by Miranda King
“Anywhere?”
And then it dawned on me…
“How did you see my—my…” Oh, how this man flustered me!
“Panties.” He offered the word so intimately that I’m certain I must’ve blushed as red as my undergarments. “And in case you’re wondering, the wind was kicking up your skirt,” he said. “Here in Maravista, a man doesn’t look up a woman’s skirt”—he flashed me a grin—“unless invited.”
That grin did things to my insides.
I breathed as if I’d just finished a marathon, and my muscles ached for a deep massage. I rubbed my hands against my sides and smoothed down the hemline of my skirt. His mouth opened, closed, and then opened again, but he said nothing.
“Anything else I should know about?” I asked.
He watched my hands pressing the cotton skirt against me. “Your skirt is much too short.” He nearly growled that out.
“No, it isn’t.” That was my brain’s automated response to his tone.
“And we’re back to this again,” he said. “Ms. Wellborn, who am I to you?”
“The principal.”
“That means your boss,” he said. “Have you ever had a boss?”
“No, I make doll clothes for side money,” I said. “But you would’ve known that if you’d read my packet.” I crossed my arms. “And yes, we’re back to that again.”
He chuckled. “Here.” He took off his suit jacket and draped it around my shoulders. “Put this on.” His warmth, his masculine scent of musk and something else, covered me. “It should get you through,” he said, “but tomorrow—”
“I won’t wear red.”
“That would be a disappointment,” he said in a low, almost inaudible voice.
“Why?” I was emboldened with his jacket next to my skin.
Then he draped his sunglasses across his eyes, and the Iron Curtain dropped between us.
“It’s our school color.”
Was that the only reason?
“Sass to Play Dolls with School Football Team”
-Gossip Weekly
“School Insider Confirms Sass Late to Work on First Day of School”
-Royal Rumor Report
I stepped over the threshold of my classroom and kissed Grandpa’s Stanvard Law ring hanging around my neck for luck. I loved this room—the picture windows, the walls the color of sunshine, the red and wood accents.
My room had mahogany tables, instead of desks, in the front. I also had twenty-five sewing machines, five on each of the five heavy wooden counters that cut across the back of the room, with another exit door to the side.
At least for sixth period, I was all set for my students. I had over eighty unique Fashion Royalty dolls set on a counter, and bins and bins of doll clothes for this class bought by Divina—she tended to overdo things.
Ms. Krusher, my assistant principal, came in with Mr. Princeton’s promised video for the rest of my classes and mentioned she’d covered homeroom for me this morning.
“Thank you, I owe you.”
“Consider it paid come sixth period when you see the students I assigned to you.” Her lips pressed together and frowned. “Let’s call it my welcoming gift.” Then she glared at me. “Oh, and around here, we don’t carry on conversations with Princeton in the parking lot,” she said. “You only speak to him when spoken to.” Her eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Understand?”
About a million retorts formed on my tongue, but she was my supervisor. I opted for professional words iced with sarcasm. “Next time I see him,” I said, “I’ll make sure to pass along how helpful you are.”
She opted to slam my door on the way out.
By lunchtime, I had a legitimate welcoming gift. An office aide brought me an enormous tissue-stuffed box from an expensive designer.
Inside was a dress that I bet would’ve cost me a whole month’s paycheck. A gorgeous silk—not jersey fabric—red, wraparound dress that tied at the waist and cut into a V at the front. A perfect fit, including matching shoes.
Attached was a handwritten note:
No name, but I knew exactly who it was from. A thrill shot through my veins.
The possibility of seeing Mr. Princeton later had absolutely no bearing on why I squeezed my feet into those impossibly high, red heels.
Who was I kidding? My feet throbbed all day in those torture traps—a modern-day equivalent to Chinese footbinding. But I suffered through for Mr. Princeton... waiting, hoping that he’d look at me, and once again, I might see something in his eyes that would make me feel as if I was the most beautiful woman in the world to him.
