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But I continue. I have to.
Because now it has become like a challenge between us, him not talking.
“Oh, or it could be because you don’t want a student of yours to break into your cottage at night and ask you to let her graduate early from summer school. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Nope.
Apparently not. He still gives me nothing.
Damn it.
Then, “Oh! I got it. I know why.” I settle back in the chair with a grin. “It’s because you wanna look intimidating when you kidnap a puppy. Oh my God, it’s so obvious now. I mean, it makes so much sense —”
“I thought my thing was to kick puppies,” he says then, cutting off my words.
My air even.
With his sudden words. With his gaze too.
Because finally he lifts his eyes from the book and looks up at me.
And all I can say is, “Hi.”
His chocolate chip eyes flash. “Not kidnap them.”
A warmth suffuses my chest at the fact that he was listening to my stupid ramblings.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from smiling. “I thought you weren’t listening.”
“It’s called multi-tasking.” Then, “And it’s impossible not to listen to you.”
My eyes go wide. “Is it?”
“Yeah,” he rasps. “You’re as loud and as screeching as a lawnmower.”
I frown. “You’re mean.”
“Never said I wasn’t.”
“And you could do both,” I say. “Kick puppies and kidnap them.”
A moment or two passes with our eyes locked with each other. Then, “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“I don’t want a student breaking into my cottage in the middle of the night.”
“But what if that student also happens to be your ward?”
“Especially not if that student also happens to be my ward.”
I lick my lips. “But doesn’t she get a little special treatment?”
His gaze follows my action. “No.”
My lips tingle for some strange reason then as I say, “Right. That’s why I’m stuck spending my whole summer here. With you.”
“Yes. Eight whole weeks.”
“Eight whole weeks.”
Then his eyes turn penetrating as he says, “Because it’s not as if you have anywhere else to be now, do you?”
My heart skips a beat. My palms sweat.
And I cross my fingers and my toes, hoping that it doesn’t show on my face.
The fact that I do have somewhere else to be.
I do have someone to be with.
“No, I don’t,” I say, somehow managing to keep my voice from wavering.
He studies my face for a second before accepting my answer. “Good.”
My belly tightens at how satisfied his response sounds, like he’s won something, before I prod, “You can tell me, you know.”
“Tell you what?”
“About your punching thing.”
“Can I?”
“Yes.” Then, I can’t help but add, “I can keep a secret.”
“Secret.”
“Yes. I’m actually very good at it,” I whisper, again hoping that it’s not obvious on my face.
That I’m lying.
That I have no intention of keeping any of his secrets. Or rather, I have no intention of keeping them if he doesn’t give me what I want.
“Besides, we’re on a break,” I finish by reminding him.
He nods slowly, his eyes going back and forth between mine. “Yeah. We are, aren’t we?”
“So?” I ask again. “Why are you into punching a heavy bag?”
“Because I have issues.”
“What kind of issues?”
“The kind that require me to punch a heavy bag.”
“Does it have anything to do with what happened to your nose?”
I frown at my own blurted out question.
I wasn’t expecting to say that at all.
Even though for some reason, I think it’s obvious. That they are connected.
His busted nose and his penchant for a heavy bag. And the feeling only gets stronger when his jaw hardens.
Not only his jaw but eyes too.
They have been glimmering and flashing but now they go flat. Then, “I think you should really go back to writing that apology for me.”
This time I know that I have to. I know that I can’t push him any more than I already have.
So I nod and agree, “Okay.”
And then I go back to my apology writing. Although now I’m even more curious. Which is saying something because I’ve always been super curious about him. About the way he is. His past. His history.
His relationship with Charlie.
A shrill noise fills the silence then.
Even though it makes me flinch, I’m grateful for the interruption to my tangled-up thoughts.
It’s his phone.
It’s ringing.
It’s sitting on a pile of papers close enough to me that I see the caller’s name: Cynthia March.
My stomach pitches and rolls for some reason and I snap my eyes up at him. He’s not focused on me though. His entire attention is on the phone as he reaches for it. He answers it and stands up in a split second.
“Hello. Yeah,” he says, striding over to the door and leaving his office.
I sit in my chair for a few seconds, feeling oddly at a loss now that I’m alone.
Before I spring up from my seat as well and follow him.
