Page 101 of The Headmaster’s Rule

She smiles. “Many times.” Sawing her teeth across her bottom lip, she adds, “But… I might have to take this off, sorry.” She motions to her dress. “These straps are killing me.”

I chuckle, running my thumb along her collarbone. “You never have to apologize for undressing in front of me.”

She grins, sliding one strap over her shoulder. I watch for a moment as she slowly peels her dress away from her body, then turn to my weekend bag. If I stand too close, I’ll pounce on her, and I don’t want to do that. Not yet.

I look at my own outfit—pressed shirt and dinner jacket, polished shoes—and decide I want to change too. Pulling fresh clothes from my bag, I head for the bathroom, keeping my eyes firmly away from Eleanor.

In the bathroom I strip out of my formal clothes, sliding into my favorite worn-in gray sweats and white tee. My gaze lingers on the items spread out on the bathroom counter, my beard oil and cologne beside Eleanor’s makeup, toothbrushes kissing. It’s so intimate, so domestic, and I hesitate. Maybe sweatpants are too much.

But as I contemplate going back out there in anything else, it doesn’t feel right. What feels right is this, our belongings side by side. The little touches and glances and moments today. Tonight, her and me, comfortable and honest.

I splash water on my face, washing my beard and brushing my teeth, raking a hand through my hair to make sure I’m still passable, then slip back into the room. Eleanor sits cross-legged on the bed in gray leggings and an over-sized soft pink sweater that hangs off one shoulder, feet in fluffy socks, and I breathe out. We’re on the same page.

“Are you… in sweatpants?” she teases as I cross the room to hang my dinner clothes. “Or have I fallen into an alternate dimension?”

I shrug, a little sheepish. “I’m in sweatpants.”

“Wow,” she whispers, hand to her mouth in exaggerated shock. “I didn’t even know you owned clothes like that.” Her eyes catch on something, and her smile falters. “Wait. Stop. Is that a tattoo?”

I freeze.

She rises onto her knees on the bed, pointing. “Come here. Let me see it.”

I sigh, tempted to grab a sweater, wave her away, change the subject. I haven’t thought about that thing in years; a crowned pawn in black ink on the back of my bicep. A leftover mark from a version of myself I’ve long forgotten.

But she’s seen it. And I don’t want to brush it off.

“Alright,” I mutter, crossing to sit on the edge of the bed. I tug up the hem of my sleeve enough to expose the back of my arm.

“Holy shit,” Eleanor breathes, eyes wide. “Headmaster Wright has ink.”

She touches it softly, reverently, and I resist the urge to turn away. It’s strange how exposed I feel, even with a shirt on.

“I wasn’t always Headmaster Wright, you know,” I say wryly, glancing at her.

She giggles. “Impossible. I’m pretty sure you were born in a suit, frowning at the world. Although…” Her gaze drops to my sweatpants, one brow arching. Then she looks back at the tattoo, head tilting. “It’s kind of adorable.”

“It was supposed to be ironic,” I mutter.

She sinks onto her elbow at my side, looking up at me. “When did you get it?”

“In college. When my father made it clear it was already decided I’d take over from him, whether I wanted to or not.”

Eleanor frowns. “Was that before or after you were married?”

The question takes me by surprise. She’s never asked after Viv, and my first instinct is to deflect, to change the subject, but I can’t be anything other than truthful with her.

“Before.”

I hesitate, thinking about my late wife. Viv was kind. Familiar. She represented the kind of life I was supposed to want. And I tried. God, I tried.

But it wasn’t this. It wasn’t real, not like this.

And I feel the need to explain that to Eleanor.

“Viv and I were together a long time before we got married. Since high school. It… just… felt like what we were supposed to do.”

Eleanor nods, listening intently. There’s something about her open, compassionate gaze that urges me to go on.