Page 71 of The Headmaster’s Rule

I wake early the following morning, body humming with anticipation at knowing I’m seeing Eleanor tonight. After last night’s parent meeting, I should be exhausted, but all I can think about is Eleanor. I feel like a teenager again as I dress for work, grinning to myself, literally counting the hours until she’ll be on my doorstep.

Ah, it’s too fucking long.

By the time the first bell rings, I’m already restless. Too impatient to wait until tonight, especially as we only have a few hours before I have to leave for this damn conference. I pace my office, wondering if I could get away with dropping by her classroom. Something comes back to me from yesterday, something she mentioned about carving pumpkins with her class, and I stop. Giving sharp tools to third graders is a recipe for disaster. If anything, I need to be there to ensure everyone is safe. Yes. Health and safety.

But even as I throw on my jacket and take the marble steps two at a time, I know I’m kidding myself. Eleanor would never do anything dangerous with her kids. This might be my flimsiest excuse yet for showing up at her classroom, but it’s still not enough to stop me. Not when I’m aching to see her.

Besides, I reason as I approach her door, it’s not like anything could happen between us. We’ll be surrounded by eight-year-olds, for Christ’s sake.

I peer through the narrow windowpane of her door, spotting Eleanor at a table with the kids, scooping out a pumpkin with a spoon. She’s put newspaper down, but there are pumpkin guts everywhere, kids throwing pumpkin seeds at one another. This kind of mess—this chaos—would normally be enough to give me an aneurysm, and I tense instinctively.

But as I watch Eleanor enthusiastically praise Andy’s lop-sided pumpkin, making him smile like it’s Christmas morning, any tension melts away. All I can think about is getting closer to her.

Eleanor’s gaze lifts to find me watching her through the door. She gives me a slow, wide grin as our eyes lock, one that makes my chest tight and hot. One that makes me desperately wish we were alone.

But we’re not. And when she waves me into her classroom, I’m powerless to do anything other than enter. The room still has that welcoming aroma of apple and cinnamon, mingling with the fresh, slightly sweet scent of pumpkin.

“Headmaster Wright,” she says, eyes shimmering, and all the kids turn to look my way. “What a lovely surprise. We’re carving pumpkins for the haunted hallway on Monday.”

I cast my gaze over the sea of expectant faces, feeling the need to justify my presence. “I thought I should… stop by,” I say gruffly. “Make sure no one gets hurt.”

Eleanor glances down to hide her amused smile. She knows as well as I do how thin that excuse is.

“You don’t need to worry,” she says, wiping her hands and rising to her feet. “We’ve got child-friendly carving tools.”

Of course, she found a way to make this fun yet safe. That’s who she is.

“The good news,” she continues, handing me a fresh pumpkin with a sly smile, “is you’re just in time to join us.”

“Are you going to carve one too, Headmaster Wright?” Jessica Chu asks, eyes wide with disbelief.

I glance from the pumpkin in my hands to Eleanor, hesitating. I had no intention of joining them. I only wanted to see her.

But she grins, nodding. “Of course he is.” Her eyes glitter as they meet mine. “That’s the real reason you’re visiting, isn’t it, sir?”

I stare at her, unable to stop the smile pulling at my mouth. She’s so different in her classroom, with her students present. This is her world, her domain, and she knows it. As much as that might have irritated me in the past, now it’s impossible to do anything other than pick up a carving knife.

“I’ll… give it a go,” I say at last.

“Here.” Eleanor takes the plastic carving knife from my hand and replaces it with a sharp knife, giving me a wink. “I’m pretty sure you can handle this one.”

I chuff a laugh, looking for a surface to work on, and she motions to the middle table, between Andy and a kid called James. For the briefest second, I hesitate, knowing it’s ridiculous. I’m the headmaster. Of this school. I shouldn’t be sitting at a children’s table carving pumpkins with them. It’s completely backward.

But that doesn’t stop me from lowering myself onto the small chair and folding my legs awkwardly under the low table. And when I glance up to see the look in Eleanor’s eyes, no longer teasing like before, but heated now, burning with something I can’t quite name, I’m a goner. I’ll do whatever she asks if she looks at me like that.

I shrug out of my suit jacket and push back my shirtsleeves, then set about hollowing the pumpkin. I haven’t done this for years, not since Juliana lived at home, and it tugs at a place inside me. A place I’ve kept locked up for a long time.

As I work, I keep one eye on Eleanor, watching her pause to instruct the kids, patiently helping them carve, telling them how good their pumpkins look despite missing teeth and wonky eyes. The sight of her, so competent, so patient and warm, makes my heart beat double time.

“That’s looking great, James,” Eleanor says, crouching beside him. “Those teeth are so scary.”

The kid beams, and Eleanor turns her gaze on me. I lean back to take in my handiwork and grimace. I used to be decent at this, but my pumpkin-carving skills have vanished from years of neglect, leaving me with a buck-toothed nightmare. How is it possible my pumpkin looks no better than a third-grader’s? I sneak a look at Jessica’s at the next table, with its symmetrical eyebrows, and frown. Okay, so mine’s worse than a third-grader’s. That’s embarrassing.

But Eleanor sees none of that. Instead, she smiles, warm and encouraging. And I realize this task isn’t only about creating pumpkins for Halloween next week. It’s about encouraging creativity, about making each student feel seen and accepted, regardless of how imperfect their pumpkin might be. I think of her words from the garden: Kids need to know they’re allowed to make mistakes. That they can fail, and still be safe. That’s exactly what she’s doing here. What she does for everyone she meets.

“Nice work, Headmaster Wright,” she says, and I can’t help but grin in response. Then she leans in, speaking in a low voice to add, “Who knew you’d be so good with your hands?” Her fingers brush my shoulder, too subtle for anyone else to notice, but enough to send a bolt of awareness through me. I flashback to her straddling me two nights ago, quivering as my fingers worked their way up her thighs, and it takes all my strength not to reach out and pull her into my lap.

Instead, I force my gaze to my pumpkin. And as I look at it again, I decide that maybe it’s not so bad after all.