2. Eleanor #2
Juliana gives a tight smile, saying nothing, and the faculty look from her to someone else—an older man, sitting at the rear of the table, opposite Mr. Fells.
He was so still and quiet I hadn’t noticed him, but now I wonder how that was possible.
Mid-to-late forties, with silver hair and a strong jaw, piercing blue eyes, and a grave expression that gives him a commanding presence.
Broad shoulders fill out his charcoal suit jacket, hands clasped on the table in front of him, shrewd gaze moving around the table.
Handsome in a stern kind of way, everything about him exudes power and authority.
I don’t have to ask to know that this is the headmaster of Wetherly Prep.
Headmaster Wright.
“Now,” Mr. Fells continues, “I’m sure you’re all aware that a key focus over the next few months is the fall fundraiser. It’s our biggest event each year, and we need all hands on deck. No idea is too big, no contribution too small.”
Fall fundraiser. Big event. I scribble in my notebook as he speaks, not wanting to miss anything important. My mind instantly turns with ideas. Maybe a silent auction, a gala evening. No, that’s too boring. Ooh, a carnival! We could have rides and prizes, and a costume competition…
“And of course, we’ll need volunteers. This is a chance for us to work together as a school to support our students.”
I glance up from my notebook, hand shooting into the air before I can stop it. It must have been the words support our students. That’s why we’re here, after all.
“I’d love to help,” I say.
Mr. Fells glances at me, beaming. “Eleanor, fantastic.”
“Nora,” I correct, then grimace. God, why am I correcting the assistant head in front of the faculty?
But he nods, still smiling. “Nora, I’ll put you on the list.”
“Awesome.” I grin in response. “I have lots of ideas…” My words fade as my gaze strays back to the older man. Headmaster Wright. His eyes meet mine, assessing, his expression unreadable. I swallow under his scrutiny, my grin faltering, then his gaze moves away.
“I expect you all to take a page out of Nora’s book and sign up,” Mr. Fells jokes. There’s a ripple of nervous laughter around the room, but no one else raises their hand. Why is no one volunteering?
I glance at Juliana, wondering if I was too eager, but she sends me a small, reassuring smile.
“Beyond that,” Mr. Fells continues, “I want to remind everyone of the importance of communication and support. We’re a tight community here at Wetherly Prep, and as they say, teamwork makes the dream work.
” He chuckles to himself, then nods toward Headmaster Wright.
“And of course, Mr. Wright will be available for questions or ideas you might want to share, though I’m your first line of contact for day-to-day issues.
Alright, let’s get to it. We’ve got an exciting year ahead! ”
Conversation ripples through the room as we’re dismissed from the meeting, and I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress.
I feel the weight of someone’s gaze, and when I glance around, I find the headmaster’s eyes on me again.
I smile meekly in his direction, but he frowns, glancing away.
Gathering my notebook, I rise from the table, wondering if I’ve done something wrong.
“Glad that’s over,” Juliana whispers.
It gives me the courage to ask in a low voice, “What’s the deal with the headmaster?”
She sighs, glancing at the handsome man across the table, then back to me. “He takes everything far too seriously.” Her gaze falls to the delicate gold watch on her wrist, and she grimaces. “Crap, I’d better get ready for class. Have a great first day!”
“You too.” I watch her disappear out the door, but when I turn to go, a stout woman in her late fifties steps in front of me, blocking my path.
“Eleanor?” she asks briskly, and I instantly shrink. Everything about her screams daunting, from the severe cut of her gray bob to the sharp jut of her chin. She seems impatient with the conversation, and it hasn’t even begun.
“Uh, yes?” It comes out as a question, and I silently curse myself. Taking a steadying breath, I add, “Nora, if you don’t mi—”
“I’m Margaret Pierce,” she continues, speaking over me. “We need to set up the fundraiser planning meeting.”
“Right.” I raise my notebook, pen poised. “Should I email, or…”
She gives a curt shake of her head. “I’ll be in touch.” Then she turns on her heel and swiftly exits the room.
I blink, expelling a slow breath. A man approaches, his kind green eyes sparkling with a warm smile.
Unlike the rest of the faculty, polished in blazers and ties, he wears a navy-blue Henley and worn jeans, his chestnut hair long and threaded with silver, pulled into a man bun.
A leather cord disappears beneath his collar, and I swear I spot the edge of a tattoo just above it.
He looks as out of place as I feel, yet completely at ease.
“Welcome, Nora. I’m Rowan Winslow, head of art.”
He tucks a sketchbook beneath one arm and extends an ink-stained hand. I must look like a deer in headlights, because he lets out a quiet, understanding laugh.
“It’s always a lot to take in on your first day. Though I have to hand it to you, you’re brave to volunteer for the fundraiser after everything that happened last year.”
My brows dart together. That sounds ominous.
I open my mouth to ask what he means when the bell rings. For the first time, I notice the clamor of student voices outside, excitedly catching up after the long summer break, and my pulse trips.
Shit. I need to be there when my class arrives. It sets the tone for the entire day, makes them feel welcome and safe. I have a speech planned, an exercise with a Koosh ball, a welcome song with puppets…
“Nice to meet you, Rowan,” I say in a rush. “I’d better…”
He nods, and I turn for the door again, this time finally making my exit. In my haste, I almost crash into the back of someone.
Not someone. Him. Headmaster Wright.
He’s taller than I realized, easily six-foot-four. As if he wasn’t already intimidating enough, I barely come up to his shoulder. The broad expanse of his chest is like an immovable wall as he turns to me, his formidable size making me shrivel.
“Sorry,” I squeak, stepping around him. His gaze meets mine from under low brows, something I can’t read flickering in their depths.
I scramble down the stairs, glad to retreat to the safety of my classroom.