Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,49
understand hatred and greed and lust. But how those emotions plunge over some invisible ledge and lead someone to shed blood, I don’t get. I never will, I don’t think. And I can’t even begin to understand murderers with antisocial personality disorder, although I’ve read so many books about them.”
“Of course you don’t understand. You couldn’t.” Maybe he couldn’t grasp Poppy in her complex entirety, but he knew that much. He’d seen her bent low, conferring with her students. He’d seen her in the grips of justified anger, directed his way, and then watched her forgive him minutes later after a single, inadequate apology. He’d seen her clean her classroom without complaint each afternoon, in lieu of unfairly burdening the custodial staff. “You care about other people too much. You’d never hurt someone without a damn good reason.”
“Umm…” Her cheeks suddenly seemed pinker, but maybe that was a trick of the candlelight. “Thank you. I hope that’s true.”
“It is.” His tone didn’t allow for argument. “Are the dioramas your way of working through how people can do such terrible things to each other?”
The damage humans inflicted on one another didn’t need to be physical, of course, much less murderous. But a diorama couldn’t capture arguments conducted via shrieks and shouts and obscenities and slamming doors, or the terrible silence that descended on a home in the aftermath of rage.
“Maybe?” Her lips quirked. “But mostly I just think they’re interesting, and they sell well. Plus, coming up with the crimes and clues is a good challenge, and so is putting it all together in miniature form. I’m damn good at what I do.”
Why had he never realized how seductive confidence could be? “You are. Both in the classroom and as an artist. It’s impressive.”
No wonder she hadn’t let his initial disapproval bow her. She knew her worth, and thank goodness for it.
She flicked a glance down at her plate, carefully portioning another bite. “Thank you, Simon. Not everyone in my life has felt that way.”
He frowned. Coworkers? Family? Lovers? Who’d disparaged her talent?
Other than him, of course, at their first meeting in her classroom. But he’d learned better quickly enough, even if the shame of the memory still prickled at the back of his neck.
“Would you…” Her swallow was visible, and she was still staring down at her plate. “Would you maybe like to, um, visit my workshop? Tonight? I could show you my diorama-in-progress.”
It wasn’t an invitation to bed her. He realized that.
Sadly, his erection didn’t.
Before he could manage a coherent answer, she kept speaking, the words breathless and rapid. “Since we left right after work, it’s still pretty early, and we could talk more about lesson plans or the school or…” Her pink tongue swiped a crumb from her bottom lip, and he almost choked on his own cake. “Or whatever.”
Maybe she rented a studio of some sort? Or…was she inviting him home with her?
After clearing his throat once, then again, he managed to form actual, audible words. “You—you have a workshop in your house?”
She nodded and quickly took another huge bite of her cake, busily chewing while looking anywhere but at him.
Even when he ducked his head a bit, she didn’t meet his eyes.
She was nervous?
No. That was unacceptable. She should never feel uncertain around him. Having just admired her pride and confidence, there was no goddamn way he’d let either be stripped from her.
His answer was abrupt, but he couldn’t help that. “Yes. Of course. I’d like that.”
“You would?” Her hazel eyes peeked at him through a darkened fan of lashes, but they were bright. Mesmerizing, really. “I mean, great. Okay. We can pick up my car in the school lot, and you can follow me home from there.”
“That sounds, uh, good.” His heart was skittering, and his hands weren’t entirely steady. “Very logical.”
In that moment, he could have been the same age as their students. A teenager fumbling for words, lost and confused and hopeful. So hopeful.
She tucked a tendril of hair behind the lovely curve of her ear. “Then it’s a plan.”
In his giddiness, he’d lost all his remaining appetite. He pushed away his plate, then set his napkin beside it.
“I’m almost done,” she told him. “I know I’m a slow eater. Sorry.”
He shook his head firmly. “Don’t be sorry. Take your time.”
The answering beam of her smile was so dazzling, so bursting with affection and happiness, he had to blink.
While Poppy finished her dessert, they sat in a silence that wasn’t quite awkward. More…expectant.