Page 5 of The Headmaster’s Rule

“Right.” I raise my notebook, pen poised. “Should I email, or…”

She gives a curt shake of her head. “I’ll be in touch.” Then she turns on her heel and swiftly exits the room.

I blink, expelling a slow breath. A man approaches, his kind green eyes sparkling with a warm smile. Unlike the rest of the faculty, polished in blazers and ties, he wears a navy-blue Henley and worn jeans, his chestnut hair long and threaded with silver, pulled into a man bun. A leather cord disappears beneath his collar, and I swear I spot the edge of a tattoo just above it. He looks as out of place as I feel, yet completely at ease.

“Welcome, Nora. I’m Rowan Winslow, head of art.”

He tucks a sketchbook beneath one arm and extends an ink-stained hand. I must look like a deer in headlights, because he lets out a quiet, understanding laugh.

“It’s always a lot to take in on your first day. Though I have to hand it to you, you’re brave to volunteer for the fundraiser after everything that happened last year.”

My brows dart together. That sounds ominous.

I open my mouth to ask what he means when the bell rings. For the first time, I notice the clamor of student voices outside, excitedly catching up after the long summer break, and my pulse trips.

Shit. I need to be there when my class arrives. It sets the tone for the entire day, makes them feel welcome and safe. I have a speech planned, an exercise with a Koosh ball, a welcome song with puppets…

“Nice to meet you, Rowan,” I say in a rush. “I’d better…”

He nods, and I turn for the door again, this time finally making my exit. In my haste, I almost crash into the back of someone.

Not someone. Him. Headmaster Wright.

He’s taller than I realized, easily six-foot-four. As if he wasn’t already intimidating enough, I barely come up to his shoulder. The broad expanse of his chest is like an immovable wall as he turns to me, his formidable size making me shrivel.

“Sorry,” I squeak, stepping around him. His gaze meets mine from under low brows, something I can’t read flickering in their depths.

I scramble down the stairs, glad to retreat to the safety of my classroom.

CHAPTER 3

Theo

If there’s one thing about the school day that calms me, it’s the bell. Nothing signals structure and routine like that sound ringing across campus, sending students scattering to class, restoring order to the school grounds.

I close the heavy door to my office, sighing wearily, despite it only being 8 a.m. I’ve already received a phone call from my father reiterating everything the board said two days ago. As if I could forget. As if I haven’t spent hours at my desk, trying to come up with a solution.

A solution that eludes me.

Slipping off my suit jacket, I hang it on the coat stand by the door, then cross to the window and gaze out to sea. No matter what’s going on within the school, I never tire of this view. The rolling sand of the dunes, the endless stretch of the Atlantic. A view that was here long before Wetherly, and will be here long after the school crumbles into dust.

When I turn from the window, I see a steaming cup of black coffee waiting on my desk, courtesy of Margaret. She’s the only person I trust to be in my office unsupervised.

I sink into my leather desk chair, casting my gaze around my office as I sip the bitter liquid. The dark wood-paneled walls are lined with built-in bookshelves and cabinets. My heavy walnut desk takes center stage in the room, and against the far wall there’s a stone fireplace, opposite two over-sized leather chairs. When I’m alone in the office after hours, I like to play classical music softly from the turntable on the sideboard, but I haven’t done that for a long time. Lately, I’m too tense to even consider it.

Like now.

A knock sounds at the door, and I force a sigh through my nose. There’s no escaping today.

“Come in,” I call warily.

Margaret steps inside with a brisk smile. “Good morning. I’ve got the final budgets for the P.E. Department that you wanted.” She places a folder on my desk. “And I’ll email Nora to set up your meeting.”

I frown. “Who?”

“Eleanor Hart, the new third grade teacher? She seemed excited to help with the fall fundraiser.” When I don’t respond, Margaret adds, “You wanted to meet with the volunteers before they started planning? It’s only her.”

I exhale slowly. I’d noticed her this morning, the only one in polka dots. The only one who volunteered. Hell, the only one smiling. Even Juliana looked unhappy about something. I’ll have to talk to her about that later.