Page 10 of The Headmaster’s Rule

She smiles to herself as if remembering the conversation. “She pointed out that since I’d said we were a team, it was only fair that I participated. And I realized it was important to show her—to show them—that I meant what I’d said, about us being a team. I want them to trust me, to see that my words match my actions. So…”

“So you crawled on the classroom floor to impress them?” I ask skeptically.

She winces. “Not impress, more… to show that I respect them.” She lifts her gaze to mine for the first time since entering the room. “I can’t ask them to do something I’m not prepared to do myself, can I?”

I scrape a hand over my chin, absorbing her words. On the one hand, that’s a lot of what teaching is: you lead, they follow, but you don’t get down in the dirt and crawl with them. On the other hand, there’s something almost admirable about her words.

Jesus Christ. Listen to me.

I suppress the smile inexplicably tugging at my lips, fixing my brow. “I see your reasoning, Miss Hart, but perhaps we could keep the crawling to a minimum, yes?”

Her face falls. “Of course, sir. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

And even though that’s the correct response, it lands like a lead balloon in my chest.

I turn to the files on the table between us. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

She nods, pulling out her own file. Only, it’s not a document; it’s a three-ring binder in chartreuse, of all colors, with phrases in typewritten font taped all over it. From here, I can make out the line, The world belongs to optimists. Pessimists are only spectators - Francois Guizot. I frown.

“Ignore the binder,” she mutters, attempting to shield it from my eyes. “I’m only using it to organize my ideas.” Then she flips it open, paging through several sheafs of paper, switching between tabs, before looking up at me. “I kind of, um, assumed there would be more people on this committee.”

I glance around the room. “Committee?”

“Yes. More volunteers.”

My jaw tightens as I drag a hand through my hair. Now is not the time to tell the new teacher I botched last year’s fundraiser so badly no one wants to go near it again.

“We’re keeping it streamlined this year. No committees. Just the two of us, for now.” The words just the two of us don’t sound quite right, but I decide to leave them. I’m the headmaster, for God’s sake. I don’t need to explain myself.

“Okay,” she says, puzzled, then thankfully moves on. “So, I have some ideas”—she motions to her binder—“but I was thinking, the theme of the fundraiser should really be based on what the money is going toward, right? Sorry, I should probably know this, but what are we actually fundraising for?”

Of course she’d ask that.

I reach for my glass and take a long sip of water, Eleanor’s inquisitive gaze on me as I swallow. Her eyes are clear and bright, hazel with a little more brown than green. I clear my throat. For Christ’s sake, I’m her boss.

“T.B.D.,” I say at last.

Her brow dips, and she opens her mouth to speak, then seems to think better of it.

“Now,” I say, wanting us to move on. I open my file, realizing I’ll need my glasses, but I don’t want to put them on in front of this woman. It was a few years ago that I finally caved and admitted I needed them, after several migraines from long hours at my computer. Margaret was the one to push for the appointment, and as much as I hated it, she was right. Simple square black frames, they’ve made a huge difference, and I never read or work without them.

But as I push them up my nose and meet Eleanor’s gaze, I feel a lot older than my forty-seven years. Why do I even care? I’ve never hesitated to put them on before, and I have to brush the ridiculous sensation away.

Eleanor, however, seems to appear flustered. I raise my brows in question, but she buries her nose in her binder, and I return to my notes.

“I have a list of potential donors,” I begin, leaving out the part where most of them have one foot out the door after last year. “A proposed event budget, sample timelines, and some catering options.” I spread the files across the table, but instead of leaning in to read them and actually participate, Eleanor gnaws on her lower lip, hesitating.

“What is it now?” I snap. Shit, I didn’t mean for that to come out so harshly. I’m speaking to her as I would a recalcitrant student. I inhale slowly, trying to remain composed as I try again. “Is there a problem, Miss Hart?”

“It’s just…” She wrings her hands, looking apologetic. “This is great, sir, but if we don’t know what we’re fundraising for…”

For fuck’s sake. She’s like a dog with a damn bone.

“I haven’t decided yet. There are many factors to consider.”

She nods, still worrying that bottom lip between her teeth. “Of course. But… maybe I could help?”

I snort a derisive laugh. How on earth could she help?