7. Theo #2
I reach the first floor and keep walking, vaguely aware that my feet know where to go. It’s not until I’m peeking through the narrow window of her classroom that I realize what I’ve done.
Eleanor’s sitting on the floor in a circle with her students, desks pushed back to the wall, laughing as she leads some kind of group activity I don’t recognize. The kids are into it, all bright-eyed and engaged. She glances up, and I duck out of sight, heart thumping.
What the hell am I doing here?
I turn on my heel and head back along the corridor, coffee in hand, trying to collect myself.
As I climb the stairs, I slow, my gaze wandering to the row of framed portraits of former headmasters, stretching back decades.
My father’s face stares out at me, solemn and certain.
He ran this school for thirty years. This place was his life. His legacy.
And I can’t let him down.
Eleanor is prompt, appearing in the conference room at 4 o’clock sharp, and I don’t waste any time getting straight to business. Last time we bickered about causes and got nowhere. Tonight, we need to stay focused on the event itself.
“We need to decide on a theme and think about the layout for the event,” I say crisply, sliding on my glasses without hesitation and fixing my gaze on my laptop.
Soft, caramel-colored wisps of Eleanor’s hair have come loose from her rainbow barrette, framing her face, and it’s frustratingly distracting.
Because it’s unprofessional, I tell myself.
“We’ll need to finalize the guest list, assign volunteers for setup and cleanup, and confirm catering options.
Donors need to be secured, and marketing materials have to go out, too.
” I keep my voice steady, focusing on the tasks at hand, deliberately avoiding the cause itself.
There’s time for that later. For now, it’s all about the details we can control.
She nods, scribbling in her notebook. Today, she’s quieter, less bubbly, less… challenging. Part of me appreciates the calm, but another part misses the spark of our last meeting, the back-and-forth that pushed me to think.
Her gaze lifts to mine, quiet and expectant. The hazel in her eyes looks greener than usual, something unreadable flickering beneath, and before I realize it, I’m leaning forward.
“Is everything okay, Miss Hart?”
She tugs her bottom lip into her mouth, hesitating, then nods.
I’m not convinced.
“Is there something you’d like to say?”
Her smile is tight. “No, sir.”
I know this game. I’ve played it with students more times than I can count, and I’ve got all night. I fold my hands, lean back, and wait.
It only takes a few seconds.
“Have you settled on the cause for the fundraiser, then?” she asks.
I grunt, tipping my head toward the ceiling. “Not this again.”
Her brow furrows. “I don’t understand how we’re supposed to promote something when we don’t even know what it’s for.”
I let out a slow breath, removing my glasses to massage the bridge of my nose. I don’t need her pressing me on this.
Especially when I know she’s right.
Goddammit. She is, isn’t she? How can I ask people to volunteer their time, approach donors, plan an entire event, when I don’t even know the cause?
Eleanor reads it on my face before I can speak. “If you could just tell me what it is you’re thinking of… that would at least give us something to work with.”
“I… I don’t know,” I admit after a beat. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. She can’t help, but something eases in me having said it. I roll my shoulders, stiff and sore from too many hours hunched over a screen. A dull pulse behind my right eye reminds me I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
She tilts her head, studying me. Her voice is gentle when she says, “Maybe we need to ask what’s best for the students.”
I blink.
Of all the questions I’ve turned over in my mind—donor optics, board politics, parent opinions—not once did I ask that one. And it hits me hard because she’s right. And also… she’s wrong.
Because it’s not that simple. She doesn’t understand that. She can’t.
Eleanor leans in, her voice softer now. “You don’t have to figure it out alone, you know.”
Those words, so kind and earnest, so impossibly compassionate, strike a chord in my chest I can’t afford to acknowledge. Part of me wants to believe her. To trust her.
But that’s a luxury I gave up a long time ago.
She lets out a quiet sigh and leans back, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear. “I’m sorry, sir,” she mumbles. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
I exhale slowly. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Venues, volunteers… give me the list. I’ll handle it.”
I hand over the list of local donors silently. They’ll probably be hesitant after last year, but sending Eleanor is my best bet. Her bubbly charm will win them over.
“Please start by approaching the community partners. Local stores and businesses. Let them know we’re still finalizing the cause and we’ll follow up soon.”
She nods without hesitation, and I pause.
“I’m sure you have a busy social life, but if you could get started this weekend…”
“It’s no problem. I haven’t, uh, made many friends out here yet, so…” Her cheeks flush at the admission, and she laughs lightly. “Anyway, I’ll have time. I was only going to work on lesson planning.”
Something about this doesn’t sit right. She’s young and energetic; she shouldn’t be spending her weekends holed up, working, but it’s not my place to say so.
I rise from the table and, without thinking, extend a hand. Eleanor blinks at it, then stands and shakes it.
“Thank you, Miss Hart.” I try not to notice the warmth of her skin, how soft it feels against mine, or the way my hand easily wraps around hers.
These are not things a boss should notice.
Once Eleanor leaves, I let out a long breath.
She’s right that I can’t put this off forever.
That I need to think about the students, and what they need.
I need to satisfy the board, but I also can’t lose sight of why we’re doing this.
And as I’m forced to acknowledge it, I realize I might have been wrong about Eleanor.
She’s a good teacher. The students like her.
And if Marlene’s happy with their progress, I can live with that.
But that doesn’t change anything else. She’s still too young. Too optimistic.
Too tempting.
Wait—
Tempting?
Where the hell did that come from?
I slam my laptop closed, mind spinning, because I am not tempted by Eleanor. Not by her youthful exuberance, her bright, clashing outfits, or her big, sunshiny ideas. Not by the way she lights up when she talks about the students, or how her hands move when she’s expressing herself passionately.
I shake my head and gather my papers. She’s a new teacher with a lot to prove, that’s all.
Christ. I need a drink.