14. Eleanor
Eleanor
My heart aches as Headmaster Wright lets me into his office later that evening.
His face is drawn, dark circles shadowing his eyes, his shoulders tight with tension.
I’m not sure what’s going on with him, but he looks like he could use a stiff drink and a massage.
I wish I could help him relax, to lighten the load he’s carrying.
The best I can do is pizza.
I set the box on the coffee table in front of the unlit fireplace, and he sinks into a leather chair with a weary sigh.
Cracking open the box, I hold it out to him.
He wordlessly retrieves a slice of pepperoni, his eyes closing in bliss as he takes a bite.
I watch him for a moment, knowing he probably skipped lunch.
His desk is littered with coffee cups, but there’s no sign of food.
He needs to take better care of himself.
Or let someone else take care of him.
Helping myself to a slice of pizza, I settle into the chair.
I’m not as nervous as last night, I realize.
Despite whatever Headmaster Wright has had to deal with today, he almost seemed relieved to see me this afternoon.
And when he laughed, a deep, warm rumble that went right through me, I knew he’d given me a rare, precious gift.
I’ve never heard him laugh before, and I wish I could have bottled the sound, to hoard it away and listen to it later when I’m alone.
“Thanks for dinner,” he murmurs quietly. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
I glance at him, wanting to ask why, then think better of it.
He stares straight ahead, the banker’s lamp on the sideboard silhouetting his handsome profile.
He hasn’t shaved, his jaw shadowed with silver stubble.
I haven’t known him long, but I’ve known him long enough to recognize when something is off.
For the first time, it occurs to me that he might be lonely, and my heart feels heavy at the thought.
“Is everything okay, sir?” The words are out of my mouth before I can think better of it.
His tired blue eyes swing my way, regarding me quietly. I want to reach out and smooth the line from his brow, to rub the knot of tension in his shoulder until he closes his eyes and exhales, finally letting go.
“There was a break-in at the school this morning.”
I inhale sharply. “Where?”
“The maintenance shed,” he says, rubbing his jaw. The rasp of his palm against his whiskers is so unexpectedly erotic that I shiver. My fingers itch with the urge to touch him.
It’s not only that. He’s as disheveled as last night, maybe more, jacket gone, sleeves rolled, hair mussed, and an air of quiet surrender emanating from him, like he’s too tired to keep up the usual distance between us.
“Do you know who it was?” I ask.
He gives a slow shake of his head. “Police are looking into it, but most likely kids or someone looking to make some fast cash.”
“Did they take anything?”
“Nothing that can’t be replaced.”
I exhale. “Well, that’s a relief.”
He shakes his head, jaw hardening. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
I study him carefully. There’s something in his tone, his expression, that suggests he blames himself for this random incident, which is absurd.
“These things happen,” I say carefully. I don’t want to overstep, but it seems unreasonable for him to shoulder the burden for this. “There’s nothing you could have done.”
He stares straight ahead, brow low, a muscle ticking in his jaw, but I need him to hear this, because I’m not sure anyone has told him.
“Headmaster Wright,” I begin tentatively.
He exhales, long and tired. “You can call me Theo, Eleanor. I think we’re past formalities.”
My eyes widen. Theo. He wants me to call him Theo, and as much as I want to, it feels strange. He’s Headmaster Wright. The man who scared the shit out of me from day one.
Only… he’s not anymore, is he? It feels different now. He’s no longer that intimidating figure standing behind a desk. He’s just a man.
A handsome, incredibly hardworking man who’s trying so hard to do right by this school. A man who’s forgotten how to look for the good in the world.
And I want to help him remember. I want to help him soften.
“Theo,” I murmur, testing it.
His eyes snap to mine, intense. Something shifts there, something darker, hungrier. Heat coils low in my abdomen as he holds my gaze for one beat, two. Then he blinks, and it’s gone.
I draw breath, ready to say what I wanted to say, but he stands abruptly, crossing to his desk to gather his laptop and glasses.
“Let’s get on with our work,” he says, brisk again.
Just like that, the wall is back up.
With a sigh, I pull my binder and pen out. He settles beside me again, all business, and we spend the next two hours mapping out details for the fundraiser before circling back to discuss Safe Harbor.
