Six months later
My brother was my best friend. Not many girls my age could say that, but it was true.
Most siblings fought at one time or another. Competition and grudges form, and you run the risk of treating each other like shit because you can. Family is family after all, and they’ll forgive and forget.
But Jack and I never had that problem.
When we were young, we trained together and played together, and as adults, nothing had changed. He had never not wanted to be around me, and I often joked that he liked me more than I did.
And he would agree, always hinting that I was too hard on myself, but he was the same way.
It was a learned behavior in our home, and we didn’t do anything half-assed. Although at the time I’d resented our parents pushing us as hard as they did, I supposed it nurtured qualities that would help us in any field we pursued in our futures.
“Come on.” My brother heaved at my side, pulling to a stop and shaking his head at me. “Enough,” he ordered.
I halted, sucking in air as sweat soaked my back and neck.
“Two more laps,” I pushed. “You could’ve made it two more laps.”
He gulped air and walked over to the edge of the path covered by the canopy of old oaks lining the trail in Audubon Park.
“It’s August, Easton,” he bit out as he put his hands on his hips and bowed his head, trying to catch his breath. “And we live in a semitropical climate. It’s too hot for this.”
Grabbing the T-shirt out of the back of his mesh shorts, he wiped the sweat off his forehead and face.
I followed, pushing the strands of hair that had fallen out of my ponytail back over the top of my head. “Well, now you don’t get your smoothie,” I grumbled, bringing up the bribe I’d offered to get him out here on a Sunday morning.
“Screw the smoothie,” he shot back. “I should’ve stayed in bed. School is already kicking my ass, and I need the rest.”
He dropped his T-shirt to the ground and gestured toward me.
“Go on,” he urged. “Lie down.”
I walked over in front of him, knowing better than to argue. He’d had enough and wanted to get the workout over with.
I dropped to my ass and lay down with my knees bent, while he stepped on top of my toes, safe inside my sneakers, to hold me in place.
Crossing my arms over my chest and clutching my shoulders, I tightened my stomach muscles and pulled up and then shot back down until my shoulder blades hit the grass. I pulled up again, repeating the crunches over and over as my brother stood above me texting.
He was always working—texting, e-mailing, organizing—and it always had to do with school or something related to his future.
He was driven, committed, and controlled, and we were exactly alike.
According to studies, firstborn children were reliable, conscientious, and cautious, and my brother was certainly all of those. As a middle child, I was supposed to be a peacemaker and a people-pleaser with lots of friends.
I wasn’t any of those things.
The only quality I shared with other middle children was a sense of rebelliousness. However, I hardly thought that had anything to do with my birth placement and, instead, had everything to do with my youth.
While many middle children often felt as if they didn’t have an identity or anything special about them that set them apart, I, on the other hand, had had more attention than I’d deserved and had gotten tired of being under a spotlight. Tired of being special, gifted, and prized.
I wanted more—or less. However you looked at it.
I pulled up and fell back, never releasing the muscles in my abs. “I’m proud of you, you know?” I breathed out, looking up at him. “This is your year.”
“Yeah.” He smirked, his eyes still on his phone as he joked, “What do you know?”
Jack had just started his final year at Tulane Law School. Not only was he busy with classes, moot court, and the pro bono requirement for his degree, but he was also looking for an internship to get a head start in the field. He’d worked hard and deserved every inch he’d gained, never expecting anything handed to him.
“I know you’re up at four a.m. every morning to study before class.” I winced as my abs started to burn. “You refuse to date, because it’ll interfere with your studies, and you take those insipid law journals everywhere with you: the streetcar, the coffee shop, and even to the bathroom—”
“Hey—”
“You’re the hardest worker.” I continued, ignoring his embarrassed protest. “And you’re in the ninety-eighth percentile. You didn’t get there by luck.” I smiled sweetly, getting cocky. “I may get a sunburn basking in the glow of your success.”
He rolled his eyes and stepped off my toes, dropping to the ground himself. We both turned to get on our hands and toes, immediately dropping and rising for push-ups.
We worked out together at least once a week, although it was usually more than that. Between finishing my degree and graduating last May and Jack’s demanding schedule, we had no set days or times, but we made it a point to keep each other motivated.
