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Just as the thought flashes across my mind, he appears.
The devil.
Not in the distance, coming out of the cottages, but right in front of me.
Holy shit.
Because there’s that heat.
His signature.
It has gone up, making my skin both sweat and shiver.
And then there are those Italian loafers of his that are in my vision. Black and shiny, right at the bottom of the steps. And his dress pants, dark gray. Slightly above that, his leather briefcase.
But what gets my heart racing and thumping in my chest is the shiny thing on his hand.
On his left pinkie, to be specific.
A silver ring with a black stone.
It adorns his finger and practically glows on his dusky digit.
I finally look up and there he is.
In all his tall and broad and tweed jacket-wearing glory.
His chin is dipped and his eyes are pointed at me. Or rather his sexy sunglasses.
And in them, I see myself reflected back as I come to my feet while I study something else.
A little bump on his nose.
Which indicates that he must’ve broken it in the past. The slight imperfection on his otherwise perfect face.
That only gives him an edge. A roughness, a danger.
A mystery.
“Hey, Mr. Marshall,” I say, my voice chirpy and his name in my mouth tasting like cherries.
Mr. Marshall.
Four years ago, I made another promise up on that roof, of never ever calling him by his first name. Just because he asked me to. And I haven’t and neither do I plan to, ever.
But every time I call him by not his first name, I begin searching his face.
I begin looking for a reaction from him.
To see if my deliberate defiance affects him.
I’ve never been able to find anything, and I still don’t.
His gorgeous features are cool and blank. His clean-shaven jaw hasn’t moved nor have his arrogant brows twitched. And I’m pretty sure if he took off his sunglasses, his chocolate brown eyes will be as calm as ever.
Well, moving on.
I correct myself and go, “Well, Principal Marshall. Principal. Since you’re the principal now.” I hug the book tightly. “Things have changed, huh.”
Okay, that was a dig.
Because I know they haven’t.
He might be the new principal and somehow even more gorgeous than he was three years ago, but he’s still the man who hates me for who I am.
Not that he’s going to show me.
His features are still carefully blank but he does speak. “They have, yes.”
And for a second, all I can do is clutch the book in my arms really tightly. Because his voice, like all the other things, is the same as well.
Deep and smooth and quiet.
So patient sounding.
“Although, you’re still a student,” he murmurs, breaking my wayward thoughts, his chin dipped toward the book in my arms, the only indication that he’s looking at it.
A dig by him now.
After mine, it’s fair I guess.
So I forge ahead, “Long time no see.” Then, “Well, I mean we do see each other. Since you’re here now. But you know, not really. We haven’t talked. In a while.”
He keeps staring at me with a neutral face. “Yeah. But that’s the thing about luck.”
I frown slightly. “What thing?”
“It runs out.” Then, he repeats my words, “In a while.”
I bite the inside of my cheek then.
To stop myself from chuckling. It’s a thing I’d somehow forgotten about him.
That he has a dry, very killer sense of humor.
“So, how’s it hanging?” I quip, completely forgetting my nervousness from before. “Kicked any puppies yet today?”
This time, I let my chuckle loose.
He is as serious as ever though as he replies, “Not yet, no. I was planning to but a wildcat is in my way.”
Ha. Ha.
Very funny.
I raise my eyebrows. “You do know that wildcats are called that for a reason, don’t you?”
“And what reason would that be?”
“They’re known to bite.”
“Are they also known for their incessant chatter first thing in the morning?”
“Not particularly, no,” I tell him. “Although I do hear that in addition to sharp teeth, they have killer nails.” Then, to emphasize, I scratch the air with my nails and say, “Meow.”
He notices my gesture with a straight, bored face, before he hums, “Well, now I know why I’m allergic to cats.” Then, nodding, “A very good impression by the way. You almost had me sneezing there for a second.”
I shrug, completely unbothered by his sarcasm. “What can I say, I have many talents.”
“But alas, getting to the point isn’t one of them, is it?” he deadpans.
“What?”
Then, his chest moves. It expands under his dark gray dress shirt as he breathes out and says, “You were sitting on the stairs.”
“I was.”
“Instead of over there.” He jerks his head to the side. “On one of those benches where you usually sit in the mornings.”
“You know where I sit in the mornings?”
“I’m guessing there’s a reason for it,” he says, ignoring my words.
