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Brady raised our linked hands, until his palm cupped mine. Deliberately, he bent over our hands, placing the softest of kisses over my fresh bandage. If I hadn't watched him do it, I would have thought I imagined it. The courtly gesture blew me away. Who was this man, and what had he done with the stuffy principal who usually ran play practice?
Around us, students cheered, and Brady tugged me into a bow.
"And, scene!" His commanding voice rang out through the room, silencing his students. "That's how you use dramatic tension." He turned to me. "Ms. Pendleton, thanks for playing along. Now, it's time to get back to work."
Bemused, I turned back to Mitch and Grace, who smirked at me.
"Told ya," Grace sing-songed.
Shaking my head ruefully, I said, "Let's get back to our sets. Today's drama lesson is over."
Reluctantly, they settled into painting the tree we'd made. Thankfully, I'd finished my cut before my injury and didn't have to traumatize Brady by turning the saw back on.
I focused on painting, trying to ignore the lingering warmth in my palm. It was probably just infection setting in, not residual heat from Brady's kiss. I flushed, worried that my students, with their romance ESP, would sense me having impure thoughts about their principal. He'd tried to play off his moment of playfulness as a teachable moment, but I remembered the fire in his eyes as his lips touched my palm. Tingles shivered down my spine. You couldn't fake chemistry like that.
We cleaned our brushes and capped our paints as practice wound down, Mitch and Grace wishing me goodnight as they grabbed their backpacks and went to wait for their parents to pick them up outside. Slowly, the small auditorium emptied, until I was very aware of Brady only a few feet away, flipping through a script.
He looked like a leading man himself, in his fine suit and shiny shoes. He glanced up, his soft smile turning my insides to mush.
"How's the hand?" he asked.
"Fine, it was just a splinter. Nothing to get excited about."
His lips twitched. "Is that your way of telling me I overreacted?"
"Maybe," I allowed, amused. "I'm used to taking care of myself. The theatrics were a bit much - pretty sure you sent every cast member home with some juicy gossip."
"Is that okay with you? I figured the cat would be out of the bag once we went out again. Does it bother you that my students suspect?"
Bemused, I shook my head, trying to make sense of Brady’s easy acceptance of a starring role in Campfire chatter.
"I'm more surprised it doesn't botheryou."
"Ah," he said, eyes widening with understanding. "It wasn't my finest moment."
"I'm not complaining, but it seems out of character for the proper Principal Gleason to be giving out hand kisses at play practice."
He’d gone from standoffish to simp in record time. It was both difficult to trust and sending fresh shoots of hope wrapping around my heart.
"After you accused me of getting emotional, I figured there was nothing for it but to own it and lean into the drama. Plus, it let me do what I really wanted to – kiss you."
His words were soft, but they didn’t answer my underlying question.
"Why did you freak out? It was just a sliver. I've had much worse injuries practicing my art."
He ran a gentle hand along my cheek, making it impossible to do anything but lean into his palm and enjoy the strength there. Brady seemed to need the reassurance of touch, which shocked me, as he always seemed so self-contained.
"I promised I'd never put someone in a position to be hurt again," he murmured softly, drawing me closer with the pressure of his palm.
Eager to comply, I stepped forward until we were toe-to-toe, and I could admire his long lashes up close. The man had impossibly pretty eyes, all lustrous and dark, with sweeping lashes I'd kill for. Naturally, my hands settled on his chest, smoothing his suit jacket as if I could soothe the emotion underlying his admission.
Slowly, his words sank in, full of hidden meaning. Who had Brady hurt?
"Brady, you say that like there's a story there."
"A story for another day. I was thinking we could go out this Saturday. Would you be up for spending the day with me?"
Disappointment that he wasn't more forthcoming about his past was washed away by self-recrimination. He’d said almost the same thing to me when I’d freaked out about running lines with him, and I’d been just as swift at changing the subject. His invitation, coming on the heels of his denial to share more with me, soothed some of my curiosity. I'd just spent the last hour and a half with Brady, but with twenty chaperones, it hadn't been the same. The idea of spending a whole day together satisfied some of the raw hunger that gnawed at me. Maybe it was infatuation, but I wanted to know everything about Brady Gleason.