My brother had never really been an athlete, but he’d grown up helping me train, so exercise was as much a part of his life as it was mine.
“I love you, you know?” He stared at the ground beneath him as he dropped down and pushed back up. “I should say it more.”
I stopped and turned, sitting on my ass as I peered over at him.
He did the same, resting his forearms on his knees and looking solemn.
“It was hard growing up with you, Easton,” he told me, staring off in front of him, looking somber. “All the attention, the way our parents prioritized our lives around you . . .” He trailed off, stopping short, and I knew what he wasn’t saying.
Our parents had loved all three of their children—him, me, and our younger sister, Avery—but he knew and I knew, even though it was never talked about at the time, that I came first. My rising tennis career took precedence over everything.
Jack and Avery couldn’t take any extracurricular activities if it interfered with my training schedule, and they’d had to sit through countless matches, invisible because our parents’ eyes were always on me. Only me.
My brother shouldn’t have been my best friend. He should’ve resented me.
He popped up off the ground and reached out, offering me a hand. I took it and let him pull me up, my body vibrating with fatigue.
“You never let it go to your head, though,” he allowed. “You always acted like Avery and I were just as important.”
“Of course you were,” I stated without hesitation as I dusted off my shorts.
“Yeah, well, our parents didn’t always think so.” He sighed. “Thanks for letting me have this,” he said, referring to our choice to move to New Orleans five years ago, so he could attend Tulane, “and thanks for letting me feel like a big brother for a change.”
I laughed, raising my fists and jabbing at him. “Yeah, you’re capable of it sometimes,” I teased in a light voice.
“Sometimes?” He held up his palms so I could slap at them. “I’m three years older than you, Pork Chop.”
“Only physically.” I shrugged. “According to studies, men trail women in maturity by eleven years.”
He jabbed back, and I blocked, pushing his thick arm off to the side and seeing him stumble.
“You and your statistics,” he complained. “Where did you read that?”
“The Internet.”
“Ah, the infinite abyss of reliable information.” He threw a few more slow punches, and I bobbed and ducked as we danced in a circle.
“Why don’t you try getting out of your apartment and testing those theories out on your own?” he challenged.
I hooded my eyes, annoyed. “I get out of my apartment.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “For work. Or with me. Or when you’re on the prowl.”
I inhaled an angry breath, jabbing him harder and finally catching him in the chest.
He grunted. “Ouch.”
And then shit got real.
He straightened, steeling his body and moving in, punching faster and making me duck, swerve, and sweat.
On the prowl? He knew he shouldn’t have made a dig at me.
Everything else could be Jack’s business. We didn’t make decisions without the other’s input, and when our world had fallen apart five years ago, I’d let him hold my hand from time to time to make him feel useful, but my sex life was the one thing I kept private.
Most of the time I stayed so busy that I didn’t miss men. And I certainly had no interest in inviting one into my life for anything long-term.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried, but I didn’t like messy and unpredictable, and relationships made me feel caged.
But once in a while I started to miss being touched. I missed being close to someone and being wanted. Even if just for a night.
So I’d go out and get it out of my system and then come home, my feathers smooth again. Sometimes it was a “friend” who didn’t have any more of an interest in a relationship than I did, but occasionally, when I wanted to push the envelope for extra excitement, it was someone new.
Someone unknown.
“I mean, at the very least,” my brother complained, “try taking an actual self-defense class instead of testing out moves on me that you learned from YouTube.”
I grabbed his hand and bent his arm at the wrist, making him hunch over with the pain. His face twisted, and I stepped up to him, gloating.
“You don’t like being my tackling dummy?” I taunted, adding pressure to his wrist.
He twisted his lips in annoyance, and before I knew what had happened, he’d grabbed my leg out from under me and pushed me down onto the ground. I crashed to my ass, pain spreading up to my hips and down my thighs.
He shot down, coming to bend over me and pin my neck to the ground with his hand.
I squirmed and tried to pry out of his grip, but it wasn’t working. I could feel my face tighten and rush with blood. I probably looked like a tomato.
He lightened his grip and narrowed his concerned eyes on me, speaking sadly. “You’re lonely, Easton.”
