tender, sensitive reaches of Candy’s body and felt her shudder and gasp and break.
She murmured into his good ear, her mouth brushing his lobe with every syllable, and he had to close his eyes. “Now you’re irresistible.”
He’d once said the same to her. He’d meant it.
When her fingers sifted through his hair, he let out a hard breath. “A haircut and beard trim are nothing. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you mine and be yours.”
The words were rough. Hoarse. Honest.
“Griff.” She moved back far enough to see his face, to trace it lovingly with her gaze, her smile wide and piercing in its sweetness. “Don’t be obtuse, dearest. I’m already yours.”
Then she kissed him, and the world vanished.
Late that night, after she’d fallen asleep in his arms, in his bed, he e-mailed her the first of many poems. Tokens of his love, in a language they both spoke. Something to start her new morning once they’d arrived at work together and walked to their classrooms hand in hand.
All day, she could keep it cupped safe within her heart, a light to guide her through more hard hours to come. A reminder that no matter how the wind whipped and tore at her, she was beloved. His beloved.
There was love. There was hope. And the birdsong of that hope, as Emily Dickinson once wrote, was sweetest in the gale.
He knew that down to his marrow, because Candy had showed him.
Unraveled
About “Unraveled”
The more tightly wound a man is, the faster he unravels…
Math teacher Simon Burnham—cool, calm, controlled—can't abide problems with no good solution. Which makes his current work assignment, mentoring art teacher Poppy Wick, nothing short of torture. She's warm but sharp. Chaotic but meticulous. Simultaneously the most frustrating and most alluring woman he's ever known. And in her free time, she makes murder dioramas. Murder dioramas, for heaven's sake. But the more tightly wound a man is, the faster he unravels—and despite his best efforts, he soon finds himself attempting to solve three separate mysteries: a murder in miniature, the unexplained disappearance of a colleague...and the unexpected theft of his cold, cold heart.
This story is dedicated to my mom, the sort of elementary school teacher kids hugged around the knees in the grocery store, faces alight with joy at seeing her. I love you.
One
A mere ten minutes after first setting eyes on her, Simon had already drawn his initial conclusion: In terms of professional appearance and deportment, Ms. Poppy Wick was a disgrace.
In defiance of the faculty dress code, she was wearing jeans. Not even dark, trouser-style jeans, which at a casual glance might be mistaken for appropriate work pants. No, hers clung faithfully to her ample hips and bottom. More importantly, they were faded and splotched with…what was that? Some sort of floury glue concoction? And now that he was looking more closely, flecks of paint revealed themselves on the denim covering her round thighs. A rainbow of color, and a silent testament to her defiance of necessary rules.
On Fridays, to be fair, teachers could donate money to charity in exchange for wearing jeans. But today was Tuesday, and the entire faculty of Marysburg High was sitting around cafeteria tables listening to the superintendent’s latest consultant drone on while wearing a suit more expensive than any teacher could ever afford, and Ms. Wick was doodling.
He glanced closer.
A skull, surrounded by ivy. Dear Lord.
At the very least, she might have had the dignity to sketch cubes or other three-dimensional geometric shapes, as he sometimes did. Although not during faculty meetings, and never with his hair in two wispy, drooping little reddish-blond buns, perched high on either side of the head. He kept his own dark hair neatly trimmed every two weeks and in strict order, despite its distressing tendency to wave.
She’d had a free seat beside her for the faculty meeting, and he’d taken it in hopes of observing her at least once before their respective positions became clear. Which was optimal, since knowledge of his scrutiny and its purpose would naturally change her behavior. Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle: The Teacher Observation Corollary.
He sighed and began making a list of topics he and Ms. Wick would need to address in their initial consultation.
Why their principal, Tess Dunn, had assigned him as the mentor to an art teacher, he hadn’t the faintest clue. Yes, Ms. Wick had recently joined the faculty, and all first-year teachers at MHS received a mentor, no matter how long they’d taught in other school districts. Yes,