Chapter Seventeen
CALLUM STOOD along the wall of the Peterson High School commons, marveling at the transformation.
All the lunch tables had been folded up and hidden somewhere out of sight to make way for an entire garden full of artificial trees and twinkle lights.
Scattered benches and a fake pond formed a photo area—complete with a waterfall made from some type of fabric and still more twinkle lights.
Ivy and lights were even woven into the rafters.
He had to hand it to the decorating committee—they really had gone all out in their pursuit of the mystical woodland theme.
It truly did resemble an enchanted forest.
Or at least, an enchanted forest that contained a dance-remix soundtrack and a healthy population of overly fragranced adolescents.
Instead of fauns, teen boys galloped around in attire ranging from rented tuxes to Hawaiian shirts and jeans to—in one memorable instance—a velvet tux jacket and formal tie combined with cowboy boots, jeans, and a Stetson.
Callum had to chuckle. You sure wouldn’t see that in Boston.
As for the girls, most wore skirts that were either too short, way too short, or way, way too short.
Many paired their formal dresses with sneakers—was that the trend now?
—while a few others teetered on heels that were at least two inches too high for them.
They looked like baby horses—or perhaps unicorns, given the theme—learning how to walk, all wobbly and tentative.
All these kids were trying on adulthood for the first time, and for the vast majority, it was a suit they had yet to grow into.
Then a pair of open-toed black heels glided past with a stride far too graceful and practiced to belong to a teenager.
And the dress she wore was long, unlike those of the students.
Long and formfitting with a slit up the side, and—wait, was that a tattoo?
It was. Dainty and delicate musical notes snaked up a shapely ankle.
His gaze traveled upward, catching creamy pale skin and burnt-auburn hair, and he almost choked.
That was Blair.
That was Blair.
All week the word that had surfaced to describe her had been adorable, but that adjective no longer applied.
In that glittery bronze dress, she was .
. . gorgeous? Stunning? Neither seemed sufficient.
No, the only thing that could appropriately describe her was music.
A tune swelled in his chest, chords and harmonies and things he’d have given his eyeteeth for a month ago.
Maybe he’d remember it later. He sure hoped so.
Because no way could he tear his eyes away from Blair long enough to find his iPad or a piano.
Besides, who needed to write it down? She was music itself. The personification of song.
“I told her to wear that dress.”
Joy appeared to his left, clad in a full-skirted vintage-style dress covered in eighth notes. Her crimson lips curved upward in a grin not unlike that of the Grinch. “And I see it had the desired effect,” she said.
“Joy!”
He turned, and there was Blair herself, even more breathtaking up close.
She didn’t seem to have noticed him yet, though. Her eyes were squarely fixed on her friend. “Your dress!” she exclaimed. “It is so cute.”
“Thanks!” Beaming, Joy lifted both sides of her dress. “It has pockets.”
“Jealous.”
“Yours doesn’t have room for pockets.”
Joy’s comment drew his attention to the part of her dress where pockets would be, and indeed it did not have pockets, nor did it have room for pockets, but it did have a pair of hips that looked fantastic in said dress, and dear goodness, he had to stop staring.
“Good thing they invented garter purses,” Blair replied, a grin in her voice.
He choked again. Perhaps audibly, because her wide-eyed gaze found him.
“Callum. Hi.” Her cheeks stained pink.
“Hi.” He sounded froggy, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Hi. You look . . . incredible.”
“Thank you.” The delicate flush deepened. “You, uh . . . you look like your headshot.”
He flashed what he hoped was a devil-may-care grin. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”
She paused, lips pursed in thought. “Yes.”
“Okay.” Joy’s voice was way perkier than it needed to be. “I just spied one of my bass players twerking, so I gotta go put a stop to that. You kids have fun.” She leaned in close to Blair and said something he couldn’t make out, then bustled across the commons.
He had an odd feeling that there was no actual twerking going on, but he wasn’t inclined to investigate that too closely.