I blinked, the sound of my breathing flooding my ears and echoing in my head. I felt like I wanted the ground beneath me to open and swallow me up whole.
Why would my brother say that?
I was alone, not lonely, and it wasn’t like he had room to talk.
And my life was good. My apartment was gorgeous, I’d graduated at the top of my class at Loyola, and I had just landed a great position as a history teacher at an elite private school here in the city.
I was going to be a part of the future, doing work that meant something.
And I was only twenty-three.
I’d been focused, and I was still very young. It wasn’t like there was any rush. It wasn’t like I was going to be alone forever.
He released me and sat back, pushing his sandy blond hair back on his forehead. “I just worry about you,” he explained. “I still think you should talk to someone.”
I sat up on my elbows and gave him a pointed look, staying calm despite the anger crawling its way into my chest. “I’m fine,” I maintained.
“Really?” he challenged. “And how many times did you go back to check that you locked your front door this morning?”
I rolled my eyes, looking away. I should never have told him. My little compulsions made my brother nervous.
Okay, so sometimes I liked to make sure everything was in its place. Sometimes locking my front door four times instead of just once made me feel safer.
And sometimes I liked to count things.
But the truth was I simply liked to be aware of my environment and the people around me.
And I managed my habit well enough that people didn’t notice. My brother probably never would have if I hadn’t told him.
“I’m not the center of attention anymore,” I reminded him. “Stop trying to keep me there, okay? I’m fine.” I pushed myself up and got to my feet, dusting off my butt as he also stood.
“My bathroom door handle broke,” I told him, inserting my earbuds in my ears before he had a chance to say anything else. “So I need to hit the hardware store.”
“Well, do you want me to look at it?” He slipped back into his gray T-shirt as I veered around him back toward St. Charles Avenue.
I shook my head, joking as I walked away, “You wouldn’t know what you were doing any more than I would.”
“You got something against just hiring a repairman?” he shouted after me as I walked.
I turned, dishing his attitude right back at him. “You got something against tutorials on YouTube?” I shot out, and continued with my life motto, which he knew all too well. “Always go to bed smarter—”
“—than you were when you woke up,” he finished in a mocking voice.
I smiled and turned on “Hazy Shade of Winter” by the Bangles before jogging out of the park.
—
I spent the hour after I returned home crouched down next to my bathroom door as I pored over the instructions on how to install my new doorknob.
Luckily I’d bought a general tool set when I’d moved into my apartment two months ago, after graduation, but the clerk at the store had suckered me into a cordless power drill, which I was enjoying way too much.
Knowledge made us stronger, and I liked being able to do things for myself. Every new challenge was a mental checkoff of something I wouldn’t need to learn later.
My brother, however, didn’t share my need for autonomy.
When I’d moved in, he’d bought me a coffeepot as a housewarming gift. I’d bought a fire extinguisher and a thirty-eight-piece handyman set.
He’d gifted me with a wine rack stocked with pinot noir, and I’d added two more dead bolts to the front door.
Our senses of self-sufficiency were different, but then they had to be. Our experiences were very different growing up.
I smiled to myself, embarrassment warming my cheeks as I drilled in the screws. I was glad Jack wasn’t here to see how this was possibly the most fun I’d had all week.
I may have gotten overzealous and split the wood in the door when tightening the screws, too.
And I may even have crawled around my entire apartment tightening any screw I could find before I decided to put my new toy away for the day.
He’d have me committed. Or at least send me on a forced spa day.
After eating a sandwich for lunch, I showered and combed my closet for an outfit for tonight.
The new academic year started tomorrow, and my students’ parents had been invited for an open house this evening at Braddock Autenberry, my new school.
Or my only school, as this was my first teaching position.
Having gotten my keys to the school a couple weeks ago, I had prepared the room, and it was all set for tomorrow. Tonight I could try to relax and tend to the parents making their rounds to the different rooms before school started in the morning.
Reaching into my closet, I picked out my red pencil skirt, which fell just above the knee in the front but was cut to drape just below the knees in the back, stitched with a slight ruffle there for flare.
