24. Theo
Theo
Eleanor knocks on my door later that evening, looking like a dream in a long-sleeved, dark red dress that cuts across her chest, exposing her shoulders.
Her caramel-colored hair is loose and wavy, brushing along her collarbone, and as I usher her quickly inside and take her jacket, it’s an effort not to sweep her hair back and drag my mouth over her exposed skin.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless, hazel eyes sparkling and cheeks rosy from the fall night air.
I asked her to come at eight and park two streets away, which is a little dramatic, but I can’t risk anyone seeing her here.
It’s one thing to go to her classroom during the school day, another thing entirely for her to be here, at my house, after hours.
“Hi.” I grin, feeling a nervous clench in my gut. I haven’t entertained a woman in my home for… I don’t even know, but I figured at least here, I’d have some control over the food, the music, the atmosphere.
But as she looks curiously around my place now, my stomach dips. The cottage is small, and while I could easily afford somewhere bigger and swankier, I chose this place for its snug size and proximity to the school. After all, it’s only me here, and I spend most of my time at work.
I try to see the place through her eyes; a modest shingled cottage with a stone chimney, bay windows with sea views, a cozy fireplace I’ve lit for the evening.
The living space has my worn tan leather sofa, a sheepskin rug in front of the fire, and an antique wood chest doubling as my coffee table.
Vivaldi plays on the turntable—The Four Seasons—and I’ve chilled a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, which I hope she likes.
I’ve done everything I can to make the evening romantic, hoping I can spend it taking care of her instead of losing my self-control like last time.
But it’s a struggle after keeping my hands to myself in her classroom today, after watching her in her element.
And as I see her lips curve in a delighted smile, the threads of my self-control begin to fray.
God, she’s beautiful.
“Your place is lovely,” she says, smiling, and my stomach settles. “The fire.” She crosses to the fireplace, warming her hands in front of it with a contented sigh. “I love a fireplace. Why do you never light the one in your office?”
“I used to, but…” I shrug. “We have radiators.”
She glances back at me. “But it would be so much nicer in there with the fire blazing. The lamp. And the turntable you never use…”
The picture she paints sounds a lot better than the reality; late nights poring over spreadsheets, lengthy emails to the board, pacing back and forth as I contemplate the next impending disaster.
Until she came along.
The thought makes me pause, and I remember that moment in her classroom today, carving pumpkins. Something has shifted for me. I still feel the weight of responsibility, but it’s less suffocating. For the first time in years, I’m remembering to breathe.
That massage yesterday certainly helped, especially since I had to spend two hours dealing with the parent from that phone call, followed by a last-minute board meeting this afternoon.
I’ve been running on fumes for days now, and fatigue tugs at me, but being in Eleanor’s company is all I need to feel better.
I cross the room to where she stands in front of the fireplace, needing to be close to her. She smiles at me, radiant and breath-taking, and I have to pinch myself that this is real. That she’s here, in my home, wanting this. Me.
I’m a lucky bastard.
“You look beautiful,” I murmur.
Her eyes shimmer with pleasure. “Thank you.”
She bites her lip, letting her gaze meander over me.
I chose dark chinos and a charcoal button-down, rolling the sleeves to the elbows.
It’s a home date, so anything more would have felt too stiff.
But as she scrutinizes me now, I wonder if I should have gone with the shirt and tie again. The sharp look she’s used to.
“You look…” Her voice comes out husky, and she trails a finger down my chest, my stomach, setting off fireworks under my skin. “Really good.”
I swallow thickly at her words, relief flickering faintly inside. “Yeah?”
“You always look good, Theo.” Her finger teases my belt buckle, eyes darkening as she gazes up at me. “It was an effort not to touch you when you stopped by my classroom today.”
Fuck.
I lose the battle to keep my hands to myself.
Grabbing her by the waist, I haul her close and crush my mouth to hers.
She whimpers, soft and pliant in my arms, mouth opening readily, mine for the taking.
Blood rushes to my cock, and she feels it, arching into me with a moan.
