by Olivia Dade
Why had he never realized how seductive confidence could be? “You are. Both in the classroom and as an artist. It’s impressive.”
No wonder she hadn’t let his initial disapproval bow her. She knew her worth, and thank goodness for it.
She flicked a glance down at her plate, carefully portioning another bite. “Thank you, Simon. Not everyone in my life has felt that way.”
He frowned. Coworkers? Family? Lovers? Who’d disparaged her talent?
Other than him, of course, at their first meeting in her classroom. But he’d learned better quickly enough, even if the shame of the memory still prickled at the back of his neck.
“Would you…” Her swallow was visible, and she was still staring down at her plate. “Would you maybe like to, um, visit my workshop? Tonight? I could show you my diorama-in-progress.”
It wasn’t an invitation to bed her. He realized that.
Sadly, his erection didn’t.
Before he could manage a coherent answer, she kept speaking, the words breathless and rapid. “Since we left right after work, it’s still pretty early, and we could talk more about lesson plans or the school or…” Her pink tongue swiped a crumb from her bottom lip, and he almost choked on his own cake. “Or whatever.”
Maybe she rented a studio of some sort? Or…was she inviting him home with her?
After clearing his throat once, then again, he managed to form actual, audible words. “You—you have a workshop in your house?”
She nodded and quickly took another huge bite of her cake, busily chewing while looking anywhere but at him.
Even when he ducked his head a bit, she didn’t meet his eyes.
She was nervous?
No. That was unacceptable. She should never feel uncertain around him. Having just admired her pride and confidence, there was no goddamn way he’d let either be stripped from her.
His answer was abrupt, but he couldn’t help that. “Yes. Of course. I’d like that.”
“You would?” Her hazel eyes peeked at him through a darkened fan of lashes, but they were bright. Mesmerizing, really. “I mean, great. Okay. We can pick up my car in the school lot, and you can follow me home from there.”
“That sounds, uh, good.” His heart was skittering, and his hands weren’t entirely steady. “Very logical.”
In that moment, he could have been the same age as their students. A teenager fumbling for words, lost and confused and hopeful. So hopeful.
She tucked a tendril of hair behind the lovely curve of her ear. “Then it’s a plan.”
In his giddiness, he’d lost all his remaining appetite. He pushed away his plate, then set his napkin beside it.
“I’m almost done,” she told him. “I know I’m a slow eater. Sorry.”
He shook his head firmly. “Don’t be sorry. Take your time.”
The answering beam of her smile was so dazzling, so bursting with affection and happiness, he had to blink.
While Poppy finished her dessert, they sat in a silence that wasn’t quite awkward. More…expectant. And then she was finally down to her last bite, and he couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen to his straining lungs.
“If I’d known embalming fluid tasted like rosemary and ginger and lemon, I’d have been preserving myself decades ago.” She tipped back her glass, draining the dregs of her mocktail. “I can only assume the carbonation keeps the skin of the deceased firm and supple.”
He couldn’t resist playing along. “That’s just science.”
Her laughter rang through the restaurant, and several nearby diners turned their way. He met their disapproving gazes with a hard stare, because he’d earned that laugh. No humorless assholes with scalpels were going to taint the moment.
“There may be a reason we don’t teach biology,” she said, still grinning.
With her fork, she scraped up the last crumbs of her cake. While she was distracted, he discreetly took care of the bill.
It’s the least a mentor can do for his mentee, he told himself. But even he knew that was complete and utter bullshit.
None of this, not their walks to the parking lot or his panic over her hot-glue-gun burn or the way his gaze was drawn to the pale, plump curve of her earlobe, was entirely professional. Certainly not their dinner tonight, or their imminent trip to her home.
This time, he couldn’t even fool himself.
And maybe—maybe—he was getting tired of trying.
Five
“I haven’t finished setting up all the rooms.” Poppy held the front door open for Simon, waving him ahead of her. “There are still boxes stacked to the ceiling of the guest bedroom. But the crucial spaces are done. The kitchen. The den. The workroom. My, uh, bedroom.”
At first glance, the home perfectly reflected the woman who lived there: colorful, crammed full of interesting details, and orderly despite the potential for absolute chaos.
Her entryway and den were the blue of a sunny day on the beach, her kitchen the color of key lime pie. Further down the shadowed hallway, he’d have bet his year’s salary that the open doorways to dark rooms promised yet more colors of the rainbow.
Her hands twisting together at her waist, she led him through the public spaces in her home. All the while, she chattered about nothing in particular, her voice breathier than normal. All the while, he observed. Her. Her home. His reaction to both.
Built-in shelves lined almost the entire den. They contained plenty of books, certainly, but also photo frames and sculptures and geological specimens and what definitely appeared to be a rodent of some sort, preserved through taxidermy.
He’d have to ask her about that…creature?…later, because she’d have a good reason for displaying it. He would bet good money on that too.