Laying it on the bed, I dug back into the closet for my fitted black blouse. It had long, cuffed sleeves and buttoned up to the neck.
To finish off the outfit, my heels were plain black with a pointed toe. I twisted my lips at the sight of them, setting them on the floor next to my bed.
I hated heels, but tonight was “make a good first impression,” kind of occasion, so I’d suck it up. I’d filter in sneakers and flats throughout the school year, though.
The outfit was conservative but stylish, and after I did my light makeup and my hair in loose curls, pulling back the sides and fixing a clip to the back of my head, I dressed with care, making sure not to wrinkle anything.
This was a brand-new start, and I wanted to make sure everything was perfect.
Once I’d fastened my watch to my wrist and put in the diamond studs from my parents, I smoothed my hand down my shirt and skirt, brushing off lint that wasn’t really there.
Perfect.
I checked the windows, the stove, and both doors, making sure everything was secure—twice—before I left.
When I arrived at the school, in the heart of Uptown, I still had a couple more hours before the open house began. I checked my mailbox in the teachers’ lounge, made some extra copies of my parent letter, and double-checked my laptop and projector to make sure my PowerPoint presentation was set to run.
We were supposed to have a mini speech ready to go when parents arrived, but I’d gauged—hopefully correctly—that parents would filter in and out, visiting classrooms in no set order, so I’d just designed a presentation with pictures and captions to play in the background. They could watch it or not.
Student textbooks were on the desk for their perusal, and copies of my syllabus and calendar with my contact information sat on a table by the door.
Other teachers at our staff development days this past week had talked about bringing cookies and chocolate-covered strawberries to offer parents when they visited their rooms, but after the school nurse scared the shit out of us with the EpiPen training on Wednesday, I’d decided not to take any chances with allergies. Bottled water, it was.
I let Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” play lightly in the background from my iPod dock as I walked around, double – and triple-checking everything to make sure the room was ready to go, for not only tonight but for tomorrow, as well.
“Are you Easton Bradbury?” a voice chirped behind me.
I turned, seeing a redhead in a navy blue A-line dress hovering at my classroom door.
“I’m Kristen Meyer,” she continued, placing her hand on her chest. “I teach Technology and Earth Science. I’m right across the hall.”
I put a smile on my face and walked over, noticing that she looked only a few years older than me.
“Hi.” I shook her hand. “I’m Easton. Sorry we didn’t meet this week.”
Our staff meetings were mostly departmentalized, and since I was US and World History, she and I had probably been in the same room for only a few hours during our staff meetings before we’d split off into groups.
Her red lips spread in a beautiful smile. “This is your first year?”
I nodded, sighing. “Yes,” I admitted. “I’ve done observations and a practicum, but other than that, I’m”—I exhaled a nervous breath—“new.”
“You’ll get that crash course tomorrow.” She waved her hand, walking past me into the room and looking around. “Don’t worry, though. The first year’s the easiest.”
I pinched my eyebrows together, not believing that for a second. “I’ve heard the exact opposite, actually.”
She twirled around, looking completely at ease with herself. “Oh, that’s what they tell you to give you something to look forward to,” she joked. “Your first year you’re just trying to keep your head above water, you know? Learn the ropes, get paperwork done on time, spend countless hours preparing one thing only to find out the lesson bombed . . . ” She laughed.
“What they don’t tell you,” she continued, leaning against a student desk, “is that college prepared you for nothing. Your first year, you’re learning to teach. Every year after that you’re trying to be successful at it. That’s the hard part.”
“Great,” I said sarcastically, laughing and putting my hands on my hips. “I thought I learned to teach in college.”
“You didn’t,” she deadpanned. “Tomorrow is baptism by fire. Get ready.”
I looked away, straightening my back. It was my brain cracking the whip, so I wouldn’t scowl.
Deep down I knew she was probably right, but I still didn’t like being knocked off my horse when I’d spent months preparing.
I’d done the work, taking all the classes I needed and even extra ones. I’d read up on the latest research and strategies, and I’d opted not to lesson plan with the other history teachers in favor of planning on my own—which I was allowed to do as long as I covered the curriculum and standards.
My lesson plans were done for the whole school year, but now I was worried about whether I’d done a lot of work for nothing.
