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“I’m making lasagne.” I tip my head toward the sofa. “Have a seat. What would you like to drink?”
She tilts her head slightly. “Whatever you are having.”
I raise a brow. “I’m not sure you’d be too happy with scotch.” I walk to my fridge and pull out a bottle of white wine. “How about chardonnay?”
Eva smiles and then nods. “Sounds great.”
I shouldn’t be offering an underage pupil a drink, but then I shouldn’t have her here in my cottage either. With Eva, I do everything I’m not supposed to do. I pour her a large glass and take it to her, placing it down on the coffee table.
“Food is in the oven. I’ll join you in a moment,” I say, heading to grab myself a glass of scotch.
When I return from my study, where I keep the scotch, Eva is standing by the bookcase in my living room, her fingers gently running over the spines of the first edition books. She startles when she hears me behind her. “I didn’t hear you return,” she says, looking a little sheepish. “You have a lot of ancient books.”
I smile and nod. “Yes, I collect them.” My brow furrows. “I have done since I was young.”
She brings her glass up to her lips and takes a small sip before walking back to the sofa. “Do you like to read?”
I move toward her, struggling to keep the mental picture of her on her knees with my cock in her mouth out of the forefront of my mind. “Yes, but not as much as I like collecting rare books.” I glance toward one painting on the wall. “As well as paintings, too.” I tilt my glass to the wall, and Eva’s eyes widen.
“Is it original?” She asks, gawking at the starry night painting by Van Gogh.
I nod and lift my glass to my lips, knocking back my whiskey. “Yes, although the museum of modern art believe they have the original.”
She raises a brow. “I don’t think I want to know how you got this painting.”
I laugh. “No, I don’t think you do.”
She smiles as she lifts her glass of wine to her lips and takes a sip. “Where are your paintings?”
I grind my teeth, remembering that I told her I liked to paint. No one ever sees my paintings, and the thought of showing Eva them makes me anxious in ways I’ve never felt before. “Hidden in the attic somewhere,” I say, waving my hand.
Her brow furrows. “Why? I’d like to see them.”
I move toward her and sit next to her on the sofa. “I’ve never shown them to anyone.”
“Oh,” she says, twisting her fingers in her lap. “Perhaps you can paint me now, since you’ve already seen me in the nude.”
I groan, shaking my head. “The chance of me ever finishing that painting would be slim.” I set my whiskey tumbler down on the coffee table, moving her flowing golden hair away from her neck and pressing my lips to her skin. “I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from fucking you.”
Eva giggles, shaking her head. “You could try.”
I can tell she’s eager for me to paint her, but I know it won’t work out. Instead, I change the subject. “Tell me, Eva. You know my passion. What is yours?”
“Animals,” she says.
My brow furrows. “That’s why you want to be a vet?” I run a hand across the back of my neck. “But what makes you so passionate about animals?”
“Taking care of them brings me joy.” She smiles widely and reaches into her pocket, pulling out her phone. “Where we live in Atlanta, we’re right by a woodland nature reserve.” She flicks through photos that are mostly of animals. “These two squirrels were injured, and I nursed them back to health.” Eva smiles proudly, handing me the phone. “There is no better feeling in this world than helping those less fortunate than you.”
I swallow hard, a lump in my throat forming. Eva is right, and yet I do exactly the opposite. No doubt, word about Henley’s murder has spread through the school. This is the behavior I facilitate. “I’m sure that’s true, but I wouldn’t know.” I stand and walk toward the kitchen, grabbing the bottle of scotch and pouring another large glass. “Unfortunately, my job is anything but rewarding.”
Eva tilts her head, watching me. “I don’t know if that’s true. You give these people a place to belong and teach them discipline, even if they go out into the world and do bad things. That’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it?” I ask, my voice harsher than I intended.
Eva doesn’t cower, though. Instead, she shakes her head. “No, someone has to teach them. Perhaps the students that pass through here won’t be as brutal as the ones who didn’t.”
I raise a brow. “Have you not heard what happened to Henley Anderson today?”
