Chapter 3
Nora
“You’ve reorganized your desk.”
Janet is standing in my doorway with a stack of incident reports and an expression I don’t care for.
“I haven’t reorganized my desk.”
“The pencil cup moved.”
“The pencil cup has always been there.”
“It was on the left. Now it’s on the right.” She tilts her head. “And you’ve angled your monitor. And there’s a new plant.”
I glance at the succulent I bought at lunch. It’s small, inoffensive, and was three dollars at the hardware store. It is not a statement.
“It’s a plant, Janet. People have plants.”
“You don’t. You’ve had the same plastic fern on that shelf for two years. When I offered to buy you a real one, you said it would die under your care because the idea of something living in your office was problematic.”
“I said no such thing.”
“You absolutely did. Verbatim, actually. I wrote it down because it was funny.”
I lean back in my chair and fold my arms. “Do you have a point, Janet, or are you conducting a forensic analysis of my office décor?”
“I’m just saying . . .” She pauses as she steps fully into the office and sets the reports down. “That you’re either nesting, spiraling, or having an affair.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
“Janet.”
“What? I like to eliminate possibilities.”
“I am not having an affair.”
“Good. It would be exhausting to cover for you. You’d be terrible at it.”
“That is deeply insulting.”
“It is also true.” She glances at my inbox, then back at me. “Did Mr. Kingsley respond?”
I hate how alert my entire nervous system becomes at the mention of his name. It’s an embarrassing betrayal by my own body, and if there were a disciplinary procedure for endocrine misconduct, I’d file it.
“He did.”
Janet’s eyebrows lift.
I pick up a pen I don’t need. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“That was prompt.”
“He’s dealing with a custody matter involving his child and school security. Prompt seems appropriate.”
“Mmm.”
I narrow my eyes. “Do not ‘mmm’ me.”
“I didn’t say anything.” She taps the folders she put in front of me.
“But those are the incident reports for both Kelsie contacts—great timing, huh?” She beams, then clears her throat and shifts into business.
“Dates, times, staff responses, my notes, your notes. I’ve also pulled together a draft safety protocol update for your review.
New pickup authorization form, updated photo ID requirements, a communication chain for the front office. ”
“That’s good,” I say, reaching for the top folder and opening it mostly so I have something to look at besides Janet’s face. “Thank you.”
Janet doesn’t leave.
I scan the first page. Date. Time. Parent attempted unauthorized student pickup.
Staff intervened. Student escorted to principal’s office.
The language is sterile in the way institutional language has to be, and all it does is sharpen the memory.
Michaela’s blotchy cheeks. Her chin trembling with the effort of not falling apart in front of adults.
The brittle sweetness of Kelsie’s voice in the hallway, all performative maternal concern and expensive perfume.
I turn the page.
“Janet.”
“Mm?”
“You are hovering.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She considers this with infuriating calm. “Because I know you.”
“That is, unfortunately, not a crime.”
“It depends who’s prosecuting.” Her gaze flicks to the clock on my wall. “You have exactly”—she checks her watch—“eighteen minutes before a very attractive, very stressed attorney arrives for a security meeting, and your pulse has been visible in your throat for the last ten.”
I close the folder. “Janet.”
“What? I have eyes.”
“So do I, and yet I do not use them to make my colleagues miserable.”
“That’s because you’re a kinder person than I am.”
I press my fingertips to my forehead. “There is no situation.”
“Never said there was.”
“You heavily implied one.”
She shrugs. “Fine. There’s no situation. You’re simply buying plants and rearranging your desk because this man doesn’t make you nervous.”
“Janet,” I say again, with the tired dignity of a woman losing an argument she should never have had to enter.
She smiles like she’s won something. “That’s what I thought.”
Then, because she possesses at least one merciful instinct, she turns toward the door. “I’ll send Margaret in with coffee if you want a witness slash chaperone.”
“I do not need a chaperone.”
“Mm.”
“Janet.”
She lifts both hands in surrender and backs out. “Professional meeting. No situation or chaperone required. Understood.”
The door clicks shut behind her. Then opens again. “For what it’s worth, if I had a meeting with a six-foot-two brunette who looked like that, I’d have bought a plant too.”
She disappears before I can respond.
