Chapter 2
Chloe
I clap my hands again, smiling so widely that my cheeks ache as I survey the parents sitting awkwardly on all those tiny chairs.
This is my favorite part of the school year. When I’ve met all my little friends and now get to witness their excitement. I’m good at this, at making people feel special and seen.
That’s what kindergarten teachers do.
My gaze slides to him again. The man who would clearly rather be anywhere but here. He didn’t bring a spouse or partner or his child, and for the life of me, I can’t envision which kid is his.
He’s the lone gray storm cloud in a room full of sunshine.
Not just because of his olive skin, short brown hair, or dark eyes, but due to the predatory way he tracks my every movement. The skin at the base of my skull prickles, and I can’t stop sneaking glances at him, as if he’s a rare reptile at the zoo.
He’s ruggedly handsome, muscular without being overdone. This is a man who either subjects his body to lengthy, daily gym workouts or has a physically demanding job. One that pays well, because that suit is bespoke. Must be, to fit him that perfectly.
Those black-as-sin eyes penetrate me. When he licks his lips, electricity zips all the way down to my toes.
Stop. Ogling. The parent.
Spinning away, I gesture to the wall where twenty-six colorful letters march across the corkboard. “We’ve already started our alphabet journey. Yesterday, your children created these handprint animals to represent each sound.”
I shift to the side to reveal the display of alligators and bears and cats formed from tiny painted palms.
A collective “aw” rises from all the grown-ups.
With one exception.
The mystery man sits rigidly on his child-sized chair with his knees kissing his chest, a mountain trying to fold into a matchbox. His face remains unreadable, but that shrewd gaze misses nothing.
“And now,” I fight to keep my voice steady, “we’ll move on to our number wall. This year, we’re using the Building Blocks math curriculum, which introduces numbers through tactile experience before moving to written symbols.”
I weave between tables, distributing packets of information, bending to answer questions from Mrs. Colson about her son’s peanut allergy, and reassuring Mr. Patel that, yes, his daughter will absolutely have time to adjust. All the while, I’m hyperaware of the silent man whose presence bends the air around him.
When I reach his desk, I pause, clutching my stack of handouts. “I don’t believe I caught your name.” I offer my brightest smile, the one that usually melts even the most solemn parents.
He glances away from me. I try not to deflate over his obvious dismissal. But then he turns back and answers in a low, rough voice. “Kolya.”
He fidgets in his seat, and his hand slides under his jacket to rub his side. The tiny chair creaks beneath his weight.
My heart squeezes. Poor guy. Probably an old injury. Maybe even a bad hip. These chairs can be torture for adults.
I move on, but my mind lingers.
Kolya.
Even his name’s strong and unusual, distinguishing him from the others in an almost exotic way. Russian, maybe. I run through a mental list of my students, but none of them have Russian surnames.
As I slide a handout into another parent’s hand, I realize he didn’t provide a last name. Even more mysterious. I wonder if he goes by a mononym, like Beyoncé or Usher.
Immediately, I bristle on his behalf. No way. Kolya’s not like that.
Not that I’d know, given that I met him all of ten minutes ago.
I feel like I do, though.
I picture the stack of romance novels on my nightstand, the ones with dark, brooding heroes who wield danger as part of their allure.
With his imposing physique, unreadable stare, and bad-boy energy, Kolya could’ve stepped straight out of those pages.
He’d make a perfect grumpy duke or billionaire dragon shifter—
I interrupt my thoughts mid-fantasy and force myself to focus on Mrs. Whitman’s question about reading groups. “Yes, absolutely.” I hope I’ve given her the right answer. “We’ll monitor and adjust reading levels as we go to ensure we meet every child’s needs.”
The night rolls on with the outline of the curriculum, a review of classroom rules, a conversation about volunteer opportunities, and more. I play my part as the enthusiastic, nurturing teacher who recognizes the special qualities in every kid.
But like a moon trapped by a planet’s gravity, my attention constantly drifts toward Kolya’s corner of the room. I create excuses to pass by him, cataloguing every flicker of expression that breaks through his stony mask.
Though I still can’t figure out which child belongs to him. Perhaps he’s a relative or godparent. A close friend of the family, even.
When I demonstrate the morning dance routine to The Wheels on the Bus, I swear the corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile but close. The almost-reaction shoots a ridiculous flutter through my chest.