What if I had no idea what I was getting myself into?
“Don’t worry,” Kristen spoke up. “It’s not the students that are the problem.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “The parents are very invested in where their tuition money goes.”
“What do you mean?”
She straightened, crossing her arms over her chest and speaking quietly. “Public school parents tend not to be involved enough. Private school parents, maybe too much. They can get invasive,” she warned. “And they bring lawyers to parent-teacher conferences sometimes, so be prepared.”
And then she patted me on the back, like I’d needed comforting, and walked out.
They can get invasive?
I cocked an eyebrow and stepped up to the large side-by-side windows lining the wall to rearrange the plants on the sill. Peering out the windows, I noticed that the sun had set and parents and students were stepping out of expensive cars, making their way into the school.
The manicured ladies meddled with their children’s hair, while the fathers conducted business on their phones.
I spun around, heading for my classroom door to prop it open.
I knew how to handle invasive.
Over the next couple of hours, parents and students filtered in and out of the room, following their class schedule to meet every teacher and learn their class route. Since my students would be mostly freshmen, I had a great turnout. Most parents wanted their sons and daughters to have the lay of the land before their first day of high school, and judging by the sign-in sheet I’d asked parents to fill out, I’d met almost two-thirds of my kids and their families. The ones I hadn’t met, I would try to call or e-mail this week to introduce myself and “open the lines of communication.”
I moved around the room, introducing myself and chatting with families here and there but mostly just watching. I’d adorned the walls with some maps and posters, while a few artifacts and tools used by historians and archeologists sat on tables and shelves. They moved from one area to another, taking in the clues I’d left as to what we’d study this year.
Even though I had about a hundred eighty days with the students, this was the night that was the most important. Seeing how your future student interacted with their parents offered a good indication of what to expect during the school year.
Which parent did they seem to fear more? (That’s the one you would call when there was trouble.) How did they speak to their parents? (Then you’d know how they’d speak to you.)
A couple parents and kids still flitted around the room, but as it was almost end time, everyone was starting to leave.
“Hi.” I walked up to a young man who’d been slouched in one of the desks for a while, sitting alone. “What’s your name?”
The kid wore earbuds and played on his phone, but he shot his eyes up at me, looking annoyed.
I wanted to sit down and spark up a conversation, but I could already feel the apprehension. This one was defiant.
Catching sight of the name tag the PTA had stuck to the left of his chest when he’d showed up tonight, I held out my hand.
“Christian?” I smiled. “Nice to meet you. I’m E—” But I stopped and corrected myself. “Ms. Bradbury,” I amended. “Which class will you be joining us for?”
But then his phone beeped, and he sighed, pulling out his earbuds. “Do you have a charger?” he asked, looking impatient.
I dropped my hand and tilted my chin down, eyeing him. Thank goodness I didn’t believe in first impressions; otherwise I might have been irritated at his lack of manners.
He waited for me to answer, staring at me with blue-gray eyes beneath black hair, stylishly mussed, and I waited as well, crossing my arms over my chest.
He rolled his eyes and gave in, finally looking at the piece of paper lying on the desk. “I’ll be joining you for US History,” he answered, his flippant tone putting me on edge.
I nodded and took the paper, creased with half a dozen folds. “And where are your parents?” I inquired.
“My mother’s in Egypt.”
I noticed that he was in my first-period class and handed the paper back to him. “And your father?” I prodded.
He sat up, stuffing the paper into the back pocket of his khakis. “At a city planner’s meeting. He’s meeting me here.”
I watched him stand up and smooth a hand down his black shirt and khaki and black necktie. He was nearly as tall as me.
I straightened and cleared my throat. “A city planner’s meeting?” I questioned. “On a Sunday night?”
His white teeth shone in a condescending smile. “Good catch,” he commended. “I asked him the same question. He ignored me.”
I arched an eyebrow, immediately discerning that he and his father didn’t get along. What were they going to be like in the same room together?
He affixed the earbuds back into his ears, getting ready to tune me out. “If I give you any grief, it’s best just to call my mother in Africa rather than deal with my father,” he told me. “Just a tip.”
I shot up my eyebrows, breaking out in a small grin. He was a little pill.
