23. Theo #2
I stare at her, unable to stop the smile pulling at my mouth. She’s so different in her classroom, with her students present. This is her world, her domain, and she knows it. As much as that might have irritated me in the past, now it’s impossible to do anything other than pick up a carving knife.
“I’ll… give it a go,” I say at last.
“Here.” Eleanor takes the plastic carving knife from my hand and replaces it with a sharp knife, giving me a wink. “I’m pretty sure you can handle this one.”
I chuff a laugh, looking for a surface to work on, and she motions to the middle table, between Andy and a kid called James.
For the briefest second, I hesitate, knowing it’s ridiculous.
I’m the headmaster. Of this school. I shouldn’t be sitting at a children’s table carving pumpkins with them. It’s completely backward.
But that doesn’t stop me from lowering myself onto the small chair and folding my legs awkwardly under the low table.
And when I glance up to see the look in Eleanor’s eyes, no longer teasing like before, but heated now, burning with something I can’t quite name, I’m a goner.
I’ll do whatever she asks if she looks at me like that.
I shrug out of my suit jacket and push back my shirtsleeves, then set about hollowing the pumpkin. I haven’t done this for years, not since Juliana lived at home, and it tugs at a place inside me. A place I’ve kept locked up for a long time.
As I work, I keep one eye on Eleanor, watching her pause to instruct the kids, patiently helping them carve, telling them how good their pumpkins look despite missing teeth and wonky eyes. The sight of her, so competent, so patient and warm, makes my heart beat double time.
“That’s looking great, James,” Eleanor says, crouching beside him. “Those teeth are so scary.”
The kid beams, and Eleanor turns her gaze on me.
I lean back to take in my handiwork and grimace.
I used to be decent at this, but my pumpkin-carving skills have vanished from years of neglect, leaving me with a buck-toothed nightmare.
How is it possible my pumpkin looks no better than a third-grader’s?
I sneak a look at Jessica’s at the next table, with its symmetrical eyebrows, and frown.
Okay, so mine’s worse than a third-grader’s. That’s embarrassing.
But Eleanor sees none of that. Instead, she smiles, warm and encouraging.
And I realize this task isn’t only about creating pumpkins for Halloween next week.
It’s about encouraging creativity, about making each student feel seen and accepted, regardless of how imperfect their pumpkin might be.
I think of her words from the garden: Kids need to know they’re allowed to make mistakes.
That they can fail, and still be safe. That’s exactly what she’s doing here. What she does for everyone she meets.
“Nice work, Headmaster Wright,” she says, and I can’t help but grin in response.
Then she leans in, speaking in a low voice to add, “Who knew you’d be so good with your hands?
” Her fingers brush my shoulder, too subtle for anyone else to notice, but enough to send a bolt of awareness through me.
I flashback to her straddling me two nights ago, quivering as my fingers worked their way up her thighs, and it takes all my strength not to reach out and pull her into my lap.
Instead, I force my gaze to my pumpkin. And as I look at it again, I decide that maybe it’s not so bad after all.
“Oh no,” Kelly Patel says, pointing to my shirt with wide eyes.
I glance down to find orange pumpkin staining the cuff of my sleeve, and chuckle. Thankfully, I keep a spare shirt in my office at all times, so it’s not the end of the world. Though I will have some explaining to do when Margaret takes this one to be dry-cleaned.
When I look back up, Kelly is staring at me in surprise, along with a few other kids, and it takes me a second to realize why.
They thought I’d get angry.
Something about that hollows my stomach, even though I can’t blame them. I have a reputation at this school for being strict and stern, maybe even a little scary.
A reputation I’m not so sure I want anymore.
I stiffen at this realization. At how much Eleanor has changed me, in such a short time.
Gone are my usual rules and restraints; instead, I’m sitting in a pumpkin-splattered classroom, up to my elbows in pumpkin guts.
If she can disarm me this much around third-graders, what will she do to me tonight, when we’re alone?
But try as I might, I can’t make myself care. Not when she lines the students’ pumpkins up at the front of the room and sings their praises. Not when she adds mine to the group, making me feel like it’s the best thing she’s ever seen.
Not when I know I’ll get her alone in a few hours.
I stifle a groan, thinking about the weekend ahead of me, knowing we’ll be miles apart.
All I want to do tonight is take her straight to bed, but I can’t.
I shouldn’t. It occurred to me much too late that I’ve done everything in the wrong order, sleeping with her before I even bought her dinner.
Or cooked her dinner, at least. She works her ass off for this place, on the fundraiser, on Safe Harbor, and still finds time to create meaningful activities like this for her class.
For all that she does for everyone else, she deserves to be spoiled.
And dammit, I’m going to do that for her.
I thank the class for letting me join them, reluctantly heading back to my office, and as I pull out a fresh shirt to change, all I can think about is how to make tonight’s date magical.