I stand up and straighten a stack of papers that’s already straight.
This is absurd. It’s a meeting. A school security meeting. I’ve had hundreds of school security meetings. Parents come in, we discuss protocols, everyone agrees children shouldn’t be abducted from math class, and we move on with our lives.
The fact that this particular parent kissed me in my kitchen while unraveling in real time is, professionally speaking, irrelevant.
Personally speaking, it is less irrelevant than I would like.
The dark window over the courtyard throws back my reflection.
Auburn hair contained. Green eyes doing their job behind enough eyeliner to look intentional but not desperate.
Lipstick a dusty rose that’s neutral against my complexion.
Expression composed. I look exactly like Principal Nora Harrison, which is fortunate, because she is the only person qualified to conduct this meeting.
My inbox remains open on my screen, his reply still starred because I am apparently a masochist.
Thank you. I can be there tomorrow at 2:30. —David
Not Mr. Kingsley. Not formally distant. Not warm, either. Just careful. Neutral by design. Which is probably the most dangerous option, because my imagination can do far more damage with neutrality than with coldness.
I should unstar it.
I don’t.
Instead, I minimize the window, because if I keep staring at his name like it’s going to reveal state secrets, I really will need Margaret and her coffee as a chaperone.
A knock at the outer office a few minutes later, followed by the murmur of voices. My body goes alert before my brain catches up, which feels biologically unfair. I hear Margaret’s pleasant receptionist cadence, then a lower voice answering—calm, controlled, unmistakable.
David.
I inhale once, slow and measured, and sit down behind my desk like I wasn’t just standing in the middle of the room trying not to think about his mouth.
His tongue.
His hands.
Margaret taps lightly on the open door. “Mr. Kingsley is here.”
“Thank you. Send him in.”
She steps aside.
David enters wearing a navy suit and a wine-colored tie, looking exactly as dangerous to my peace of mind as he always does.
Impeccably put together from a distance.
Slightly frayed at the edges if you know where to look.
Today it’s the shadows under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
His hair is neatly combed, but one stubborn piece at his temple has gone its own way.
His dark gaze lands on me, holds for one beat too long, then shifts into something more professionally appropriate.
“Principal Harrison.”
There it is. The careful distance. Not cold, exactly. More like he’s laid down caution tape around himself and expects me to respect the perimeter.
“Mr. Kingsley.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Thank you for coming in on short notice.”
“Of course.” He sits, setting a slim leather folder on his knee instead of on my desk. “Anything related to Michaela, I want to address quickly.”
I nod and slide the incident reports to the center of the desk.
“The board asked that we formalize an updated safety plan after the two incidents involving Kelsie. We already had restrictions in place, but given the custody filing and her attempt to remove Michaela from campus, we need something more explicit.”
He reaches for the papers, eyes scanning. “What are you recommending?”
I hate that all I can think about right now is his hands.
Long fingers. Clean nails. A faint scar across one. Hands that held his sleeping daughter. Hands that framed my face.
Professional. Meeting. School.
I should be speaking.
Shit.
His eyes meet mine and I quickly look away, clearing my throat.
Safety plan!
“We’re, uh, implementing a photo ID verification requirement for anyone on Michaela’s approved list,” I say, forcing my eyes back to his.
“Drivers, family members, anyone. No exceptions. If the person picking her up isn’t verified against the list, we hold Michaela in the office and contact you directly. ”
He nods. “Who’s currently on the approved list?”
“You, your nanny Marta, your mother, and your brother Caleb.” I slide the form across the desk. “I’d recommend keeping the list small. The fewer people with authorization, the fewer potential points of confusion.”
He scans the form with quick, practiced focus. “This is well done. Tighter than the previous version.”
“We’re also updating the front office communication chain. If anyone—anyone at all—arrives claiming to have custody paperwork or legal authority to remove Michaela, the front desk calls me directly. Not the teacher, not the vice principal. Me. I handle it from there.”
“You personally.”
“Yes.”
He looks up from the form. “That’s above and beyond what most principals would do.”
“Most principals haven’t had the same child’s mother attempt unauthorized contact twice in the space of two months.”
A muscle in his jaw tightens. Small—the kind of involuntary tell that only someone watching carefully would catch. I am, unfortunately, watching so carefully I catch the moment his tongue snakes out and wets his lips. I almost groan.
