Page 38 of The Headmaster’s Rule

Just like that, the wall is back up.

With a sigh, I pull my binder and pen out. He settles beside me again, all business, and we spend the next two hours mapping out details for the fundraiser before circling back to discuss Safe Harbor.

I’m in the middle of explaining my idea for the garden project when I notice it: the tight pull across my scalp, the dull press of an oncoming headache. I reach back, tugging the elastic from my bun, letting my hair fall loose. It’s a relief to comb my fingers through the strands, easing the tension.

When I glance up, Headmaster Wright—Theo—is watching me over the rims of his glasses. His nostrils flare slightly. He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet office, and I follow the motion of his throat, the long line of it. Over the course of the evening he’s removed his tie, and I can see a hint of salt-and-pepper chest hair at the opening of his collar. I want to lean forward and press my lips to the warm skin, to slowly unbutton that shirt and trace every inch of him with my hands.

My head throbs, and I wince, raising a hand to my temple. Concern flickers across his face. He leans forward, reaching out as if to touch me before quickly withdrawing his hand.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice husky.

“Just a headache. It happens when I wear my hair up for too long.”

His brow furrows, gaze lingering like he’s not quite convinced. Then he rises.

“Margaret keeps Tylenol in her desk.”

I watch as he strides from the room, returning a moment later with the pills and a glass of water. It’s the tiniest gesture, but it makes something swell in my chest. Gratitude, and something else. Something that makes me want to pull him close and do a lot more than thank him.

I down the pills and the water, offering him a grateful smile. He glances at his watch, brows lifting.

“I didn’t realize the time. We should wrap up.”

Disappoint tugs faintly behind my breastbone, but he’s right. We’ve been working for hours now, and we’ve gotten through more than I expected.

Still, it’s hard not to wish for a little more time. It’s always different at night. The low lighting. The quiet hush of a building that's emptied out. The way he loosens, just a little, as the day fades. It’s torture, sitting across from him like this, knowing how close I am to crossing a line I’m not supposed to touch.

Wondering if he might want to cross that line too.

I give a reluctant nod and close my binder. “We got a lot done,” I say, gathering my things.

“Mm.” He watches me, hands tucked into his pockets. Then he says something that takes me by surprise. “I need to thank you, Eleanor.”

I blink up at him. “Why?”

He sinks into the chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d been agonizing over the fundraiser for months. Losing sleep over it,” he admits, gaze flicking away. “After last year’s debacle…” He trails off, but I can feel the weight of it, the way he still carries whatever happened like it’s his personal failure. My chest tightens. I’m beginning to see that he’s not nearly as hard on me as he is on himself, and without thinking, I reach out to touch his arm.

He freezes.

Oh. Shit. I shouldn’t have done that.

My eyes drop to where my fingers rest on the warm skin of his forearm, veins threaded below the surface, muscles tense beneath my touch. His skin feels electric, pulse quickening under my fingertips, and my heart trips. Every nerve ending in my body fires with anticipation as I imagine leaning in closer, breathing in his clean, sandalwood scent. I’m scared to look up, worried he’ll be frowning and stern. Disapproving.

But when I finally gather the courage, his expression knocks the breath from my lungs. He looks wrecked. Like he feels it too, and knows he shouldn’t.

I snatch my hand back, heart hammering. What the hell am I doing?

“Sorry,” I mutter, shoving my binder into my tote. My bag swings over my shoulder as I rise too fast, needing to escape.

“Eleanor, wait,” he calls as I scurry to the door.

When I turn back, he’s standing with his hands braced on his hips, staring out the window, jaw tight.

“I should walk you to your car.”

God, I want that. I want him to walk me out into the dark and press me against the side of my car. I want his hands in my hair, his mouth desperate and claiming.

But that would be a mistake. A huge one.