This. This was why she was pleased, why her rosy cheeks glowed so cheerily. He could tell that much, but he still didn’t understandwhy.
And she wasn’t offering him the necessary context. Not this time. Oh, no, her soft lips were pressed shut as she waited for the question. Waited for him to break.
Ten minutes ago, he’d have sworn he never would. But that stupid, wispy bun was almost touching the flushed tip of her ear, and the blue streak above her mouth was mocking him, and her delighted grin plumped those round cheeks, and he had to ask. Hehadto.
“What—” He cleared his throat, studying her file cabinet as if it held vast importance in his eventual evaluation of her teaching. “What is your work, specifically?”
She didn’t answer until he met her gaze again, and he didn’t know whether to admire or despise her for it.
“Murder dioramas,” she said.
As soon as he noticed he was gaping at her, open-mouthed, he snapped his jaw shut.
Deep breath. Raise an eyebrow. Seem only distantly engaged in the discussion.
“Murder dioramas?” he repeated coolly. “I’m afraid I’ll require more detail, so as to determine the appropriateness of your work for a classroom setting.”
Her grin only widened. “Oh, naturally.”
She made him wait again, because of course she did.
“Yes, Ms. Wick?” he eventually prodded.
“Sorry. My mind must have wandered for a moment. It’s getting late, isn’t it?” She glanced at the clock on the wall, and then gave what seemed to be a genuine gasp. “Oh, damn, I’m going to be late for my oil change.”
Jumping to her feet, she began shoving papers into a tote and searching for her keys.
From all appearances, she intended to leave him without further explanation, and that was unacceptable. Completely and utterly unacceptable.
He stepped close enough to interrupt her frantic efforts. “An explanation, Ms. Wick.”
“Fine.” Apparently lacking the time to taunt him further, she met his eyes and quickly summarized her ghoulish hobby. “My business is called Crafting the Perfect Murder. I imagine and recreate a violent crime in miniature form, complete with subtle clues as to what happened, why, and who was responsible. I also provide witness statements. People buy the dioramas and attempt to solve the mystery, and I can either send them the solution or not, as they desire.”
His mouth temporarily refused to form words.
“My dioramas are art, but people with plenty of spending money also buy them as a party game, especially around Halloween. You know, competing as to who can solve the case first.” Glancing down, she finally located her keys and brandished them in triumph. “There they are!”
Finally, his tongue came untethered.
“Peoplepayfor that?” he asked, incredulous.
Immediately, he wished he’d bitten that tongue instead, because she took a step backward and flinched, her smile vanishing in a microsecond. At the sudden movement, her failing bun unraveled entirely, the spiral of fine hair falling over her ear and against her reddening cheek.
Dammit.
The remark hadn’t been intended as a referendum on the quality of her work, as he had no way of judging that. He hadn’t even meant it as an insult, although he undoubtedly found such a hobby macabre in the extreme. More, he’d been confused as to why anyone would invite violence and confusion into their home if they had a choice not to, and wondering whether she could possibly get paid enough for her work to defray the costs of her creations.
But she’d clearly taken his thoughtless comment as a slight against her work, and perhaps rightly so. Politeness required that he make amends. Immediately. Before the memory of the hurt in her eyes, however quickly masked, twisted his gut further.
“Ms. Wick, please for—”
But it was too late for apologies. She was already speaking, already headed for the door.
“If you think what I do deserves so little respect, I dare you to solve the mystery in the diorama I’m bringing to class next week. Maybe then you’ll have a better idea why peoplepay for that, as you so charmingly put it.” When she reached the door, she swiveled to face him. “I have to leave. Are you coming or not?”
He dropped his chin to his chest for a moment. “I, uh—I’d planned to evaluate the layout and organization of your classroom, if that’s acceptable.”
The inspection could have occurred next week, of course, but he needed to sit and think a minute. Wait until solid ground formed beneath him once more.