“She isn’t her mother. Not legally, anyway. She has no rights here,” he says, his voice level enough to snap me back and remind me this is serious, unsexy business. “I want that in writing.”
I nod. “It will be.”
He studies the page for another beat, then sets it down with care. “Thank you.”
The gratitude is real. So is the distance wrapped around it.
I latch onto the paperwork because it’s safer than the silence gathering in the room. “We’ve also briefed classroom staff and locked down information sharing. If Kelsie contacts the school directly, we document, notify you, and don’t engage.”
His mouth flattens. “Her legal team is pushing a narrative that she’s being obstructed. Public resistance helps her. So does drama.”
“Then we’ll give her neither.”
His eyes lift to mine, and for one second, the room goes still in a way that has nothing to do with safety plans or school policy. He looks tired. Not ordinary tired. Bone-deep, held-together-by-habit tired.
I make myself continue. “There’s one more thing.
The board would like a copy of any temporary custody orders or visitation rulings the moment they’re entered.
Not because we intend to defer to anyone but because we need to ensure we’re complying with any court order the moment it exists,” I finish.
“If supervised visitation is granted, for example, we need to know whether that affects pickup restrictions, release permissions, any of it.”
His expression closes another degree. “If anything changes, you’ll have it immediately.”
“Thank you.”
He gives a short nod. Businesslike. Contained. We’re doing beautifully at pretending the charged quiet between us is purely administrative.
I slide the signature page toward him. “If you’re comfortable with the protocol, I just need your sign-off here and here.”
He reaches for my pen before I can stop him.
My pen.
A stupidly ordinary blue rollerball I’ve used to sign absence forms, donor acknowledgments, and one passive-aggressive memo about the thermostat in the third-grade hallway. And yet watching his hand close around it feels absurdly intimate—which is proof I’ve lost all perspective.
He signs neatly, quickly, every stroke controlled. David Kingsley has excellent handwriting even under emotional duress. Of course he does.
When he finishes, he slides the papers back across the desk. Our fingers brush.
It is nothing. Skin. Contact. A fraction of a second.
It is, unfortunately, also everything.
Heat skitters straight up my arm. I pull my hand back too fast and nearly knock the edge of the folder. He catches it before it slips, and for one horrifying moment, we’re both touching the same corner of cardstock like a pair of overeducated idiots in a period drama.
“Sorry,” I say.
“No, I—” He stops. Starts again. “Sorry.”
Fantastic. Two articulate adults reduced to apologizing for daring to exist in the same three feet of oxygen.
I glance away, hating that my face feels hot. “I’ll get this filed immediately. The new protocol goes into effect tomorrow. Any concerns in the meantime, you can reach me directly.” I look up. “You have my number.”
His eyes don’t move from mine. For a second, I think he’s going to say something—breach the surface, let the strange, sharp honesty of last week back into the room. But he nods, stands, and gathers his folder. Every motion as deliberate as his tie.
He’s already at the door when I hear myself say, “David.”
He stops. The line of his shoulders goes so stiff I almost apologize for using his first name. But I don’t. I can’t.
“Yes?”
“I just . . .” There’s no way to say what I want to say without pulling the meeting completely off the rails.
But I keep seeing the look on his face in my kitchen that night—the kind of despair that feels like it’s inside your bones, not just your skin.
“If there’s anything else I can do, even outside of school .
. . let me know. You don’t have to go through this by yourself. ”
He looks over his shoulder, not fully turning. For the first time, his expression is not careful. His jaw works, like he’s arguing with himself. Then he says, “Thank you for your time, Principal Harrison.”
I can’t speak. I just nod. And then he’s gone.
Principal Harrison. That’s the answer, and it’s not unkind. It’s just the door he needed closed, and I walked right up to it and asked him to leave it open like I had the right. Now it’s slammed shut.
Good one, Nora.
I’m pretty sure he’s halfway down the office corridor before I can decide what to do with the ache blooming in my chest.
So I do what I’ve always done with aches. I square the incident reports, cap my pen, and open an email from a second-grade parent concerned that the cafeteria’s Tuesday pasta is “nutritionally ambiguous.” I deal with that instead. It’s easier.