Page 98 of The Headmaster’s Rule

I hesitate. Music is so personal. I remember the music he had on when he cooked me dinner that time, something classical, beautiful. I can’t imagine what he’ll think of my taste.

“Okay,” I agree, chewing my lip. “But it might not be your thing.”

The side of his mouth lifts in a tiny smile as his gaze slides my way. “Try me.”

I scroll through my phone, weighing my options. In the end, I go with Hozier’s Wasteland, Baby!, putting on the track No Plan. The title makes me think of Theo and me. This weekend. Everything that comes after. How we don’t have a damn clue what we’re doing.

He listens for a moment, nodding slightly. “It’s not bad,” he concedes, but he doesn’t look like he’s only tolerating it. Not when I catch his finger tapping the wheel, when he nudges the volume up via the button on the steering wheel as if I won’t notice.

I watch him drive, smiling to myself. He didn’t change the song. He didn’t even complain. He just listened, and he likes it. Stern, uptight Headmaster Wright, drumming along to Hozier in the car.

Happiness balloons in my chest, my heart feeling suddenly like it could burst. This man… he’s such a collection of contradictions, and I love them all. I love his headmaster side, all rules and restrictions. I love the deep, rough passion that breaks through. And this side, this softer, unnameable part I’m only now learning about. I love it all, and can’t wait to learn even more, to see even more facets of him.

I just hope I get the chance.

The title track comes on, much softer than the previous track, the lyrics romantic, revealing. I have to force my gaze away as Hozier sings about the intensity of falling in love.

Because if I look at Theo now, he’ll see it all over my face.

He’ll see how hard I’ve fallen in love with him.

We arrive in the city too early to check into our hotel, so Theo finds a spot to park in the West Village. Unfolding his long legs from the car, he pulls on a tailored charcoal-gray wool coat, and smiles at me.

“Let’s get some breakfast.”

I nod, stretching after the drive. A siren blares a few streets away, and I smile. It’s odd returning to the city after the quiet coastal peace of Wetherly Cove. As we emerged from the dark, narrow Midtown Tunnel into a burst of light and joined FDR Drive to head south, I didn’t feel the crushing stress I remember from my last time here. I watched the skyscrapers rise around us, spotted the familiar silhouette of the Chrysler Building, glimpsed the Brooklyn Bridge spanning the East River in the distance, and grinned. And when Theo turned off at Grand Street, guiding us across town into the West Village, I felt a quiet thrill. I love Wetherly Cove, and have no plans to leave, but it’s nice to be back. It’s nice to be here with him.

“Where should we eat?” I ask, falling into step beside Theo, pulling my own mulberry-red coat tight around me.

“I’m not sure.” He chuffs a small, quiet laugh, a puff of white steam in the cold fall air. His hands slide into his coat pockets, his posture different from usual. Uncertain, almost. “I haven’t been to the city in ages. Do you know anywhere good?”

“I do.” I lived in Crown Heights but came to the West Village whenever I could to visit my favorite bookstore, Between the Lines, so I know the area well.

He pauses at the crosswalk, and I bite back a smile. Any New Yorker knows you don’t wait for the light. You walk. But as Theo’s hand comes to my lower back, tentative at first, then tightening protectively as a truck rumbles past, I forget the lights.

He’s touching me. In public.

And when I glance up to find him gazing at me, blue eyes warm with affection as they move over my face, a smile hinting at the edges of his mouth, I forget the whole damn city.

He’s allowed to touch me here. Of course. We’re anonymous, not scandalous. And I can touch him, too.

I lift a hand to his chest, wanting to rise on my toes and kiss him, when someone behind me bellows, “Are you crossing, or what?”

Ah, New York.

Theo’s brows slant together as he steps away, motioning for me to cross the street.

But I’m transfixed by this revelation. That I don’t have to hold myself in check, hyper-aware of every glance, carefully counting the minutes until we’re alone.

And suddenly, I’m drunk on it.

I grab his hand when we reach the other side of the street, tugging him against the railing of a stoop, out of the flow of pedestrians. Then I pull him into me by the lapels of his coat.

His eyebrows spring up in surprise, and one hand lands on the railing behind me as I press my mouth to his.

“I can kiss you here,” I breathe. He’s hesitant, then softens, dropping his forehead to mine with a smile. Another slow, delicious kiss, before we finally peel apart, remembering where we are. I mean, we’re anonymous, but we’re not invisible.

It seems to flick a switch in Theo, though, because he stiffens, pulling at the cuff of his coat as he glances around, double-checking, as if his body remembers something his heart forgot. That we’re supposed to be careful.