By sixth period, I still hadn’t seen him. But the kids that piled in the room were certainly a gift from Ms. Krusher.
She gave me mostly boys, and all were from the football team, based on their uniforms. The girls had on cheer outfits, save for Smart Sally. She sat up in the front of the class, eyes bright, posture straight, eager to open her fashion design textbook.
When they saw the textbook assignment on the board, everyone else grumbled.
“This was supposed to be an easy A so we could focus on our hard classes,” said one.
“Yeah, like study hall,” said another. “I’ve got to do my Calculus homework before the game.”
Then nine more voiced similar concerns.
I had a mutiny on my hands. I glimpsed for a second at the attendance sheet that had their pictures next to their names, and then I set the paper behind me.
“Okay, Lynn and Gene and…” I rattled off the rest of their names directly to them. “I understand, but—”
Smart Sally raised her hand and asked, “How did you learn all their names so fast? You just glanced at the roster for a few seconds.” She sounded amazed. “How’d you do that?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“That’s a pretty cool trick,” said Gene, and the others nodded.
“She’s like super-smart,” added Lynn.
“Of course,” Smart Sally enlightened everyone. “She went to Harvard.”
“Wow!” exclaimed some of them.
Guess this was when Harvard paid off. I judged people, not by their education, but by whether they were All Talk, No Action. Yet these kids were impressed by the perceived smartness that accompanied the label of a fancy university name.
I knew the type. I used to be one. I didn’t care about getting into Stanvard Law for its name. Nope, I only wanted it because it was so important to Grandpa that he had given up his last breaths to secure my promise. I kissed his ring around my neck again.
I then scanned the room looking at the textbooks they had on their desks, like Advanced Physics and Organic Chemistry. These were bright kids, and they were busting their butts to get into a good school.
Divina had told me that Maravista’s brightest students left for prestigious universities around the world. Yet the world’s “party” students migrated to Maravista Universtiy. Divina wanted to change all that—and now seeing these ambitious kids, I wanted to, too.
Ms. Krusher may have meant to throw me a curveball with these students, but I had a perfect pitch—these students wanted to learn.
So I held up Shake It Up Korrinne, a bright blond doll with pale skin, and explained the chemistry involved in creating the plastic molding. The engineering behind her articulated joints. The geometry and mathematical skills needed to design her pewter-colored, edgy dress. The kids were intrigued, at least enough to open up their textbooks.
I still had to convince them that artistic creativity was also a trait of a being “smart.” I had my work cut out on that one.
But if Mr. Princeton had walked in any point, he’d have seen that this class was serious, academic, and not a bunch of students “playing with dolls.”
By the end of class, I let the kids handle the dolls for the first time. Pierce, the dark-haired football quarterback and co-captain of the mock trial team, asked if he could have Shake It Up Korrine.
He examined the doll and then point
ed her at the girl beside him. “Hey, look Betsy, she’s got a bump on her nose just like yours before you got that surgery.”
Everyone laughed.
And who would walk in right as he said that?
Yep, that’s right, my boss, Mr. Princeton.
Did I have time to undo the damage?
Nope, right then, the final bell rang.
The kids filed out, and Betsy stopped to tell me that she didn’t mind any attention she could get from Pierce. Poor Betsy “Bump.”
That boy had good looks and a bad attitude. Pierce was the son of the famed attorney Fallon Madson, our mock trial coach, and the privileged cousin of Prince Michael. I didn’t need a chemistry lesson to know that combined to make trouble. And I didn’t like how Smart Sally scampered after him out the door.
When she left, I had a clear view of Mr. Princeton. He leaned against the wooden counter with his hands in his pockets and his legs folded at the ankles. The man had the good looks of a male model, and I didn’t need a chemistry lesson to figure out I was attracted to him.
Simple biology was enough—my palms sweated, my heart raced, and my insides melted.