Other than its cleanliness, her home couldn’t have provided a greater contrast to his own house, all of which he’d painted a pale gray. Upon moving in, he’d figured neutrals would prove soothing, so his furniture featured dark wood and forgettable colors, and he kept clutter to a minimum. No unnecessary decorative touches. Nothing breakable.
Years ago, one of the few women he’d ever brought home had deemed the space monk-like and spartan, and he hadn’t disputed the assessment. Even though he’d realized it wasn’t a compliment, it wasn’t a comment about his home alone, and it also wasn’t a good omen for the relationship as a whole.
There was no gray in sight here. Hundreds of objects and colors and textures competed for his attention, and he should have found it all disorienting. Chaotic. Objectionable.
“My workroom is down the hall,” she said, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “If you—if you’re still interested in seeing it.”
His gaze caught on her, because how could it not? How could he not look at Poppy Wick, no matter the distractions surrounding them both?
Her hair was red-gold, her knit top the green of a wintry forest, her lips and cheeks pink, her wispy buns inevitably slipping, her jeans and sneakers splattered with paint. He was pretty sure that was chocolate cake smeared on the elbow of her cardigan.
A week ago, he’d have called her a mess.
A week ago, he’d have been a judgmental dick.
Tonight, he saw nothing but beauty, around him and before him. She should know that, so she could stop wringing her hands and frowning at the sight of her own kitchen.
Her nose scrunched up. “I know my home is a lot.”
“Your home is…homey,” he told her.
She tilted her head, blinking owlishly, and then she was giggling, and he didn’t blame her.
“Damned with faint praise!” The words were a gasp, barely intelligible.
“I meant—” He closed his eyes, impatient with himself. “It wasn’t intended to—”
She was slightly bent at the waist, bracing herself against her refrigerator with one hand, eyes bright as a torch as she laughed at him.
He couldn’t help it. He had to laugh with her, because, yes. Homey.
She wiped at her
eyes, and he wanted to do it for her.
So he did.
Reaching out slowly, carefully, he cupped her sweet face in his hands. Her breath caught, and her eyes flew to his. He brushed away her tears of hilarity with a light, careful sweep of his thumbs.
Her skin was so fucking soft. So warm under his fingertips. As he stared down at her, those pink lips parted, and she wet them with her tongue.
He wasn’t laughing anymore. Neither was she.
But he wasn’t entirely certain yet, and he needed to be before this went any further.
When he lowered his hands and stepped back, she drew one shuddering breath. Another. He did the same.
When his control returned, so did his ability to speak. “May I visit your workroom?”
“Y—” Her swallow was audible in the stillness of her home. “Yes.”
He followed her down the hall to the room at the very end, forbidding his eyes to wander in search of her bed through the darkened doorways they passed.
When she flicked the light switch, he smiled at the vivid turquoise of her walls, then studied the space itself and how she’d transformed it.
This was her master bedroom. Or, at least, it had been. She’d made it her workspace instead, and no wonder. Given the multitude of windows and the French doors leading outside, the room no doubt received plenty of light. Perfect for an artist’s studio. One of the walls was lined, floor to ceiling, with yet more white-painted shelves, each filled neatly with a labeled box.
She gestured to them. “I had a carpenter install the shelves before I moved in. I have so many supplies, it seemed like the best option.”
Her work table was huge and solid, the wooden surface scarred, stained, and entirely free from dust. A mesh chair was positioned by its side. On top of the table sat her diorama-in-progress, complete with a male corpse sprawled on a rumpled bed, one who appeared to have been stabbed in his—
Involuntarily, Simon took a step backward.
She snickered. “Yeah, I imagine that will be most men’s reaction.”
“Did he deserve”—deep breath—“that?”
“Oh, definitely.” Her cheeks plumped with her wicked grin. “Making this body anatomically correct was even more fun than usual.”
He wanted to ask for more detail, but he also very much didn’t.
Instead of contemplating the murder victim’s mangled member, he studied the tools of her trade. She’d positioned a free-standing magnifier and a mug of paint brushes next to the miniature crime scene. A handful of other supplies—tweezers, various glues, tubes of paint—also sat nearby her work in a tidy pile.
She nudged a single-hair brush with her blunt fingertip. “I try to put away anything I won’t be using soon, because otherwise I don’t have enough space to work. Or, worse, I’ll inadvertently contaminate my scene with something that isn’t supposed to be there.”
Controlled, meticulous mess, just like her classroom.
There was no television in the room, no computer, no electronics of any sort—with one exception. On the shelf closest to her desk, she’d set up a little speaker for her cell phone.
Her eyes followed his. “I listen to music or podcasts while I work, usually.” When he didn’t respond, she let out a long breath. “Say something, Simon. Is this too creepy, or too—”
“You should put a comfortable chair in here.” Frowning, he considered an unoccupied corner of the large room. “A chaise, perhaps. Near the windows.”
With a charming tilt of her head, she studied the space too. “Huh. That’s an idea.”