But then so was I. I could understand where this one was coming from. We might just get along after all.
Turning around, I walked to my desk and slipped my phone out of the drawer. Dislodging the battery, I walked over and handed it to him.
“Charge it back up tonight and we’ll exchange tomorrow morning, okay?”
He pinched his eyebrows together and slowly reached out his hand, taking the battery. Luckily we both had the latest generation of the same phone.
“According to the student handbook,” he started, swapping out his nearly dead battery with mine, “we’re not allowed cell phones in the classroom.”
“In my class, you are,” I shot back, standing my ground. “You’ll find out more about that tomorrow.”
He handed me the dead battery and nodded. I relaxed, relieved that he seemed to soften a little.
“Christian.”
We both looked up, turning our heads toward the door, when the sharp tone startled us both.
Standing in the doorway, filling the space in a deep-black three-piece suit, white shirt, and gold tie was Christian. All grown up.
The stone-blue eyes narrowed on us under eyebrows that didn’t curve but slanted.
Oh, shit.
I stood there, stunned still and not breathing as my fists instantly clenched.
I may have just met the son, but I already knew the father.
I looked away, blinking long and hard. No, no, no . . .
My pulse raced, and my forehead and neck broke out in a cold sweat.
I didn’t know if he recognized me, but I couldn’t bring myself to move toward him. What the hell was I supposed to do?
It was Tyler Marek.
The same man who’d danced with me, flirted with me, and told me there was one place where he wouldn’t be careful with me was my student’s parent?
Spinning around, I returned to the front of the room, choosing to ignore him.
I circled my desk and bent down to the open drawer so I could replace the battery in my phone. I didn’t need to bend, but I could feel his eyes following me, and I needed a moment to panic in private.
I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply.
He hadn’t seemed like the type to have a kid when I’d met him before. Had I been wrong? Was he married?
I hadn’t seen a ring on his finger last February at the Mardi Gras ball, but that didn’t mean anything nowadays. Men took them off as easily as they put them on.
What would happen if he recognized me? Thank God I hadn’t slept with him.
I drew in a long breath as I replaced the case on my phone and closed my bag.
Licking my dry lips, I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to stand the hell up and deal with it.
Straightening my back, I smoothed a hand down my blouse and shirt.
I gathered some of the surveys that parents had filled out and straightened them, setting them in the tray in the corner of my desk.
The other parents and students had already drifted out of the room, and I tensed, seeing his long legs coming to stand in front of my desk.
Tyler Marek.
I’d thought about him. More than I wanted to admit.
However, I’d resisted the urge to Google him for more information, not wanting to indulge my pointless curiosity.
I’d never expected to see him again, much less here.
“I’ve met you before, haven’t I?” he asked, sounding almost sure.
I looked up, chills spreading down my arms at his sharp gaze. He held my eyes, calm and attentive as he waited for his answer.
I swallowed and steeled my shaky smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met, sir.” I held out my hand, hoping whatever memory lapse he was having would be permanent.
Of course, I’d been wearing a mask that night—a pathetic mask but still a mask—so his image of that girl in the red dress might be obscured. Hopefully it would stay that way.
Not that a dance and flirting were scandalous, but it would certainly be awkward.
He shook my hand, and I remembered how those same hands had held my waist, the back of my neck . . .
He squinted, studying me, and I wanted to sink into a hole, away from his scrutiny, because at any moment he’d remember.
“You seem familiar,” he pushed, not convinced.
“I’m Ms. Bradbury.” I changed the subject, walking around the desk. “Your son and I have already met. I’ll be teaching him US History first period this year.”
And with hopefully only one parent-teacher conference, and then you and I will never have to run into each other again.
It wasn’t that I was embarrassed or scared. I could handle some discomfort.
But this guy had turned me on.
I’d looked back on our interaction often over the past few months. On quiet nights when I’d wanted someone’s hands on me and the only person keeping me company was myself, I’d remembered that dance, his mouth close to mine and his eyes looking down at me.
I’d slept with other people since then, but strangely, he was always where my mind wandered back to when it wanted a fantasy.
And now with him close . . .
