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and with that she turned her attention once more to the horse picture and a green crayon that sat near the edge of her paper. She picked it up and began adding grass to the field.
    Emma studied the girl a few moments longer. She moved on, checking in with a few of the other kids nearby before she noticed a flash of movement near her classroom door. She walked toward it and saw the face of Gavin Greeley, basketball coach for Wilson Middle School, two miles closer to the ocean. Why doesn’t he give up , she asked herself. He doesn’t know me. If he did, he wouldn’t even try.
    As she reached the door, she looked back at her class. “You’re working very nicely, boys and girls, so let’s keep focused on our own work. Five more minutes and we’ll be done.” She steadied herself. When her guard was firmly in place, she opened the door and stepped outside.
    Gavin had his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Hey.”
    “Hi.” The tone of her response was almost a question. Against her will, she felt her eyes dance a little. “Aren’t you at the wrong school?”
    “Early release. Teachers’ meetings until three.” He grinned and did a slight shrug. “Our group’s already finished.”
    “So you came here?” She leaned against the doorframe.
    “I needed to drop off a few camp registration forms. Figured it was a sunny Friday afternoon. Maybe you’d be up for dinner at the beach.”
    For a single moment, Emma imagined dinner with Gavin, sitting across from him, allowing herself to make small talk about their students and laughing at the funny way Gavin always had about him. The thought faded almost before it was entirely formed.
    “I can’t.” She peered over her shoulder at her students. They were holding their own. Her mind raced for an excuse, so he wouldn’t take her rejection personally. “I have to stay late. Then I need to run on the beach. I’ve got that half marathon in November.”
    “We can work around that.” If he was hurt by her answer, he didn’t show it. “I could, you know, sort of run along beside you feeding you grapes and sliced chicken. A little mustard so you don’t have to choke it down or anything.”
    Emma studied him, the tall boyish man with the hopeful look. Years ago Gavin played baseball at Georgia Tech before coming back to North Carolina to teach history and coach middle school. He was thirty-two with the toned, muscled body of a college beach kid, sandy brown hair, tan skin, and green eyes she could easily get lost in.
    But she wouldn’t let herself. Not now. Not ever.
    A sigh hung on her lips and her smile felt as tired as her fa-çade. “Really, Gavin. I can’t. Not tonight.”
    “Did I mention,” he took on a mock quizzical look, “I’m running in that same race?”
    “Really.” She gave a mildly sarcastic nod.
    “I am. Exact same one. Outer Banks Marathon.”
    “Which means …”
    He cocked his head, and his charm doubled. “Which means I could run with you, since, you know, I need to train too. We could push each other. Maybe hit the beach a few times a week so we’re ready.”
    She pictured running alongside Gavin Greeley, making their way down the beach and passing the small white wooden cross, the one mostly covered by the tall grass that fanned out from the sandy knolls at the top of the shoreline. The cross she’d placed there. A shudder passed over her, but she didn’t show it. Instead she laughed and shook her head. “You’re good.”
    “I could be better.”
    “Not at running.” She shook her head and couldn’t keep from laughing. His persistence sometimes had that effect on her. “You’re just plain good.”
    He feigned innocence about what other sort of good she might be talking about. “No, really. I’m not a runner like you.” He shifted, and a ray of sunlight splashed across his eyes, making them more brilliant than before. “Here’s the thing. If you push me, I might be really good.” He raised his brow and waited for her