I’m in the middle of explaining my idea for the garden project when I notice it: the tight pull across my scalp, the dull press of an oncoming headache.
I reach back, tugging the elastic from my bun, letting my hair fall loose.
It’s a relief to comb my fingers through the strands, easing the tension.
When I glance up, Headmaster Wright—Theo—is watching me over the rims of his glasses.
His nostrils flare slightly. He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet office, and I follow the motion of his throat, the long line of it.
Over the course of the evening he’s removed his tie, and I can see a hint of salt-and-pepper chest hair at the opening of his collar.
I want to lean forward and press my lips to the warm skin, to slowly unbutton that shirt and trace every inch of him with my hands.
My head throbs, and I wince, raising a hand to my temple. Concern flickers across his face. He leans forward, reaching out as if to touch me before quickly withdrawing his hand.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice husky.
“Just a headache. It happens when I wear my hair up for too long.”
His brow furrows, gaze lingering like he’s not quite convinced. Then he rises.
“Margaret keeps Tylenol in her desk.”
I watch as he strides from the room, returning a moment later with the pills and a glass of water. It’s the tiniest gesture, but it makes something swell in my chest. Gratitude, and something else. Something that makes me want to pull him close and do a lot more than thank him.
I down the pills and the water, offering him a grateful smile. He glances at his watch, brows lifting.
“I didn’t realize the time. We should wrap up.”
Disappoint tugs faintly behind my breastbone, but he’s right. We’ve been working for hours now, and we’ve gotten through more than I expected.
Still, it’s hard not to wish for a little more time.
It’s always different at night. The low lighting.
The quiet hush of a building that's emptied out. The way he loosens, just a little, as the day fades. It’s torture, sitting across from him like this, knowing how close I am to crossing a line I’m not supposed to touch.
Wondering if he might want to cross that line too.
I give a reluctant nod and close my binder. “We got a lot done,” I say, gathering my things.
“Mm.” He watches me, hands tucked into his pockets. Then he says something that takes me by surprise. “I need to thank you, Eleanor.”
I blink up at him. “Why?”
He sinks into the chair, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’d been agonizing over the fundraiser for months.
Losing sleep over it,” he admits, gaze flicking away.
“After last year’s debacle…” He trails off, but I can feel the weight of it, the way he still carries whatever happened like it’s his personal failure.
My chest tightens. I’m beginning to see that he’s not nearly as hard on me as he is on himself, and without thinking, I reach out to touch his arm.
He freezes.
Oh. Shit. I shouldn’t have done that.
My eyes drop to where my fingers rest on the warm skin of his forearm, veins threaded below the surface, muscles tense beneath my touch.
His skin feels electric, pulse quickening under my fingertips, and my heart trips.
Every nerve ending in my body fires with anticipation as I imagine leaning in closer, breathing in his clean, sandalwood scent.
I’m scared to look up, worried he’ll be frowning and stern. Disapproving.
But when I finally gather the courage, his expression knocks the breath from my lungs. He looks wrecked. Like he feels it too, and knows he shouldn’t.
I snatch my hand back, heart hammering. What the hell am I doing?
“Sorry,” I mutter, shoving my binder into my tote. My bag swings over my shoulder as I rise too fast, needing to escape.
“Eleanor, wait,” he calls as I scurry to the door.
When I turn back, he’s standing with his hands braced on his hips, staring out the window, jaw tight.
“I should walk you to your car.”
God, I want that. I want him to walk me out into the dark and press me against the side of my car. I want his hands in my hair, his mouth desperate and claiming.
But that would be a mistake. A huge one.
“It’s fine,” I squeak, but he shakes his head.
“It’s dark…”
“Thanks, Headmaster—” I grimace, not meeting his gaze. “Theo. I’ll be fine.”
Before I can humiliate myself further, I flee from the room, taking the marble steps two at a time, heart slamming against my ribs.
What was I thinking, touching him? This is my chance to make my mark on this school, to prove I can do more than show up with big ideas, that I can build something, and instead I almost blow it by eye-fucking my boss.
That’s not how you get taken seriously. That’s how you get written off.
