graduate from high school?”
“Ten years ago.”
“Ah.” Patrick nodded in understanding. “You probably came up into the youth group the year I graduated. Where’d you go to school?”
“High school? Hume-Fogg.”
Patrick let out a low whistle. “Ah, so you’re one of those genius types. No wonder our paths never crossed.”
No, his brothers were the geniuses. He was the one who’d struggled with the coursework at the academic magnet school. If it hadn’t had the best art program in town, he wouldn’t have worked so hard to keep his grades up and stay in.
Patrick continued without waiting for Dylan to respond. “I’m just a football mutt from Hillsboro High. So what do you do now that brought you back to Nashville?” Patrick fixed himself a cup of coffee.
Actually, the question people should be asking was what had he
done
that brought him back to Nashville. “I’m…” What was he, really?
Well, Dr. Holtz had all but promised him at least two courses. “I’m an art professor. I’ll be teaching at James Robertson this spring.”
Patrick’s blond eyebrows shot up. “Robertson? I know someone who teaches there part-time. Name’s Zarah Mitchell.”
“I met her Friday evening at a dinner party—and her fiancé and some other friends of theirs who go here.” Dylan looked around the room to see if they’d arrived yet.
“That’s great—so they told you about this class?”
Dylan moved out of the way of a guy and gal—obviously a couple—trying to get to the coffee. “They mentioned something about the class’s Christmas party.”
An odd expression came over Patrick’s face. “About…did they actually say it was Young Professionals?”
“Not that I remember, no.”
“I see.” Patrick finished off the coffee and tossed the Styrofoam cup in the small trash can under the table, then stepped out of the way of another surge of people—couples, mostly, it seemed, coming for breakfast.
Dylan moved with him, continuing to scan the crowd for anyone he’d met Friday night. There were far more paired-off couples in the room than what he expected for a singles class—and if not mistaken, he was pretty sure all of them were wearing what looked like wedding rings.
“Zarah and Bobby are in the singles class.”
Frowning, Dylan turned to look at Patrick. “Right.”
“This is Young Professionals—our class is for twentysomething singles and marrieds.”
“It’s…but…so, what’s the singles class?” This was another reason he’d gotten frustrated with organized religion—all their confusing divisions and terminology.
“Singles is for folks over the age of about thirty who, well, aren’t married.”
So if one was unmarried and under thirty, he was considered a young professional, and if he was over thirty, he was a single? Wait—that meant Zarah and Bobby and Flannery…and Caylor Evans…might be older than he originally thought. He’d figured they were all right around his age.
When he’d walked out of Rhonda’s apartment, her threats of revealing his most closely held secret to the school trustees echoing behind him, he’d sworn he’d never get mixed up with an older woman again.
Just one more reason for him to avoid Caylor Evans.
“So do you have a boyfriend yet?”
Caylor smiled down at the little old lady—well, she was little, and she looked old, though Caylor guessed she wasn’t quite as old as Sassy. “No Mrs. Morton. Not since last Sunday.”
“Well, I’m praying—and I’ve got all the other girls in the class praying—that a nice young man will come along soon. You’ve got too pretty a face to stay a spinster your whole life.” Mrs. Morton patted Caylor’s arm and shuffled off toward the sanctuary.
Caylor continued on to the choir room, shaking her head. She loved attending the smallish church, but that was one of the drawbacks: Everyone knew about and meddled in—all in the guise of praying for each other—everyone else’s business.
“Ten years ago.”
“Ah.” Patrick nodded in understanding. “You probably came up into the youth group the year I graduated. Where’d you go to school?”
“High school? Hume-Fogg.”
Patrick let out a low whistle. “Ah, so you’re one of those genius types. No wonder our paths never crossed.”
No, his brothers were the geniuses. He was the one who’d struggled with the coursework at the academic magnet school. If it hadn’t had the best art program in town, he wouldn’t have worked so hard to keep his grades up and stay in.
Patrick continued without waiting for Dylan to respond. “I’m just a football mutt from Hillsboro High. So what do you do now that brought you back to Nashville?” Patrick fixed himself a cup of coffee.
Actually, the question people should be asking was what had he
done
that brought him back to Nashville. “I’m…” What was he, really?
Well, Dr. Holtz had all but promised him at least two courses. “I’m an art professor. I’ll be teaching at James Robertson this spring.”
Patrick’s blond eyebrows shot up. “Robertson? I know someone who teaches there part-time. Name’s Zarah Mitchell.”
“I met her Friday evening at a dinner party—and her fiancé and some other friends of theirs who go here.” Dylan looked around the room to see if they’d arrived yet.
“That’s great—so they told you about this class?”
Dylan moved out of the way of a guy and gal—obviously a couple—trying to get to the coffee. “They mentioned something about the class’s Christmas party.”
An odd expression came over Patrick’s face. “About…did they actually say it was Young Professionals?”
“Not that I remember, no.”
“I see.” Patrick finished off the coffee and tossed the Styrofoam cup in the small trash can under the table, then stepped out of the way of another surge of people—couples, mostly, it seemed, coming for breakfast.
Dylan moved with him, continuing to scan the crowd for anyone he’d met Friday night. There were far more paired-off couples in the room than what he expected for a singles class—and if not mistaken, he was pretty sure all of them were wearing what looked like wedding rings.
“Zarah and Bobby are in the singles class.”
Frowning, Dylan turned to look at Patrick. “Right.”
“This is Young Professionals—our class is for twentysomething singles and marrieds.”
“It’s…but…so, what’s the singles class?” This was another reason he’d gotten frustrated with organized religion—all their confusing divisions and terminology.
“Singles is for folks over the age of about thirty who, well, aren’t married.”
So if one was unmarried and under thirty, he was considered a young professional, and if he was over thirty, he was a single? Wait—that meant Zarah and Bobby and Flannery…and Caylor Evans…might be older than he originally thought. He’d figured they were all right around his age.
When he’d walked out of Rhonda’s apartment, her threats of revealing his most closely held secret to the school trustees echoing behind him, he’d sworn he’d never get mixed up with an older woman again.
Just one more reason for him to avoid Caylor Evans.
“So do you have a boyfriend yet?”
Caylor smiled down at the little old lady—well, she was little, and she looked old, though Caylor guessed she wasn’t quite as old as Sassy. “No Mrs. Morton. Not since last Sunday.”
“Well, I’m praying—and I’ve got all the other girls in the class praying—that a nice young man will come along soon. You’ve got too pretty a face to stay a spinster your whole life.” Mrs. Morton patted Caylor’s arm and shuffled off toward the sanctuary.
Caylor continued on to the choir room, shaking her head. She loved attending the smallish church, but that was one of the drawbacks: Everyone knew about and meddled in—all in the guise of praying for each other—everyone else’s business.
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