“Wow, Ms. Em. Looking good.” Thalia swept by on the arm of Ryden, a junior bass from Mixed Chorus.
“Thank you.” Blair turned, then indicated Thalia’s dress, a frothy lavender creation festooned with flowers. “And oh my goodness, Thalia, that dress is amazing. You look just like Rapunzel.”
“That’s the goal.” Thalia chattered on, something about sewing on the flowers herself, but her words went in one ear and out the other, because he was still too focused on Blair.
After a moment, Thalia and Ryden departed, waving at someone across the room.
“Have fun tonight,” Blair called.
“Don’t be idiots,” Callum echoed, with what fragment of his brain remained a teacher.
Blair turned back to him, her eyes sparkling like diamonds. “I’m guessing you never had to do anything like this in Boston.”
“Wear this?” He indicated his tux. “Dozens of times. Wear it in a crowded commons full of hormone-crazed high schoolers? Shockingly, no. Not once.”
Blair chuckled, and the sound hit him square in the solar plexus.
“I, uh . . . I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” he ventured.
“A moment of youthful abandon in college. My piano trio all got matching tattoos after a recital.” She glanced over his shoulder toward the refreshments table. “Have you tried the punch? Camilla was bragging about some secret recipe.”
He shrugged. “Meh. Tastes like one of those foil-packed juice boxes from grade school.”
“Mmm. Tempting.” She grinned at him. “I’ll probably wait until later, then. Savor the anticipation.”
“You actually liked those?”
Her grin widened. “Not even a little bit.”
Had she been trying to set him at ease? Well, whether that was her goal or not, she’d succeeded.
He wasn’t relaxed—not with her right here, looking like that—but he could at least remember that beneath the bronze dress and the makeup and the piled-up curls, this was still his sometimes-prickly, always-exacting, frequently-annoying-yet-somehow-enchanting coworker.
His . . . well, his friend. They were friends now, right?
The song shifted to a much slower tempo, and before he could consider the wisdom of the idea, he’d opened his arms to Blair. “Care to dance?”
“Dance?” Long dark lashes blinked at his suggestion.
“It is, after all, a dance.”
“Which we are supposed to be chaperoning.”
“Exactly.” He smiled. “What better way to blend in and be unobtrusive? Besides, this way we can both have eyes on these little heathens.”
She nodded. “Yes. Great idea. For the kids.”
“For the kids.”
Then Blair stepped into his arms. His left hand found her right, her cheek grazed his, and she smelled like vanilla and cinnamon and everything else wonderful about fall.
He wrapped his free hand around her waist. Too late, he realized her dress was basically backless, so half his fingers were grazing bare, silken skin.
He should probably move his hand, but where could he move it so it wasn’t awkward—or worse, indecent?
Clearly he was overthinking this, and he should relax and enjoy, but he couldn’t.
Because right now he held Blair Emerson in his arms. Suddenly his world made all kinds of sense and no sense at all.
And all his senses filled with nothing but her.
Callum was touching her back. He was touching her back.
Bare skin on bare skin, sending a delicious electric current up the length of her spine.
Granted, they were holding hands too, and the stubble of his cheek grazed her temple .
. . but those were perfectly innocent touches.
They could happen with anyone. If she’d had any inkling she’d end up dancing with Callum, she absolutely would have worn that navy sheath, boring though it might be.
But then he wouldn’t be touching your back.
He really did look like his headshot. And she’d meant what she’d said, when he’d asked her if that was good or bad. Because it truly was a good thing—he was so incredibly handsome, all chiseled and coiffed in that effortlessly perfect way characteristic of all handsome men.
But it was a bad thing too. Because now she had no choice but to admit that Joy was right. Blair had a crush on Callum.
Wait. No. More than a crush.
She liked him.
He was her closest coworker. Her boss, if you wanted to get all technical about it. He was leaving at the end of the year.
And she liked him.
He shifted and pulled her closer, and now his fingers touched slightly more of her back.
