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Pull her into my arms.
Pin her against the wall.
Take that bratty strawberry mouth with my teeth and show her who’s in charge.
Find out if that little tongue tastes as sharp as it sounds.
Those thoughts make my heart pump harder, leaving me breathless after only a light jog. My chest aches by the time I round the corner and find her frozen in the doorway of her classroom, her fingers digging into the strap of her bag.
Playtime’s over.
Her tension draws me up short.
I stop behind her, frowning. “Delilah, what’s wrong?”
“I... I don’t...”
She makes a clicking sound, then gestures to the room.
I look over her head.
The classroom’s exactly what I expect: a normal classroom, kid-sized desks all lined up neatly, activity tables, bookshelves, wall displays, cubbies.
But at the front of the room, there’s something out of place.
The fanciest teacher’s desk I’ve ever seen.
It’s brand new and varnished with delicately carved cherrywood. I recognize it as the signature piece from A Touch of Grey, one of our best local furniture shops. It’s been in the display window for a while.
Now it’s parked at the head of Delilah’s classroom, pretty as a picture—and wrapped up in a giant satiny red bow. There’s a jewelry box sitting right in the center of it, the same shade of red, and something about that turns my blood into needles.
“Been doing a little shopping lately?” I ask lightly. I try.
“What? No! Are you crazy? I could never afford this.” Delilah shakes her head, walking deeper into the room. She drops her bag to let it lean against the desk’s smooth varnish, and she picks up the jewelry box—but instead of opening it, she sets it aside, revealing the folded bit of parchment paper underneath. “Oh. There’s a note.”
My gut sours, bile churning like lava.
I have a bad fucking feeling about this.
That feeling gets worse when she reads the note and her brows knit together.
“I don’t understand,” she whispers.
And I can’t stay silent for a second longer.
I cross the threshold, moving by her side. “Let me see.”
Without a word, she hands me the note—and it’s as bad as I expect. All handwritten in fine, scrawling script, loops of old ink shitting up the page.
Don’t think you can’t ask for things for your classroom. There’s a budget for furniture expenses, and you shouldn’t have to gaze so longingly at a treasure that’s well within your reach.
Don’t worry.
My father insisted. He said you should have anything your heart desires and he doesn’t count little things like desks as a strike.
—U
U.
Ulysses goddamned Arrendell.
Worse, Montero, using his son as a pawn to deliver the bait.
Nope, I definitely don’t like this shit.
I barely stop myself from ripping the note up and crushing it into an unreadable ball in my fist.
“Ain’t that generous?” I snarl.
Delilah does a double take.
“If it’s in the school budget, I guess, but...” She stops and shakes her head, trailing her fingertips lightly over the wood. “I feel weird about this. Do they do this sort of thing for all the teachers?”
One hard look from me says hell no.
“It’s damn strange. Don’t know what to make of that wording about strikes, neither.” I drop the note on the desk. “You gonna keep it, or what?”
“I mean, do I have a choice?” She looks up at me, her dark-blue eyes glimmering with uncertainty. I wonder how often she’s ever let anyone see this side of her—the hesitation, the nerves. “If they just bought it for the school, and not for me, I suppose I can live with it.”
I hold in a litany of curses.
Woman, if you think that for a second, you’re a hell of a lot more innocent than your badass big-city exterior.
“If it makes you uncomfortable, I think it’s fair to say no,” I point out, jerking my chin at the jewelry box. “Especially since I doubt that’s for the school.”
Delilah stares down at the box like she thinks it might bite.
Me, I want to chuck it out the fucking window like I’m going for a no-hitter on the diamond. Especially when she looks pained, like the desk is a radioactive hunk of metal poisoning her.
Did something else happen? Is that what has her so on edge?
I haven’t missed that she’s been spending a lot of time with Ulysses lately. Or that he’s the one who keeps crowding into her life.
“Delilah,” I say softly. Fuck, I’m probably gonna get a cactus stabbing for this, but I have to ask. “Has Ulysses been making any moves on you?”
Just heaving up those words makes my throat raw with rage.
Her shoulders stiffen. “No, I... I don’t think so? He’s a flirt, and sometimes he comes off as a little desperate, I guess. Which is weird, considering who he is. He shouldn’t have any trouble with women. But he doesn’t get too crazy. He’s never tried to force anything. Nora told me he’s like that with everyone.”