“Um,” I croaked. Yep, and apparently my mouth went dry, too. “Here’s your jacket back.” I had it draped across my chair, and I pivoted too fast trying to turn towards my desk for it. I fell back against a student table.
Darn high heels.
If my knees also turned to jelly around him, I wouldn’t admit to it.
He was at my side in an instant. “Is your knee okay? Do you want me to check it again?”
God, yes! “Nope, I’m fine.”
“Sure?” He reached for my hand to help me… that is, my sweaty hand, and I pulled it back at the last second.
He raked a hand through his hair. “Okay then.”
I righted myself and retrieved his jacket. The fabric slid from my arms into his hands, and his fingers brushed across my bare skin. Electric.
As in the parking lot earlier, we both took a sharp intake of breath in unison.
“You do this to all the men, don’t you?” His voice low, gruff.
“If you mean borrow men’s jackets,” I said. “Nope, you’re my first.”
He raked a hand through his hair again and let his eyes search mine, for what I didn’t know.
“Is there something wrong?” I asked.
“No.” He shook his head, like he was shaking off a thought, and then he glanced at the wall clock. “There’s a parent coming about the doll class. She’s concerned about their… figures,” he said. “Since it’s your first day, I planned on handling it.”
“I need to be there.” That was a fact. “This is my class. Don’t you trust me with a parent?”
“If you insist,” he said. “This mom used to be one of my nannies, and she can be… bossy. Well, you’ll see.”
“School Insider Confirms Parent Irate with Sass, Demands Meeting”
-Gossip Weekly
“Sass Unable to Handle Class and Parents”
-Royal Rumor Report
I snatched a bag with some outfits and a random Fashion Royalty doll, Irresistible Dania, off the counter. Her original outfit was a black skirt suit, but one of the kids must’ve changed her. She had on Mattel’s Roman Holiday outfit made for Barbie.
“Looks like what you wore this morning,” he said, referring to the doll’s outfit.
“But I like what I have on now better,” I said. “You didn’t have to reimburse me like this, but thank you.” I walked past him for the door, and the bottom of my red silk dress inadvertently wisped across his pants.
He mumbled something I couldn’t hear, and when I was almost at the door, I turned my head back to see why he wasn’t following.
And there it was. That look. The one where he made me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.
He caught up to me and¸ at the door, he said, “After you.” We strolled to the conference room, and I felt the heat of his hand, maybe mere millimeters away from settling on the small of my back. At that moment, I could’ve easily mistaken him for a Southern gentleman, raised the right way.
“Granny would like you.” The words slipped out.
“Just Granny?” He opened the door to our parent meeting.
Or, maybe he’d said “Granny?” like he was asking exactly who she was. Hard to tell because the next thing I knew he was introducing me to Ms. Modesto, Pierce’s mom. I already knew about Pierce’s father, Fallon, our mock trial coach. But I’d yet to meet his mother.
Ms. Modesto had on all black, from her long skirt to her high-collared, ruffled shirt. All exquisite tailoring. She’d even donned a black hat, or what they called here a fascinator, and this one had feathers and a tulle veil.
I pictured an older woman as his former nanny, not a sophisticated forty-something.
“Princeton,” she said, and they hugged. For me, she did the typical European kiss-kiss, but she held back on a smile, as if she was deciding whether I was worthy of it.
She sat and then rested her hands on her black purse. She was a slender woman, well built, with a pretty face behind the tulle of her fascinator.
I had no idea why she’d cover herself up in black, like she wanted to be invisible—at least an expensively dressed version of invisibility.
“Well, Princeton, you know why I’m here,” she said. “My Pierce is an innocent, sweet boy who knows nothing of women.”
Were we talking about the same Pierce here? He had all the girls in class wrapped around his finger, including Smart Sally.
“I don’t want his first exposure to women’s bodies to be before he’s married,” she said, “and with a doll.” She pointed to the Irresistible Dania doll I’d laid on the table.
