Chapter 1 #3
As I get closer—because of course our paths are converging toward the main entrance—I notice how tall he actually is.
He has to be at least six feet, maybe six-one or six-two and it makes me feel even smaller than my five-three usually does.
I wonder what kind of teacher dresses like that and rides a Harley to work.
I'm really out of my element here, still thinking in private academy terms where faculty dress codes were strictly enforced.
The private academy had a dress code for faculty—business professional, conservative colors, nothing that might offend wealthy parents or suggest we were anything less than perfectly put-together representatives of educational excellence.
This place clearly operates differently.
Public school. Different rules. Different world entirely.
"First day?"
The deep voice stops me in my tracks, makes me freeze mid-step like prey that's just realized it's been spotted. I turn back to him, clutching my travel mug like a shield, like it can protect me from—from what? He's just a student or maybe a young teacher. Not a threat.
But my body doesn't know that. My body only knows men and danger often come in the same package now.
"Is it that obvious?" I ask, forcing a smile that feels more natural than it should, muscle memory from years of smiling when I don't mean it.
"Well, I haven't seen you before." His green eyes—intense, framed by thick lashes that any woman would kill for—hold mine steadily, direct in a way that makes me want to look away but somehow I can't. "And I would have noticed you."
Heat creeps up my neck, spreads across my cheeks in a way I can't control.
Oh. Oh. That was—was he flirting? It's been so long since anyone looked at me like that, like I'm something worth noticing instead of something to manage and control.
God, he has a nice smile—crooked, easy, genuine in a way I've almost forgotten exists outside of books and old movies.
The kind of smile that reaches his eyes and crinkles the corners.
I find myself smiling back before I can stop it, before I remember I'm supposed to be professional and distant, something loosening in my chest that's been tight for months. Years.
"Yeah, it's my first day." I hold out my hand, professional, appropriate, safe. "I'm Fallon."
He takes my hand and the contact sends an unexpected jolt through me.
His palm is warm, callused—working hands, not soft like Daniel's office-dwelling fingers—his grip firm but not crushing, not trying to prove anything through pressure.
Just a handshake. Just human contact. Why does it feel like more? "I'm Kade."
Kade. The name fits him somehow, sharp and simple and direct.
His eyes are so green up close, almost yellow-green in the morning light filtering through the smog.
Cat eyes. Predator eyes. I get lost for a second, caught in something I don't understand, don't have words for, some pull that makes no sense because I'm a married woman and he's probably barely twenty-one and this is so wildly inappropriate—
My phone chimes, shrill and insistent, Daniel's special notification tone cutting through the moment like a knife.
The spell breaks. Reality crashes back. I pull my hand back quickly, too quickly, fumbling in my purse for the phone that's already burned through whatever peace I'd found in the last thirty seconds.
"Well, it's nice meeting you. I need to find my classroom and get situated." The words tumble out too fast, too breathless, professional distance reasserting itself even as part of me wants to stay here in the parking lot talking to someone who looks at me like I'm a person instead of a possession.
"Yeah, nice to meet you too." He's still smiling, still watching me with those incredible eyes, head tilted slightly like he's trying to figure me out. "See you around."
"Yeah." Brilliant response, Fallon. Very articulate for someone with advanced degrees in literature.
I turn and walk toward the building, too aware that he's still watching, checking my phone to give my hands something to do, to give myself an excuse for the flush still heating my face.
Daniel: Wear that black dress, it hides the weight you gained recently.
The warmth drains out of me instantly, replaced by the familiar cold shame that lives in my chest now.
What a dick! What an absolute bastard! I haven't gained weight—I've lost fifteen pounds from stress and skipped meals and occasionally forgetting to eat when the anxiety gets too bad.
But he sees what he wants to see, creates flaws to keep me off-balance and grateful for his "honesty. "
I don't even want to respond. But I do. I always do. Not responding means consequences, means his mood will be worse tonight, means I'll pay for the small rebellion of silence.
Me: Okay, I will wear that one. I hope you have a good day and I'll see you after work.
Perfect wife. Compliant wife. Grateful for his fashion guidance and insults disguised as concern.
I hit send, toss the phone back into my purse like it's burned me—because it has, in every way that matters—and search for my new classroom, trying to remember the room number from orientation.
Trying to remember how to breathe around the tightness in my chest. Trying to forget green eyes and easy smiles and the way a simple handshake made me feel alive for five whole seconds.