Page 17 of If The Shoe Fits
His amber eyes narrow, and he leans forward, his broad shoulders looming over the desk like some kind of supernatural predator about to pounce.
“Don’t play coy with me,” he snaps, yanking his glasses off and tossing them onto the desk with a roughness that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.
Can I go next? Pretty please?
I clear my throat, trying to muster some semblance of composure.
“I’m not playing, sir,” I reply, my tone as even as I can make it. “I really don’t know?—”
“You know,” he cuts me off, his voice sharp enough to slice through steel. “I just don’t get you.”
Excuse me?
“Everyone says you’re this terrific person. A fantastic teacher. You take all the misfits and outcasts under your wing. Oh, poor Professor Troy, whose heart was broken when her husband died too young.”
I blink, stunned, as he spits the words like venom.
Where is this even coming from?
“But maybe,” he continues, his voice dipping lower, “the other rumors are true, too. Maybe you’ve been alone so long your heart has turned to stone!”
Wait. Did he just?—?
The man of my literal dreams—the one I’ve spent more hours fantasizing about than I’d ever admit—just called me cold-hearted? Me? The woman who spent more Saturdays than I can count tutoring students?
Why only last weekend I helped a struggling Were-tween who couldn’t get her transformation spell right for eight hours. Unpaid.
I sit there, stunned into silence, my mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.
Surely, I misheard him.
Surely, the universe wouldn’t be this cruel.
But no, he’s standing there, chest heaving, his words hanging in the air like the world’s worst breakup song.
For a moment, I consider saying something equally biting, something to remind him that his precious Cyndi has been terrorizing half the student body—and me.
But instead, all I manage is, “Did you just call me cold-hearted?”
Embarrassment and anger war within me, an overwhelming tide of emotions crashing together like stormy waves.
Sparks of magic dance across my fingertips, snapping and crackling with an energy that feels foreign and wild.
They aren’t the usual cool, steady blue I was used to—this is black.
Angry. Furious.
How dare this man assume to know anything about me?
How dare he presume to call me cold-hearted and accuse me of hurting his child?
“Is it not bad enough my daughter has no mother figure in her life?” he thundered, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “But for you to target her? To take out your own lonely existence on her? That is inexcusable!”
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath.
My chair scrapes against the floor as I shoot to my feet, knocking it backward with so much force it clatters to the ground behind me.
“How dare you,” I spit, my voice trembling with unrestrained rage.