I love how willing she is, that she’s as eager for me as I am for her.
But tonight isn’t about me. It’s about making her feel special.
I pull away with an agonized exhale, turning toward the kitchen. “Wine?”
She trails after me, taking a seat at the kitchen island while I pull the bottle from the fridge.
“Yes, please.”
I pour two glasses with my back to her, willing my dick to settle down and get the damn message. Then I hand her one, clinking my glass to hers, and she takes a long, slow sip.
“Mm,” she murmurs, her full, beautiful mouth curving in a satisfied smile. My gaze fixes on those lips, wanting nothing more than to kiss them again.
Wanting them wrapped around my cock.
Jesus Christ.
Instead, I focus on preparing the dinner, simmering onion and bell pepper on the stove, before adding ground turkey. I can feel her gaze on me while I cook, and my chest feels light and buoyant.
“What are you making?”
“Turkey pumpkin chili,” I say, adding tomatoes and pumpkin to the dish. When I glance back, her eyes are dancing.
“I thought you’d be sick of pumpkin after today.”
I chuckle. “It inspired me.” I watch her for a moment, wanting to tell her how much she inspires me, but I don’t. Don’t want to scare her.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” she asks, as I season the dish and reduce the heat to let it simmer.
I send her an amused smile. “I’m a grown man.”
“Yeah, but—” She snorts a laugh. “I know plenty of grown men who can’t cook.”
I lift a brow, turning to lean back against the counter. “You know plenty of men?” I tease.
Her cheeks color, and it’s adorable. “No, I mean…”
I laugh, answering her question to put her out of her misery. “I’ve always been able to cook, but my skills really improved when Juliana bought me cooking classes for my birthday last year.”
“When is your birthday?”
“June 12th.”
She smiles to herself, looking down at her wine, and I can tell she’s filing that information away for later. I already know her birthday—April 6th—from her file. It occurs to me that I hadn’t intended to memorize the date, but I know it. I learned it on the first day of school.
“So, I was thinking,” she begins, twirling her wineglass. Then, shaking her head, she says, “Never mind.”
“Go on.”
“I wasn’t sure if I should talk about work…”
I chuckle, stirring the chili. “I can’t imagine you ever stop thinking about it.”
She gives a sheepish smile. “I guess I am a bit of a workaholic.”
“Me too,” I say, lifting a shoulder. An understatement if there ever was one.
“It’s hard when you love your job, though, right?”
I scratch my chin, considering this. Whether I love my job isn’t really a factor. What matters is the legacy I’ve been given and hope to leave, the duty I have to the school, my father.
“But maybe,” Eleanor says, thinking aloud, “it wouldn’t kill us to do something not work related every now and again.”
“Like this.” I motion to the chili I’m serving, the evening itself, and she nods.
“Exactly.”
I take our food to the oak dining table in front of the bay window by the kitchen, the table I had to clear of papers, spreadsheets, and budgets for this evening. She’s not wrong. I could do with a life outside of work.
Eleanor follows me, gaze sparkling as she settles in at the table. I’ve set it with candles, cutlery, and napkins, because even though I can’t take this gorgeous woman to the restaurant she deserves, I’m doing what I can. She smiles as I light the candles, biting her lip.
“You’re so cute, Theo.”
Warmth blossoms behind my sternum as I meet her gaze over our plates.
“I wanted it to feel special,” I say, voice low. “For you.”
It sounds far more corny than I intend, but I let the words hang. The moment stretches between us, her gaze softening in the candlelight, and I huff a laugh, glancing at the food.
“Though I’m not sure ‘cute’ is exactly what I was going for.”
But the way she looks at me… I’d be cute for her forever if she let me.
She laughs too, the sound musical and pretty as she tucks her hair behind one ear.
It’s the most demure action, but as I watch, heat builds in my groin.
I can’t take my eyes off that sweet curve where her neck meets her shoulder.
