Page 12 of The Headmaster’s Rule

“I don’t think we’re going to get any further tonight.”

Her brow dips, but she says nothing. I don’t look at her as I leave.

It’s a relief to get out of that room.

CHAPTER 6

Eleanor

Iset a coffee on my desk and stifle a yawn, then move through the classroom, lifting chairs down, one by one. The room is still and quiet before the rush of students, and I pause at the window. Outside, fog drifts across the bay, blanketing the rocks, the boats, the distant horizon. The morning air carries that unmistakable crispness with the promise of fall, but by midday, the sun will burn through.

My thoughts stray to my meeting with the headmaster last week. I surprised myself that night. I was far more nervous to meet him than I’d expected, but my need to prove I had good ideas—and do right by the students—overrode that.

Not that it helped. We didn’t agree on a single thing, and I left more confused than ever.

We clashed over everything, but somehow, he’d looked even more handsome than when I first laid eyes on him. That intense, unwavering blue gaze. Silver hair, thick on top and shaved close at the sides. Long legs folded under the table. A crisp suit that had to be tailor-made. The glint of a watch at his wrist. I kept sneaking glances across the table while he studied his notes.

And when he put on those glasses… I don’t know what came over me. I was so flustered I had to stare at my binder to pull myself together.

I wouldn’t normally be attracted to a guy so much older than me—or my boss, gulp—but there’s something about his firm, authoritative presence that’s just… hot.

Even if he intimidates the shit out of me. He’s so hard to read and impossible to please. He shot down every idea I pitched, without so much as a second thought, and he wasn’t exactly nice about it, either. I knew he wouldn’t take me seriously.

Nobody ever does.

More than anything, I’m disappointed in myself. It was a mistake to wear that awful dress to the meeting. I thought it would help my case, but he didn’t even notice. There’s no point in trying to impress him if he’s oblivious. If anything, it made me feel less confident, less myself. So, for the past week I’ve worn my favorite outfits, almost as if to spite him. He doesn’t want my help? Fine. But I will not let his negativity dull my sparkle.

Instead, I’m going to keep my head down and focus on my class. I’ve made my room even more cozy, with extra pillows in the reading nook, and a wax burner with my favorite fall scent, apple cinnamon. Now, as my students slowly trickle into class before the bell rings, I know that was the right move.

“It smells so nice in here,” Kelly Patel says, smiling as she inhales deeply.

“Yeah,” Jessica Chu agrees, setting her backpack down. “Like when my mom bakes cookies.” She spots me at my desk and comes bounding over with a grin, pointing to my skirt. “Miss! Your skirt is so pretty!”

I look down at the fabric, a tapestry of images from iconic children’s stories—The Hungry Caterpillar, Fox in Sox, Paddington Bear, Clifford the Big Red Dog, The Lorax—that falls to just below my knees. I’ve paired it with a plain black cardigan to highlight the skirt, and my yellow flats again.

“Thanks, Jessica. It’s my favorite.”

She spends a few minutes examining the print, picking out her favorites, eyes lit with delight. My heart fills with warmth, knowing I’ve made her smile like that. I watch as she ambles to the reading corner, pulls out a title, and settles onto the new pillows. A couple of students join her, and it makes me smile. Only a week into the year and they already feel comfortable enough to come into the classroom before the bell and read. I love that.

Most students at Wetherly come from privilege, but there are some who don’t. For some kids, school is their safe space. Besides, privilege doesn’t always mean safety, and if I can play a role in providing that for these kids, then I’m going to do it. I can’t think of anything more meaningful.

The bell rings a few minutes later and the rest of the class files in, with more comments on my skirt. A few of the girls mention they want one for themselves, and that gives me an idea for a hands-on project with the class, maybe sewing or similar. By the time the bell goes for recess, I’ve almost forgotten about my meeting with Headmaster Wright, until I run into Juliana grabbing coffee in the faculty lounge.

“Hey!” she says brightly, motioning for me to join her at a table in the corner. Today she’s in slim-fitting tan pants with a navy blazer, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Effortlessly glamorous and chic.

“Hi.” I take a seat and sip the scalding coffee, wondering if I should grab a cinnamon roll from the basket on the counter. One of the reasons I love this time of year is the sweet treats. In fact, Jessica mentioning cookies has inspired me to bake some later. Maybe I’ll bring them into class tomorrow.

“I just adore your skirt,” Juliana says. “It makes me want to teach third grade myself.”

I laugh, smoothing my hands over the fabric. “Thanks.”

“How’s your morning been?” she asks warmly. Despite looking as though she belongs in a magazine, Juliana is friendly and kind. Last week, she brought a sandwich to my classroom when I worked through lunch on my ideas for the fundraiser meeting, then looked through my binder with great enthusiasm. Not that it amounted to anything.

“It’s been good.” My lips curve as I think of how much my skirt made Jessica smile. “What about you?”

Juliana nods. “Good, mostly. I guess you can’t blame fifteen-year-old boys for not being all that interested in Shakespeare.” She laughs lightly. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how’d your meeting go last week?”

I grimace. “Not great. I pitched loads of ideas, and he shot down every single one.”