“I see,” I said to her. “But, Ms. Modesto, obviously this doll isn’t real, just plastic.”
“Have you seen some of these women at the beaches?” She sat ramrod straight. “They’re practically plastic.” She had a humorous bent to her, too.
“So Pierce goes to the beach?”
“Of course, our backyard is the beach.”
“Then, when he changes any doll clothes,” I said, “he’ll see similar figures to those women at the beach.”
“Show me.” This was a woman used to getting her way.
Mr. Princeton and I both reached for Irresistible Dania. But since I was closer, I had my hand on her first and then his hand landed on top of mine, covering it completely.
The contours of his hand comforted, protected. His heat surged through me, leaving me so hot that I burned for him.
We locked eyes and neither of us moved.
“Ahem,” said Ms. Modesto, and we looked at her. It took me a minute to refocus on her. She fixed her keen eyes on me, and I whipped my hand out from underneath his.
“Hmm, on second thought.” Ms. Modesto furrowed her brow, as if she was scheming. “Princeton, I want you to check her to see if she’s lifelike from a man’s perspective.”
Mr. Princeton gave Irresistible Dania a cursory exam. “Looks like a doll to me.”
“No, no.” She let her eyes dance between him and the doll. “Check her for nipples.”
“Nipples?” he and I both said in unison.
He squirmed and sent me a get-me-out-of-this look.
“That blouse only has one snap in the front.” I smiled sweetly at him.
He delivered a look to me that guaranteed I’d pay for that later and stared down at the doll like she was a plate of peas.
He was stalling.
Ms. Modesto asked, “Are the clothes that hard to take off?”
“Not usually,” I answered. “Fashion Royalty clothes typically have hook-and-eye closures,” I said. “But this is a Mattel Barbie Collectible top, so it has snaps.”
“Thanks for the lesson,” he said dryly.
Ms. Modesto said, “Snap to it then, Princeton.”
“Abigail”—that must be her first name—“I’m not ten anymore.”
&nb
sp; She raised an eyebrow at him, and he released a big sigh and finally unsnapped the blouse. He opened the shirt with one finger and examined the chest for a fraction of a second.
“No nipples,” he said in a relieved breath. “Okay, that’s it then.”
“Well, actually, in the interest of full disclosure,” I said, and he eyed me suspiciously, “if you rub your finger across her chest, you might feel something.”
“See.” Ms. Modesto nodded her head. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out.” Her hazel eyes sparkled. “Princeton, feel them to see if they’re lifelike.”
“What?!” Oh, he wasn’t happy and I doubted he’d take orders from her.
But Ms. Modesto cast him a look that she must’ve done when he was ten—and he did it. He accomplished the task in under a second, dropped the doll on the table, and he shuddered.
I suppressed a laugh, never imagining he’d actually follow through. Guess a man never outgrew his nanny.
“So?” she asked him. By the way she nearly swallowed that word back in her mouth, I suspected that she might be suppressing a laugh, too.
Princeton narrowed his eyes at each of us in turn. Then he sat back in his chair and stretched his lips into the wide smile of a Cheshire cat.
“Oh, I’d say they’re nipples.” His voice languorous.
“Mr. Princeton, they’re plastic.” I forced a fake laugh. “I’d hardly call them that.”
“Okay.” He shrugged nonchalantly at me. “But I’m fairly certain I have more experience with nipples than you.”
There was my payback.
Ms. Modesto coughed. And I might’ve muttered, “Oh, Dear Lord.”
Princeton perked up. “Although if I were you, Abigail, I’d be more concerned about other areas.”
It was my turn to cough—more like choke.
“Not necessary.” She waved off the suggestion. “I’ve had my fun for the day, but nothing has changed my opinion about dolls generally objectifying women.”
“Oh, Ms. Modesto, dolls like these do no such thing,” I said. “Would you say that about classical sculpture in the Louvre?”