He continued to study me, an eyebrow arched, and I was suddenly nervous. He looked formidable. Not at all as playful as he’d looked that night.
“Christian,” he called to his son. “Come here.”
His son barely looked up from his phone or the video game he played as he walked past us.
“I’ve been here,” he said, anger twisting his voice. “I need something to drink.”
“There’s bottled water by the door,” I instructed, but he just kept walking, leaving the room without another word.
His father’s jaw hardened, and I could tell he was angry.
“Excuse my son,” he apologized. “His mother is away for a year, and he’s a little out of sorts.”
His mother. Not my wife, then.
The air-conditioning poured down from overhead, caressing my face, and I felt it waft lightly against my blouse, cooling the light layer of sweat.
Tyler and I were alone in the room, and I inhaled through my nose, smelling his intoxicating scent, which I could almost taste on my tongue.
I walked around him, toward the papers by the door. “Well, I know you have other classrooms to visit and not much time,” I told him, “so here is a letter explaining my background and plans for the year.” I picked up a single-sided letter off the desk and also a two-page detailed calendar, walking over and handing both to him.
“And there’s also a syllabus with a rundown of dates when tests occur and when papers and projects are due,” I continued as his eyes left mine to peruse the documents.
His eyebrows nose-dived as he studied them.
“All of this information is also on my website,” I told him. “This is just a hard copy in case you prefer it.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to keep my voice light. “Do you have any questions for me?”
I probably sounded like I was trying to rush him out of here, but the longer he stayed, the greater the chance that he would remember me.
“Yes,” he said quietly, still flipping through the papers. “I do have a question.”
I stiffened, trying to remember to breathe.
“How long have you been a teacher?” he asked.
“This will be my first year,” I said in all confidence.
He raised his eyebrows, the edges of his mouth curling. “I hope you’re good.”
I cocked my head, peering at him. “Excuse me?” I asked, trying not to sound offended at the innuendo.
“My son can be a handful,” he clarified. “He doesn’t misbehave, but he’s willful. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I nodded slightly and turned to go back to my desk.
Doesn’t misbehave?
From what I’d already seen, he was very much a handful. I just hoped I didn’t need to call his father or deal with him for anything.
Back behind my desk, I looked up and saw that he was still by the door, looking at me like he was trying to figure something out.
“Was there something else?” I tried to sound polite.
He shook his head as if he was still thinking. “I’m just . . . almost sure I know you.”
“Easton?” Kristen poked her head inside my door, interrupting. “Some of us are going—oh, I’m sorry.” She stopped, seeing the parent still in the room.
My eyes fluttered closed, and my stomach flipped.
Shit.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she chirped. “Stop by my room when you’re done, okay?”
And then she let the door close, leaving us alone.
I darted my gaze over to Mr. Marek, and he turned his eyes away from the door and pinned me with a sharp stare.
And then, like the raging sun over a cube of ice, his hard gaze melted, turning into one of knowing as realization hit, his eyes softened, and his mouth curled with amusement.
Fuck.
“Your name is Easton?” He stepped toward me slowly, every step shooting through my veins and making my blood rush.
“That’s an unusual name for a woman,” he went on, inching closer. “In fact, I’ve met only one other with the name.”
I let the air drift out of my lungs, and I raised my eyes, meeting his.
But his eyes fell away from my face and moved down my body as if he was trying to connect who I was now with what he remembered from six months ago.
He finally met my gaze again and leaned in, looking expectant. “You haven’t asked my name yet,” he toyed.
The hair on my neck stood on end.
“Would you like to know?” he pressed, playing with me.
As the parent of a student, introductions were in order.
But he was having fun with me right now, and while I wanted a good relationship with my students’ parents, I needed to sever the hand to save the arm.
I didn’t know what would happen if he saw me as anything other than Christian’s teacher, and that’s the only way he should see me.
“Mr. Marek.” I spoke calmly but firmly. “If you have no further questions, I’m sure your son is waiting for you. Again,” I added. “Perhaps you should make sure he’s okay.”
The hint of the smile in his eyes immediately disappeared, and I watched him straighten and his expression harden.
He was insulted. Good.
I glanced to the door and back to him. “Have a good evening.”