As the evening winds down and parents start to gather their bags and children, I wait by the door to offer high-fives and heartfelt goodbyes. “Don’t forget about your art folders,” I call after the Johnson twins. “We need those back tomorrow.”
My mouth goes dry because suddenly he’s swallowing the doorway. Up close, with those broad shoulders and eyes so dark they seem to absorb all the light, he’s even more imposing.
“Thank you, Miss Chloe. Tonight was most…informative.”
My heart stutters. “My pleasure. Can I expect to see you again soon?” Crap! Way too eager. I clear my throat. “Chaperoning a field trip, maybe?”
In true book hero fashion, Kolya quirks one dark brow. “I’m not much of a chaperone. Last time, one kid never came back.”
“Oh, you’re such a joker.” Laughing, I pat his stone-like bicep.
“First time anyone’s accused me of that.” His gaze falls to where my hand still grips his suit sleeve.
I immediately release him. “Oops, sorry. I’ll just go ahead and give you your arm back now. You might need it later.”
He stares.
My cheeks could not possibly get any hotter. “Well, have a great night, Kolya. Even without the field trip, I hope to see you and…”
He watches with marked interest as my flush travels to my neck, clearly waiting for me to speak the name of his child.
Finally, he offers a single, decisive nod. Then he’s gone, leaving an echo of his presence and a crisp, expensive, musky scent behind.
A pulse of heat swims through me as I watch him leave.
After he rounds the corner, I shuffle back inside.
Without him, even though a few stragglers still mill about, the classroom shrinks.
Soon, I’m waving goodbye to the last parent, collecting stray papers, and stacking chairs.
The entire time, my mind replays every glance and rewinds the few words Kolya spoke, searching for meaning that doesn’t exist.
After reviewing the class roster and not connecting Kolya to any child, I finish tidying up and walk to my car. Unease prickles my spine, and I check over my shoulder. The cool evening air does nothing to settle me.
The old Volvo groans and sputters. “Come on, Fred. You’ve got this.” After another failed attempt, the engine rumbles to life. I pat the dashboard. “See? I knew you could do it.”
As I pull out of the parking lot, I envision a date night with him and laugh.
Get it together, Chloe. He’s just a parent.
An intense, impossibly handsome parent who probably has a wife, two-point-five kids, and a golden retriever. Or who’s at least in a relationship with one of the student’s moms. Definitely out of my league, though a girl can dream.
Five minutes later, I’m still thinking about Kolya and those mysterious eyes when my house comes into view at the end of the street.
Small, perfect, and blue, with white trim that glows in the dusk. I park in the driveway.
Everything’s fine and normal.
I’m safe, and so is the life I’ve built, brick by careful brick.
So why’s my heart racing?
Inside, I follow my usual routine. I place my shoes by the door and my bag on the hook above them.
My home, familiar and soft and with throw pillows fluffed just so, envelops me.
A rainbow of books arranged by color lines the shelves.
The living room features faded yellow walls, worn hardwood floors, and a secondhand, oversize recliner that’s cozier than my bed for a long nap.
A place for everything, and everything in its place.
I spot my lovely new globe bar. The Italian antique with mahogany legs is an extravagant gift, at least by my standards. I cross the room to skate my fingertips along the equator, tracing continents and oceans.
Last year, a parent left this gift right outside my classroom door.
For the teacher who gives our children the world. Here’s a small piece of it for you.
Even the memory of the note warms my heart.
I follow the coastline of Europe with my nail, skimming over places I’ve never been and can only read about.
Barcelona. Nice. Athens—
A shiver crawls up my spine.
I spin, scanning the room. Nothing out of place. Everything exactly where it belongs.
“The cottage,” as I’ve dubbed it—at under eight hundred square feet and with only one bedroom, it’s certainly as comfy as one—remains unchanged, but the air’s charged.
My feet carry me to the front window. Peeling back the curtain, I peer out at the quiet street. Houses glow with evening lamplight. Just my sleepy neighborhood settling in for a Wednesday night.
I shift to the kitchen windows to check my tiny backyard.
The oak trees loom, their branches black against the sky as they claw at the twilight. For a split second, I think I see motion slicing through deeper darkness.
I blink.
Gone.
Just a shadow.
“You’re being ridiculous.” I let the curtain fall. “Too many romantic suspense novels before bed.”
But as I move away from the windows, the uneasy sensation lingers. A prickling between my shoulder blades insists someone’s watching. No matter how I try to reason the gut instinct away, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone.