by Nicole Snow
That’s what I was told. Since this is my first year with the district, I’m as unfamiliar with the students and their families as I am with the staff. That'll change in time, I'm sure. We’re only three weeks into the school year.
The other five drawings look much like I expect. They demonstrate passion and promise, but honestly, there isn’t another one that comes anywhere close to Natalie’s.
I wonder if her talent comes from her father. The man I try hard not to think about every time she steps foot in my class.
If the last two weeks are anything to go by, he’ll be here soon. A good twenty minutes before class ends. He'll stand in the back of the room with a spiral notebook, open it up, and let his big, rough hands touch the paper.
The first night, I thought he was making a list or notes. But last week, I had a strong feeling he was drawing. Sketching right along with his daughter and the rest of the class.
We’d started the dog last week, drawing the base after I'd gone over my quick anatomy lesson for animals. Tonight, I showed the students how to make the fur have shades of white, black, and gray.
A small, senseless part of me wonders if Natalie's dad will join in without even hearing my lesson. An even crazier part wants to see his drawing.
It could be a masterpiece like hers.
He certainly is. And that's the problem.
Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Brooding is every forbidden male archetype stuffed into one ripped package.
Mysteriously sexy by default. Imposing by gravity. Protective by virtue.
He's the kind of man I'd love to bring to a family dinner.
Just once.
That’s all it would take. He'd render Clara speechless and end mom's needless sympathy looks in one blow. He'd shut them down and then some.
Every Derby woman would be too busy gasping for breath and fanning themselves to give me any crap.
Honestly, I know the feeling. It was my reaction the first time he walked in. And the second.
At least I hid it well.
The military patches on his black leather jacket were no surprise. He has that air.
Straight back, chest forward, chin up. Disciplined. Hard.
Every move he makes, every glance, has a purpose.
Remember what I said? Every forbidden archetype.
The ones good girls are warned about, but never stay away from.
God. I shouldn't be having these thoughts.
Not about a student's father. He's probably married. And if he isn't, why the hell not?
But I didn't see a mother listed on Natalie’s emergency contacts. That makes me feel slightly less guilty about the impure thoughts stirring in my head. It also concerns me.
I hope she isn’t being pushed beyond her limits. Flogged on to greatness by a headstrong father who believes his child should succeed in everything, no matter the cost.
I know the burden.
Just as I arrive back at my desk, the hair on the back of my neck tingles. It's almost like there's a sixth sense before the Walking Masterpiece shows up. I close my eyes briefly, preparing myself for the sight I’ll see after the door creaks open.
My heart jackhammers by the time I turn around, air stalling in my lungs.
Right on time. Sure as shit.
It’s him.
Brent Eden. His hair is the same wavy black as his daughter’s. Natalie has his eyes, too.
Emerald green.
His are colder, though. More seasoned. More cautious.
His features add to his presence. A tiny faded scar here, an inked muscle there, a calloused hand. Things a normal person wouldn't notice unless they're gawking at him like me.
Beautifully rough finishes for a man cut from Heaven's most twisted fabric.
The thick trimmed beard circling his jaw must feel as dangerous as it looks. Delicious torture on any woman’s skin. Especially mine since it’s as virgin as the rest of me.
Fucking-A. Last week's after-dinner talk with Clara clearly messed with my mind.
Left me focused on things I’ve never worried over before. Namely, finding a man to take home to mother. And maybe to bed while we're at it.
What the hell am I doing? I pinch my thigh. Ogling a man who's nothing but trouble, apparently.
He eases the door shut and quietly moves along the back wall, taking the exact same spot where he’s stood the past two weeks. Leaning against a desk, he unclips a pen from his notebook's cover and then flips it open.
Look away, Izzy.
I sense he’ll look up any second. Naturally, I can’t. It's like someone telling you to not think about a pink elephant.
There’s too much gorgeous mystery in front of me. Too much temptation.
The heat rushing to my cheeks tells me I’ve been caught staring even before my eyes travel all the way up to meet his. Damn!
“Ms. Derby?”
Tad Gomez calls my name, one of the older students, but a snail could beat me turning around.
Brent’s gaze is intense. Heated. Almost like he's challenging me not to look away.
I'm not a daring person. I just don't want to lose this staring contest. But duty calls.
Lifting a brow, I rip my gaze off his, and scuttle towards Tad’s seat.
I'm grateful for the few seconds I have to find my voice. “Having trouble?”
“Yes, ma'am. I can’t get the nose to look 3-D. Not like yours.”
I point towards Tad’s drawing, which is good, but as he said, a little flat. “It's the angle. Here, let me show you.”
He nods, handing me his pencil. I lightly outline how to angle the nose downward in order to give it depth. “See? One little change works like magic.”
“Yes, Ms. Derby. Yes, I do. Thanks!” He takes his pencil back and continues filling in the outline.
“Light strokes, remember. They'll flesh it out even more.”
Barely touching the paper with the edge of his pencil, he nods bashfully. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Tad. Keep it up. You're off to an awesome start.”
He pushes his thick glasses up his nose. “I really like this class, Ms. Derby.”
Such a sweet boy. How could I do anything but smile? “We all do.”
The door squeaks again. This time, it’s Ester Oden’s mother. She works as a custodian at the school and stays late in order to drive Ester home after class. I smile at her as I make my way around the room, checking on the progress of each student, offering a helpful hint and words of encouragement.
It feels good to do my job. And to find a perfect distraction from the man I shouldn't be staring at.
“Five more minutes,” I say, once I'm back at my desk.
There are no audible groans, but I can sense each student’s disappointment, knowing this week’s class is almost over. I’m honored they don't want to leave.
This, right here, is the reason I sunk a lot of time and money into getting my credentials. It's why I spent years doing every part time job in the known universe. It's what I've dreamed about, working at the most prestigious academy in the Phoenix area.
“Ms. Derby?”
“Yeah, Ben?” I reply. Ben Pritchard is a typical teenager. Tall, thin, and a bad case of acne.
“Is it all right if I snap a picture of your drawing at the end of class so I can work on mine later?” he asks, holding up his cell phone.
“Go for it! But no Snapchat filters on me, and you'd better believe I'm watching. Only warning I'll give.” I bite my lip and shake my finger, making them laugh.
I nod towards the others in the class and step out of the way, assuring them they can all take pictures. I hear the digital click-click-click of their phones and a few snickers.
Then my gaze, all on its own, drifts to the back of the room. Brent's head is down this time, thankfully.
He's sketching again. Furiously.
I have a different reason to bite my lip. This time, not so playfully.
There's something admirable in his focus. S
omething sexy.
I'm waiting for him to look up, after the older kids are done taking pics. At ten, I doubt Natalie has a cell phone. I assume he’ll want to get a picture for her.
He never looks up, though. Never throws his eyes my way. Even though I sense him wanting to behind his determined, subtle smirk.
I suck a deep breath and hold it, hoping it eases the heat coursing through my system. I glance at the clock and then smile at my students. “Okay, guys and gals! Time to start putting your stuff away. Please bring your completed drawing back to class next week.”
Every student, except Natalie, finishes taking pictures of my drawing, either before or after they’ve packed up their belongings. While saying goodbye to each of them, I start gathering my things, too, but leave the drawing on the easel.
What gives? Why isn't Brent getting her a picture?
He’s still lost in his own world. Sketching quickly. Frantically. Like he's desperate to finish something before leaving. My curiosity turns into pure adrenaline.
I can’t stop myself. “Mr. Eden? Would you like a picture?”
When he looks up, his gaze is so intense my heart nearly stops mid-beat.
“Oh, I'd like that! Please, can you, Daddy?” Natalie asks, turning to him.
I'm glad she doesn't witness me melting into a puddle of nerves.
His bright eyes shift. The smile transforming Brent's face is for his daughter, but it steals my breath.
I’ve watched lots of men smile. I've seen it, sketched it, noted how a thin quirk of the lips can change a full appearance.
But this man, this beast, goes from hardcore army badass to giant teddy bear in the blink of an eye.
He can't hide the adoration lighting up his eyes the second Natalie calls him Daddy.
At least I've learned one thing tonight: this man lives for his daughter.
Guilt twists in my guts again when I remember my earlier worries about him being overbearing. Not now. It just doesn't seem likely.
“Sure, sweets. One second,” he says, closing his notebook.
My heart starts working again. It beats harder with every step he takes toward the front of the room.
I’ve been this close to him before. Once. The first night, when he’d dropped Natalie off and introduced himself.
I tried like crazy not to freeze up, and failed miserably, barely muttering my name.
Can't let that happen again. I won't embarrass myself a second time, no matter how many feels this handsome enigma shoots through me.
Pretending I'm unfazed by his presence, I say goodbye to Ester and her mother before they walk out the side door. Then, in my scattered state of mind, I accidentally knock a stack of papers off the corner of my desk.
“Oh, f – fiddlesticks!” I say, catching myself.
God. I'd nearly dropped an f-bomb in my flustered state. My tongue is my biggest vice sometimes. I'm still sanding away the rough language I picked up too much of in college.
Natalie shoots forward. “I’ll help, Ms. Derby!”
I kneel down beside her and start gathering the papers. “Thanks, Natalie. I certainly can be clumsy sometimes. Must be getting late.”
Must be. Or else I'd totally have to admit I've been drooling over her father for the better part of the last ten minutes.
“We all have accidents,” she says. “Don’t stress.”
I smile, nodding slowly. This girl sounds far too old for her age, which causes me to glance up at her father.
He's raised her to be polite. Kind. Intelligent.
He shrugs when he sees there isn't room to step in and help, walking over to pick up the backpack she's left on the floor.
I take the papers Natalie collects and stack them on top of the pile I've formed. “Thanks for your help again, Natalie. You're too awesome.”
“Ready, sweets?” Brent asks.
“Coming!” Natalie flashes a big grin. “See you next week, Ms. Derby. Can't wait to finish my drawing.”
“Looking forward to it,” I answer, flinching slightly at not being able to come up with something more original.
Brent nods at me while laying a hand on Natalie’s shoulder and guiding her towards the door.
I nod back. I think. I'm too embarrassed to say for sure.
Woof. I'm so ready to slump into my chair before I leave the building.
I need five or ten. Just a few precious minutes to let my body, mind, and pulse find their baseline.
I doubt there's any time. This is the only evening class near closing time. Oscar Winters, the janitor, who doubles as our evening security guard, is already waiting for me to leave so he can lock up and go home.
Sighing, I set the stack of papers on the corner, hoping the regular teacher in this room, Mrs. Wayne's substitute, isn’t overly upset tomorrow morning that they aren’t in the same order. Then I start packing my things in my carry-all. I'm so busy trying to get out of here I don't even see him enter.
“Finally! Why the hell have you been ignoring my calls and texts?”
The voice vibrating in my ears makes me shudder like a spider crawling up my spine. A huge, unwanted, hairy one.
Crap. Not this guy again.
I huff out a breath of air before glancing up. “What are you doing here, Preston?”
All five feet and nine inches of Preston Graves stands just a few feet away like he owns the place. He probably thinks he does.
He’s that arrogant. If you could take a picture of a blind date gone bad, it would look like this man.
Bleached blond hair, blue eyes, and obscenely rich. He’s also the biggest prick I’ve ever met.
He looked better in the pics he'd uploaded to the matchmaker app. I was actually excited when it said we were compatible, mainly because I knew mom would approve. Well, and because he didn't look quite as phony with a good filter.
Then we met, and he opened his dumb mouth.
“Isabella, don't play coy. You know why I'm here: you haven’t responded to a single one of my messages. You're ignoring me.” He leans a hand on the corner of the desk. “For your information, Preston Graves does not like being ignored.”
That’s how he talks. Third person. It’s overly unnecessary and fucking annoying.
Correction: he’s overly fucking annoying.
“I’ve been busy,” I say.
I mentally wonder how crazy my intruder is. Could he stop me from reaching for my phone if push comes to shove?
“Excuses, excuses. Who do you think you're dealing with, dear? No one's ever too busy for me. What's the real deal keeping you away?”
Gag me with a fucking spoon. “The school year just started.”
I force a weak smile. It does nothing. Call me an idiot for letting the dating app scan my real employer. I'm an even bigger fool if I think it'll help get me out of this madness.
“And?” Preston taps his polished shoe impatiently, scratching his head.
Ugh. Is he dense or just insufferable?
I’d told him when I cut our date short that I didn’t have time to see him again, but he obviously thought I was lying. Why he'd want to chase a liar, who knows.
Time to take a different route. “Preston, look, you shouldn't be here. It's a secure environment, this academy, whether it's school hours or not. We have rules.”
“Nonsense. Nothing's too secure for Preston Graves. My Uncle Theo sits on the board of the largest banking chain in Maricopa county. Security's practically my middle name. It's lovely you follow the rules, Isabella, but you've got nothing to worry about as long as –”
Oh, please, shut up, Gaston. It's too much like my favorite fairy tale with none of the charm. I stop listening.
It's time to end this right now.
“Do you have a pass, Preston? Did you show it to the guard in the hall?”
“The janitor, you mean? The man who’s vacuuming a few classrooms away?” He turns his nose up, walking around the desk, dragging a manicured hand along the edge. “Very funny, Isabe
lla. You're on fire tonight. Why would I waste the time? When Preston finds something he wants, nothing stands in his way.” He stops right in front of me. “Nothing and no one.”
My heart leaps into my throat. This puffed up joke of a man is getting old and weird fast. I don't like the glint in his eye. He’s a mega-creep, too. Not just socially clueless.
I think I know a psychotic asshole who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth when I see one. Knew it from the night I was dumb enough to go out with him.
I just didn't think he'd go to these lengths for another chance. Never imagined he'd bother me here.
I freeze, trying to think without making it too obvious. I don’t dare glance around.
That would be the worst thing: letting him think he has me scared.
But he does.
This looney tune has my heart crawling up my throat.
“Are we done playing now?” He steps closer, an eerie warmth on his face. “I know you like Preston, Isabella. Everyone does. You just have a rather curious way of showing it.”
A shiver ripples through my entire body. I have nothing to defend myself, and shoot a sideways glance at the desk, scanning for something that might work.
Nothing. Not even a sharp pencil.
I'm screwed. Estimating how loud I can scream when everything changes.
Preston falls backwards, grabbing the edge of the desk so hard it moves, scraping the floor. Then I see Brent Eden. Nostrils flaring, he has a hand on the back of Preston’s starched shirt collar.
Preston twists his neck, taking in the man holding onto him. “W-Who are you?”
“Nothing and no one,” Brent says, echoing his earlier words.
Though I never condone violence, right now I wouldn’t mind seeing Preston knocked on his ass.
He tries shaking off Brent’s iron grip. “You're making a big mistake! I’m Preston Graves the third and –”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Brent growls, tightening his hold.
Wow.
Preston squirms, panic in his eyes. “But...this is crazy! Isabella and I are dating.”
Brent’s green eyes settle on me. My heart's still in my throat, but I manage to shake my head for a split second.
