeptical of his story but just as obviously charmed by him.
As soon as he was seated, he tapped Sara on the shoulder. "My name is Charlie Sanderson, and I think I love you."
Her lips twitched, but she didn't turn around. "My name is Sara Love, and I don't think you were ready to leave the institution quite yet."
"Sara Love," he said slowly, as though savoring the words. "It's perfect. You're perfect."
The room quietened again as the instructor walked in. He was a middle-aged man, short, cute, and vigorous. "My name is Miller," he said, "and I'm your instructor for the Principles of Real Estate." He turned to the blackboard as he spoke, and wrote Miller in tall, spindly letters.
Charlie leaned forward and whispered, "So that's how you spell Miller. I knew this class would pay off."
Sara tightened her quivering lips and tried to concentrate on what, the instructor was telling them about the course.
"We'll be going into real-estate law a little," Mr. Miller said, "but you'll need the full course before you're through. This will give you a taste of all the different aspects of real estate."
Charlie leaned forward again and whispered, "Speaking of law—did you know that in the state of Montana it's illegal to look like Don Knotts?"
Sara almost choked as she turned her spurt of laughter into a cough. It was but an indication of things to come. For the next hour Charlie made irreverent comments to her, and sometimes to the class at large, not enough to disrupt the lesson, but just enough to keep enthusiasm high. Although soberness was evidently not his forte, his comments and questions were highly intelligent.
When the class ended, Sara didn't even have a chance to gather her thoughts before she was being ushered into the cafeteria to have coffee with him. A little dazed, she sat and listened as he talked about his job and his family and himself.
"I'm thirty-one—exactly right for you," he said without blinking. "I've worked for my father's firm—you've heard of Sanderson Smelting?—in the bookkeeping department for five years." He sighed heavily, trying to look pathetic. "My father doesn't understand me."
"I can't say that I blame him," Sara said wryly.
He grinned. "Me either. But I did try to fit his idea of what a son should be ... for a while. Rules kept getting in my way. Do you know what it's like to sit in a tiny little office with nothing but numbers for company, all day, every day?" He shook his head. "I was having people-withdrawal symptoms. It was really sad. I started listening for footsteps outside the door, and when anyone would walk by I would grab him by the throat, pull him into my office, and make him talk to me." He shrugged in bewilderment. "For some reason I started making the other employees nervous."
She laughed, her eyes crinkling with enjoyment. He was a true original, something rare in a world of copies.
"And so," he continued, "I decided I needed to do something that brought me legitimately in touch with people. It was either real estate or used cars." He fell silent, studying her face. "And why have you sought the benefits of this nocturnal mill of knowledge?"
She smiled, glancing down at her coffee cup. "I'm a legal secretary. Do you know what that means?"
"It means you spend a lot of time making coffee and sitting on the boss's lap and gossiping at the water cooler?" he guessed, his face carefully blank.
She drew in a swift breath, then shook her head and laughed. "I know you're kidding, but that's about all the credit I get. Technically I'm supposed to type and file and take dictation, but my boss believes in delegating. I work my
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