His other hand held hers just a bit tighter.
And his cheek pressed against hers just a little closer.
Her lungs filled with his cologne—fresh and woodsy and musky and male.
She snuggled closer and breathed him in and stopped coming up with all the reasons she shouldn’t like him.
Instead her mind paraded before her all the reasons she should. The reasons she did.
Callum Knight had come into a situation that was at best humbling and at worst humiliating and was giving it his all.
Putting in effort. He’d been intentional about learning the kids’ names.
Remembering who played on which sports teams. He’d pitched in for Peggy Sue on Difference Makers Day.
Though he’d never planned on this job, or even wanted it, he’d jumped into it with both feet, dedicated and determined.
He had given these kids the one thing they’d needed most: someone who cared.
He was passionate and funny and had—to her alarm—chipped away at the block of ice that encased her heart, and he’d done it like he’d tackled everything else these last two months.
Gradually. Patiently. Persistently. Doggedly, even.
Not always perfectly, but when he stumbled, he always got back up, dusted himself off, and tried again.
And that just might be what she admired most about him.
Was God trying to pry open the slammed-shut door of her heart? And was Callum the reason why?
All too soon the slow song was replaced by some annoying pseudo rap that caused the kids to separate from their dance partners and launch into a ridiculous series of moves they’d no doubt learned from social media. Callum pulled back, and she expected him to step away . . . but he didn’t.
His hand was still on her waist—though no longer on bare skin—and his other hand still held hers. He’d frozen in place, as though letting her go was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.
Wait. Did he have feelings too?
Oh yes.
Oh no.
This could get complicated.
A one-sided crush she could handle, but by the way he was looking at her, it was definitely not one-sided.
Smoky-emerald eyes fixed on hers, his expression as helpless as she felt.
As though he’d spent the last four minutes figuring out the same things she had, and now the thing between them—this thing they’d either ignored or fought off or been blissfully unaware of—was now a thing, and what on earth were they going to do about it?
Well, that last bit he didn’t seem to be wondering, because those green eyes had shifted to her lips, and he inched closer.
Her breath caught. Are we really about to do this?
The question hovered in her throat, but she swallowed it.
She didn’t want to break the spell, because this sort of magic might not happen again. In fact, she—
“Ms. Em? Ms. Em? Oh thank goodness, Ms. Em.”
Blair’s eyes flew to a frantic Thalia standing to her right, tears smearing her eye makeup.
“I think Ryden’s drunk,” she choked out.
Callum had increased the distance between them to something professionally appropriate. “Drunk?”
“I didn’t notice it at first. I . . . I think some of the guys maybe sneaked something in and he started drinking after we got here. But now he smells like booze, and he’s acting really stupid.”
“That’s an understatement.” Blair rolled her eyes. A few feet away, Ryden stood on a table, doing a wobbly sprinkler dance for a small yet enthusiastic crowd.
“I’m on it.” Callum was already elbowing through the crowd, making a beeline for Ryden.
“This is so embarrassing.” Thalia flung her arms around Blair.
Blair wrapped an arm around her student. “I know, sweetie. I’m so sorry. Thank you for telling us. This is too big for you to handle on your own.”
“I’ve had a crush on Ryden all year and been looking forward to tonight so much, and then he does this.”
Blair’s heart went out to Thalia. “I’m sorry he disappointed you.”
A group of sympathetic girls—most from Madrigals—surrounded Thalia then, and Blair surrendered the girl to the care of her friends. As they departed, she glimpsed Callum escorting Ryden gently but firmly out the side door and into the cool night.
Maybe the fresh air would knock some sense into Ryden. If not, then perhaps a ride home with his parents or a jaunt in the back of a police cruiser would do the trick. Much as she loved these children, they were still children, and sometimes they made incredibly stupid decisions.
But if she were honest, she was grateful too. Because Ryden’s stupid decision might have just saved her from making a colossally stupid one of her own.