But that look in his eyes when I said his name. The roughness in his voice as he brought me Tylenol. The way his pulse jumped under my hand…
Fuck.
What I wouldn’t give to not care, for just one night. To stop worrying about respect and consequences, to let him take me however he wants.
Serious or not.
I blow out a frustrated breath as I exit the building, heading toward the back parking lot.
The cool evening air is a welcome relief on my hot cheeks, and I slow my steps, trying to steady my racing heart.
A single lamp casts an orange puddle of light, illuminating my lone car, and the inky blackness surrounding me tells me it’s later than I realized.
I’m almost at my beaten-up Mini Cooper when a voice comes out of the shadows.
“Hey there, are you a teacher?”
I spin on my heel, blinking into the night. An icy chill runs down my spine. Beyond the pool of light, everything is black. I’m pretty sure the voice was male, but as a woman alone in a dark parking lot, I know better than to stick around and find out. I turn for my car, hurrying my steps.
“Don’t walk away. I asked you something.”
Panic zips through me. I fumble for the keys in my bag. I should have let Theo walk me to my car, embarrassment be damned. That’s a small price to pay for not being murdered in the dark.
“Hey!” the voice says again, closer. A figure steps into the light, approaching, and adrenaline floods me.
“Is there a problem here?” Another voice cuts through the dark, firm, commanding, and deadly serious.
A voice I’m all too grateful to hear.
The figure looks over his shoulder, hesitating. My heart leaps into my throat, hands shaking so much I can barely grasp my keys.
Then suddenly, Theo is at my side. I don’t know where he came from, but the minute I see him, I know I’m safe. He steps between me and the guy, a solid wall of protection.
“Step away from her. Now.” I barely recognize his voice, it’s so deep. Tension radiates off him, hands on his hips, shoulders wide and intimidating. I’ve never seen him so protective, so fierce, and I suck in a shuddering breath of relief.
The guy mutters something under his breath, hastily retreating. Theo stands there for another beat to be sure, then spins around.
“Eleanor?” he asks, stepping closer. The dim lighting casts his face in shadow, and it’s hard to make out his expression.
I unlock my car with the fob, the sharp edges of the keys digging into my palm as I try to steady my galloping heart, not wanting him to see how shaken I am.
“I’m fine,” I say, but the tremor in my voice betrays me.
He leans closer, and I can make out the worry in his eyes. His hand comes to my shoulder, the lightest touch, but it burns through my cardigan.
“You’re not.” His voice is low, edged with concern.
“I…” My mind scrambles. It’s hard to think with his hand on me, my pulse still thrumming. “I will be.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then reaches past me to open my car door. My shoulder feels instantly cold at the loss of his touch, and despite myself, I wish I could find a way to make him touch me again.
“Text me when you get home,” he says gruffly. “I need to know you’re safe.”
Oh, God.
“I will,” I breathe.
He’s so close, towering above me in that protective way, and I cannot stop myself from placing a hand on his chest. He sucks in a sharp breath, but doesn’t step back.
I should stop, should get in my car and drive away, but I can’t.
I’m reassured by the feel of him, the solid, hot muscle under his shirt, the pulse racing behind his ribs.
All I can think is, what if he hadn’t been here?
“Thank you, Theo.”
He presses his eyes shut as though he’s in pain. Something about that expression sends heat spiraling through me.
“You didn’t…” I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “You didn’t have to come after me.”
“Yes. I did.” His voice is a rough, brutal scrape I’ve never heard before. The sound of a man barely hanging on.
My fingers stroke the cotton of his shirt, as if they’ve got a mind of their own, and I lean in, desperate for him to lower his mouth to mine, if even for a second.
“Eleanor,” he grits out. It’s a warning and a plea.
And it’s enough to bring me to my senses.
I drop my hand, stepping back, and bash my shoulder on the car. Pain flashes through me, but I ignore it.
“Goodnight,” I mutter, slipping into the driver’s seat and closing the door before he can respond. I start the engine with shaking hands, pulling out of the parking space, my heart racing.
When I glance in the rear-view mirror, all I can see is his silhouette standing under the pool of light, watching me go.