SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY - IN LOVE - MOI?

Okay, it's that time of the week again. I thought I would post from my wip, again {working title Class Act}. I have been steaming along with this and I am quite enamoured with my leading man.

Love - Rebecca Harding didn’t do love. She wouldn’t know where to begin. No, she hadn’t meant that. She didn’t love him because she didn’t know him and that would mean it was nothing more than a school girl crush and she, Rebecca Harding would never stoop so low. What she meant was she admired him. Yes, that was it; admire was a good word.

Does anyone remember that time when you first realised you were in love? It can make one feel so vulnerable. How would you sum up first love in one word? The best answer wins a free download of their choice from my backlist. Meanwhile, here's another excerpt from the newbie:....

CH ONE

A hard rain drummed out an incessant beat. Max Jackson rested his head against the mullioned windowpane and wondered if he’d ever get used to the capricious climate. A mundane deliberation, really. The weather was the least of his worries. Ok, it wasn’t as if he was a total novice but teaching English to foreign adults wasn’t much in the way of preparation for a class of twenty or more hormonal teenagers. All the degrees in the world couldn’t make up for hard experience.
A sense of inadequacy blotted out his earlier good mood. What the hell was he doing there? Tom was nuts.
Despite his black mood, he smiled. Tom Black – the only one amongst his Oxford chums who’d matched him pint for pint. Now the conscientious headmaster of Thamesford Independent School? He laughed out loud. How insane was that? Even crazier; he’d offered Max the post of substitute teacher of English without hesitation. That was Tom; ever loyal, always having faith in him. Was he up to the job? Certainly he knew his father didn’t think so but then his father didn’t believe him capable of much.
Max gave himself a mental kick up the butt; it wasn’t the time to be heading down that long, sorry road and, besides, he hadn’t finished his first beer. Time to remedy that.
Crossing to the chintz sofa, he sat and picked up the bottle of Fosters from the rosewood occasional table. Ice-cold nectar worked a satisfying trail down his throat. His gaze strayed to the photograph on top of the cast-iron fireplace. For once, Kate’s cool beauty failed to invoke a gut-wrenching reaction. Max lobbed the empty bottle into the wastepaper basket. He wouldn’t think about Kate. What was done was done.

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