Page 46 of The Headmaster’s Rule

I shouldn’t be kissing my boss like this, but I can’t stop. I can’t make myself care.

I slide my hands up the hard planes of his chest, feeling his heart pound through his vest, winding my arms around his neck, fingers threading into his hair.

God, he’s perfection. The feel of his cheek against me, rough with stubble, the hard, wet press of his mouth, the heat of his chest as it meets mine. I shouldn’t push my luck, but I can’t help it. I reach for his ass, gripping the solid globes, dragging him against me. Heat streaks down my center when I feel the hard ridge of him against my belly, when he moans onto my tongue as our bodies meet.

I need more. I need all of him. Instinctively, I lift my leg, hooking it over his hip, wanting him closer, but this does something to him, makes him break the kiss, sends him staggering back from me with wide, wild eyes.

“No, no, no,” he mutters, dragging both hands down his face. “God, Eleanor—” He glances frantically around the empty parking lot. “We can’t.”

I press my fingertips to my swollen, tingling lips, heart pummeling my ribs. Disappointment rips clean through me, and I try desperately to get him back in my arms.

“Theo,” I say gently, reaching for him again, but he takes another step back.

“No.” His usual frown returns, shoulders back in their rigid position, hands jammed into his pockets as if to stop himself from touching me again. “This can’t happen.”

I swallow, letting my hand drop.

Of course this can’t happen. What was I thinking? I have to work with this man—technically, for this man—and my work matters to me. Greatly. I should be grateful he stopped this before it went too far, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to.

But I’m struggling to find any gratitude right now.

He takes a step closer, softening. “I’m sorry. I wish…” But he doesn’t finish the sentence, and I’m left silently wondering what he wishes. If it’s the same thing as me.

“It’s okay,” I force myself to say, smoothing a hand over my mussed hair. “I understand.”

He gazes at me, expression agonized, mouth opening and closing, as if he can’t settle on what to say. At last, he exhales a long, jagged sigh of bitter resignation.

“Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

Confusion swims through me as I reach for the door handle with shaking hands, but all I say is, “Okay.”

And for the second night in a row, I drive out of that parking lot with Theo in my rear-view mirror.

I spend the next two weeks avoiding Theo. It’s for the best, I tell myself, even if every day feels worse because of it. I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to enjoy our work sessions. I understand why we can’t take things further, even if I don't like it, but I miss working together on the fundraiser and Safe Harbor.

Not that we’re not working on it, we just aren’t doing it together. Instead, he emails me tasks to do, people to contact, venues and caterers to inquire with, and I respond with a politely distant and professional tone. The way a teacher should communicate with the headmaster.

It’s my own fault we’re in this position. I let myself get carried away in that garden, talking and laughing, teasing Theo like we’re old friends, like he isn’t my boss, for fuck’s sake. I shouldn’t have touched him—again—but God, my heart broke as I listened to him flagellate himself because he’d made a mistake with last year’s fundraiser.

Because he isn’t perfect.

All this time I thought he’d been hard on me, on everyone around him, but really that was an extension of his own high standards. Of what he expects of himself.

And it’s too damn much.

I know what happened last year is a big deal, that much is clear. Donors aren’t happy, staff don’t want to go near the fundraiser, and the board is obviously breathing down Theo’s neck, but he wasn’t negligent. He isn’t superhuman. These things will, unfortunately, occasionally happen.

I drop my tote bag on my classroom desk, looking up at yesterday’s quote of the day on the white board: The greatest mistake you can make in life is continually fearing that you’ll make one - Elbert Hubbard. That describes Theo to a T. So worried about making another mistake that he won’t let himself breathe, so damn hard on himself when he slips up.

My heart pinches as I slip my jacket off and hang it over the back of my chair. I’m certain he’ll be mercilessly beating himself up after what happened between us, and I wish I could speak to him, could tell him to cut himself some slack. Guilt has been my constant companion since that night. I shouldn’t have pushed him about last year, should have kept my mouth shut. When I tried texting him to apologize, I got nothing back. In the few times I saw him in the hallways, it hurt too much, so I started avoiding them altogether.

Sighing, I glance at the empty mug on my desk. I could really use a coffee, and it’s getting tiresome hiding in my classroom. Swiping my cup off the desk, I head to the faculty lounge, my steps slowing as I climb the marble staircase. For the first time, I stop to examine the black and white photos that line the dark wood-paneled walls, my gaze landing on a man both handsome and stern in way that’s familiar. The nameplate reads: Walter Wright.

Theo’s father.

I stare at the photograph for a moment, struck by the resemblance. No wonder Theo feels the weight of responsibility. How can he escape the pressure with his father watching over him like this?

Maybe that’s why he never gives himself a break.