I’ve never found shoulders a particularly erotic part of the body, but fuck, every time she brushes her hair back I want to press my lips to her smooth, creamy skin, to do unholy things to her.
I curse myself for being such a damn animal, picking up my spoon. She tucks into her chili, releasing a moan that goes straight to my dick.
Goddammit.
“Like it?” I ask thickly, watching the way her eyes flutter shut for a moment with pleasure.
She nods, swallowing. “Like it? If dessert is this good, I might move in.”
My blood heats, something unnameable swirling behind my ribs, and I take a sip of wine, trying to play it off. “Guess I’d better hope you like the apple pie then.”
“You made dessert, too?”
I soften. “I wanted to spoil you.”
“Why?” she asks quietly, as if she can’t fathom that someone would bother going to the trouble.
“Because you deserve it. You work your ass off on the fundraiser and Safe Harbor, pour yourself into everything at school…” I pause, realizing that sounds like I’m simply paying her overtime with food. “Because I want to.”
She stares at me for a long moment. “That’s so sweet.”
I reach across the table, brushing my fingers against hers. “Get used to it.”
Her gaze drops to her plate as she smiles to herself. The kind of smile that’s bigger than she’s letting on, like she doesn’t want me to see how my words, my actions, have affected her. But I do see, and my chest grows full and tight. I’ll do anything to keep her smiling like that.
We eat in easy silence for a while, but I sense there’s something on her mind. When our eyes meet over the food, I smile.
“Say it.”
She laughs, draining her wine. I rise to grab the bottle from the fridge, refilling her glass.
“It’s about work,” she murmurs, and I smile as I settle back into my seat.
“That’s fine, sweetheart. Tell me.”
“I was thinking about the fundraiser. It’s only a month away, and we still have so much to do.”
I nod, sipping my wine.
“We need more volunteers. To delegate some of the work.” Her gaze flicks to mine, apologetic. “I’m doing as much as I can, but with my class, and…” she trails off, releasing a sheepish laugh. “Well, I’ve been a little distracted lately…”
I chuckle, reaching for her hand across the table. “You and me both.” I stroke my thumb across her knuckles. “You’re right, though. It’s a lot for us to manage alone, and I don’t want you taking on too much. We’ll assemble a small team to delegate some tasks.”
Relief softens her eyes. “Thanks.”
“And we need to be careful not to let this”—I motion between us—“interfere.”
“It won’t,” she says quickly, though I meant it more as a warning to myself than to her. She sets her spoon down, smiling as she pushes her empty bowl away. “That was divine, Theo. Thank you.”
I beam, clearing our plates from the table, not wanting her to see how pleased I am by her words. A moment later she follows me into the kitchen, wine in hand, and leans against the counter.
“Let me clean up,” she offers.
“Not a chance.” I load the dishwasher, wiping the counters as I contemplate my next move. Dessert is warming in the oven, but when I find her watching me with fire in her gaze, I decide it can wait.
She sets her wineglass down as I approach, a flirtatious smile on her mouth. “Watching you cook and clean is very sexy.”
“Because it’s domestic,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers trail over her collarbone. “It proves I can take care of you.” I lower my mouth to the curve of her neck, that spot I’ve been desperate for all evening, and bite her softly. “In more ways than one.”
She breathes out hard, whether from my words or my touch, I’m not sure, but my self-control has reached its limit.
What’s that they say about the road to hell being paved with good intentions?
Well, I know where I’m going. I’ve kept my hands off her all day, and if I don’t touch her now, she’ll keep saying sweet things that will make me cancel my weekend conference, something I can’t let happen.
Besides, my goal tonight is to spoil her, and I know exactly how to make her feel good.
I kiss her long and slow, sliding my tongue teasingly over hers. She moans as my hands find her hips, gripping tightly. Then I lift her, placing her on the kitchen counter. She gasps in surprise, gazing at me with dazed, heavy-lidded eyes as my hands nudge her knees apart, trailing up her thighs.
“What about dessert?” she whispers, and I give her a filthy grin.
“I can’t think of anything sweeter.”