Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,34

mentors were chosen at random. But he was the chair of the math department, unsuited for—

Something was nudging his arm.

When he looked up and to the right, his mentee winked at him, hazel eyes sparkling above rosy cheeks. She nudged him again, and he looked down at her spiral-bound notebook, currently poking against his forearm.

Her looping script wasn’t difficult to read. Want to play Hangman?

Ms. Wick appeared to be in her mid-forties, perhaps a year or two older than him. Still, she’d passed him a note, invited him to play a juvenile game, as if she were one of their sophomores.

He stared at her, aghast.

Retrieving her notebook, she added more, then slid it back in his direction.

C’mon. You’re obviously distracted too.

Well, yes. But that was her fault entirely. Especially since, now that they were face-to-face, he could spot yet more paint flecks dappling her high, broad forehead and rounded chin. There was even a little blue smear just above the bow of her curved lips.

Another quick note. I’ll let you choose the word or phrase.

Sighing, he turned to a fresh page in his own legal pad, determined to quash her unacceptable behavior.

Ms. Wick, we are in a professional sett—

The legal pad was yanked out from beneath his hand, and she jotted something beneath his half-finished scold. On his paper.

How did you know my name? She paused, then huffed out an amused breath. I’m that memorable, am I?

Eyes narrowed at her audaciousness, he reclaimed his notebook with a decisive tug.

Not at all. Earlier today, I was assigned to be your first-year mentor.

There. That should put an end to her unprofessionalism.

She tilted her head for a moment, forehead crinkled, before her impish grin flickered back to full brightness. Damn. I was hoping for Candy Albright.

Well, she’d at least written it on her own notebook this time. Small victories.

He shouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t ask.

Yet the word somehow appeared on his paper, in his usual, careful print. Why?

She’s equally terrifying, but in a FUN way.

Ms. Wick had underlined FUN three times.

He paused, unable to understand why that stung. Being fun had never constituted one of his goals, and if he terrified her, wouldn’t that better assure her compliance with faculty rules and regulations?

He should be glad he both bored and terrified her, after a mere quarter-hour in her presence. He was glad.

Odd, though. She didn’t seem terrified. In fact, she seemed to be writing him yet another note, despite his scowling disfavor.

Candy cornered me about Oxford commas last week. It was a memorable discussion.

Yes, he imagined so. Candy’s opinions on grammar were both numerous and intense, and usually shared at top volume.

Ms. Wick still wasn’t done writing. She left me an informative pamphlet on my desk. Then she told me how glad she was that I’d replaced Mildred, cackled, and shouted DING-DONG, THE WITCH IS DEAD.

She beamed at him, as if inviting him to share the humor, and for a moment he almost smiled back.

Clearing his throat, he turned away instead, as if preoccupied by the consultant’s PowerPoint slides. No, he would not encourage his mentee’s behavior. This conversation was done, at least until after the faculty meeting.

But minutes later, when he again glanced at his legal pad, he discovered that she’d managed to write a question there without him noticing, a question so simple he’d be churlish not to answer.

I should know my mentor’s name. What is it?

Dammit. He had to respond. The rules of politeness required it, as did a smoothly functioning mentor-mentee relationship.

Simon Burnham, he wrote on his paper. Chair of the Math Department.

At some point, she’d returned to her doodling. Now the ivy swept across the page, sliding through openings in the skull, the vines encroaching and ominous, edged and shadowed in black.

She wasn’t paying him a bit of attention anymore, and he stared at her profile for a moment, unable to reconcile her blend of cheer and macabre sensibilities, unable to determine why he suddenly wanted her eyes back on him.

His dignity wouldn’t allow him to poke her with his notebook, as she’d done to him. Instead, he lightly tapped her bare arm with his fingertips, just below where she’d pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan.

Her skin was warm and giving, even under such a tentative touch. When he withdrew his hand, he clenched it around an unexpected burn.

As she turned those bright eyes back to him, he pointed to his paper. She read his note, then contemplated him for a moment, smile absent, her scrutiny uncomfortably sharp.

Shall