Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,43
handle the situation.
Which was…a disturbing realization.
An outside observer would almost conclude that he was, for some reason, trying to think badly of Ms. Wick. Determined to see flaws where they didn’t necessarily exist.
It was yet another problem whose answer wasn’t quite clear to him. Yet another mystery to unravel, when he’d never, ever, been good at interpreting clues.
“You’re right.” He didn’t equivocate. “That’s what I should have done.”
Her chin dipped in a firm little nod. “Graciously conceded, Mr. Burnham. I forgive you. For everything.”
The chunky amber spheres of her necklace glowed against her pale skin, and her eyes were fathomless.
“Please call me Simon,” he said.
“Gladly.” The curve of her lips was small and sweet. “And I’m Poppy.”
She offered her hand, as if they were meeting for the first time, and he shook it. Her fingers were long and blunt, her palm warm and slightly rough, her grip firm.
He couldn’t breathe.
As quickly as was polite, he let go and met her gaze. “If you’re leaving soon, why don’t I walk you to your car? The sun’s going down earlier and earlier these days.”
Shuffling steps in the darkness.
I feel so much less safe now.
Mildred got what she deserved.
No, Poppy wasn’t going to that deserted parking lot alone. Not if he could help it.
“All right,” she said after a moment, her gaze tentative, the words halting. “I just need five minutes, if you don’t mind waiting.”
He shook his head. “I don’t.”
The rules of gentlemanly behavior were clear under the circumstances, and he followed them. After she’d packed her belongings in her tote, he offered to carry it for her. As she locked her classroom door behind them, he scanned the dim hallway to ensure her safety. Once they reached her car, he made certain she left the lot before driving away himself.
The entire time, he tried to hide the disconcerting truth.
Her touch had incinerated him so thoroughly, he might as well be the house in her diorama. And the burn had left him feeling anything—anything—but gentlemanly and professional.
Three
As the seventh period bell rang on Wednesday, Simon sat at his usual table and congratulated himself on having remained cool, calm, and controlled for almost a full forty-eight hours, despite having spent several of those hours in Poppy’s unsettling presence.
Yesterday, the students had begun creating their dioramas. Controlled chaos was perhaps the best way to describe her classroom then. Or possibly paint-bedecked and glue-soaked.
No wonder she’d worn her faded jeans again. That pretty black dress would have been absolutely ruined.
At the end of class, he’d asked whether she knew of any reasonable way to limit the mess created by her students during their projects. Not so much because the mess was excessive—which it wasn’t, under the circumstances—or because mess bothered him in general—which it did, of course—but rather because cleaning up that mess required a considerable chunk of student time at the end of the period and an even more considerable chunk of Poppy’s time after the students left.
“Well, I can’t leave everything to the custodial staff. Mildred, the teacher I replaced, apparently used to have poor Mrs. Denham do all the cleanup, but that’s just cruel. No wonder they hated her so much.” Poppy had patted him on the arm then, the gesture not quite pitying, but not quite not pitying either. “Besides, Simon, mess is both inevitable and part of the artistic process for most people. Don’t worry.”
Yes, the contact burned, but her near-pity had helped temper the worst of it.
He’d helped her clean and made a quick stop back in his own classroom to gather the night’s grading. Then once again, he’d walked her to her car, and once again, he’d been forced to recite prime numbers to himself that night before he could fall asleep.
Still, he’d neither insulted her nor pinned her against the classroom wall to claim that wide, impish mouth of hers. He hadn’t even buried his fingers in her drooping bun and angled her head to reveal her soft neck, hadn’t sucked at her rapid pulse there, hadn’t left a mark with his teeth on her pale flesh.
Small victories. Small, small victories.
Today, he hoped, would prove equally satisfying.
Or, rather, unsatisfying, but predictable. Understandable and under control.
The students were hard at work again this period, their educational dioramas beginning to take shape minute by minute. Occasionally, someone paused a moment to peruse the half-charred diorama perched at his table, but for the most part, no one went near him.
Which, now that he considered the matter, was rather odd.
Two students