He could see her laid full-length on that lounge already. It would be velvet, soft as her skin, and some color he’d never, ever choose. One that would complement both the turquoise and her beautiful, fine, reddish-gold hair. Mustard, maybe, or plum. She’d bask in the sun, eyes closed, a lazy smile indenting the corners of that tempting mouth. Or maybe she’d pluck one of those countless books from the shelves in her den and read while reclining, lips pursed in concentration.
Or maybe she could put a leather club chair in that spot instead. An ottoman too.
Suddenly, the image in his mind shifted.
Suddenly, he was the one in the leather chair. He was the one reading with his feet up, napping, smiling, laughing as Poppy worked on her crime scene at her sunny desk and probably sang along to her music badly and at top volume until, unable to resist any longer, he set aside his book and swiveled her work chair to face him and kissed her and kissed her—
He shook his head near-violently, dismissing the vision.
How he’d even imagined such an unlikely scenario, he had no idea. He’d never encountered that kind of affection, that kind of peaceful but passionate intimacy, anywhere outside of fiction. Certainly not in his own experience of home and family.
Which reminded him: He owed her an explanation, because he wouldn’t let her continue to believe he’d insulted her in her own kitchen.
“When I said your house is homey, I meant it feels like a home.” No, that didn’t express what he wanted to say. He needed to abandon tautology in favor of specificity, no matter how uncomfortable he found it. “It feels—it feels like you. Warm and bright. Comfortable. Interesting. A place you can relax.”
It feels like the home I would have wanted. The home some part of me still wants.
Her fingers curled slightly on her tabletop, but otherwise, she’d gone completely still. “So that was praise, after all. Not faint.”
“No.” He didn’t smile, because he wasn’t joking. “Not faint.”
“Why math?”
It was an abrupt question, an echo of what he’d said at dinner: Why murder? It was also something no one had ever asked him before, probably because his interest in numbers had always seemed self-evident. Cold, logical man; cold, logical subject.
But it wasn’t that simple. Nothing ever was, no matter what he’d prefer.
He held her gaze, unflinching. Flinty, his expression so blank nothing could grab hold of its pristine surface. “My childhood was…chaotic.”
His parents’ arguments followed no logic. They happened after stressful days at work, and they happened on vacation weekends, at a peaceful beach. They circled recent offenses, and then addressed affronts from decades before, and then leaped to predictions of enraging future behavior.
The only things Simon himself could predict: He’d hide in his room. Something—a glass, a plate, a table—would end up in pieces on the floor. The shouted accusations would hurt his ears. The sobs would hurt his heart. And it would all happen again, the following day or week.
There was no end to their problems, no solution to their conflicts.
Poppy was still waiting, eyes solemn and expectant, so he elaborated. “Math was a comfort for me. It seemed clean. Orderly. Rational.”
Safe.
“Okay.” Although one droopy bun was unraveling above her ear, she paid it no heed. “But if you wanted rationality and order, why teach high school? Teenagers are chaos incarnate.”
She was evaluating him like a crime scene, sharp as a sliver of broken glass on carpet. So sharp, she could make him bleed before he even knew she’d pierced his skin and burrowed beneath.
His shoulders had tightened to the point of pain. “Higher levels of math often involve problems with no clear solutions.”
“You could have become an accountant instead.”
No, she definitely wasn’t accepting half-truths. Not after having let him see her most private space, displaying it for his judgment despite his disdain of less than a week ago.
Maybe he was wrong, but he suspected she’d consider showing him her bedroom, her unclothed body, less intimate than guiding him inside her workroom.
Those hazel eyes flayed him, peeling away layer after layer until he stood shivering and exposed before her. He closed his eyes, because if he couldn’t see her, she couldn’t see him.
The illogic was galling and humiliating, but he clung to its scant protection.
>
“As a teacher—” His throat worked. “As a teacher, I can provide an orderly, quiet, safe space for children like me. Like the boy I was.”
If he’d had his wish, he’d have slept at school. Camped out in Mrs. Delgado’s classroom, which was always neat and clean. Her voice never rose. Her floor never cut his feet. Her hand was warm on his back as he worked on long division. Her questions always had answers, and he could provide them.
“I’ve seen you teach, you know,” she said, her voice slightly muffled, and he blinked his eyes open.
She’d turned away from him, and was pretending to deposit something in one of her labeled boxes, but he knew better. She was giving him time to recover himself.
“When?” His voice was embarrassingly gravelly. “I would have noticed if—”
Wait. He knew.
“You were part of the group that observed me the second week of school.” In his files, he still had their feedback forms. Now that he knew Poppy’s was among them, he’d search for her comments and reread them. “For ten minutes, while we talked about derivatives.”
He’d taken no notice of her, really, or any of the other observers. His students commanded his undivided attention between the bells, except in case of emergency.
It seemed impossible now—that he hadn’t recognized her presence, hadn’t acknowledged it, even without knowing her name or having exchanged a single word.
Somehow, he should have known. Should have seen.
“I stood in a corner and watched you discuss derivatives,” she affirmed. “It was the quietest, most structured classroom and lesson I’d ever seen.”
Terrifying. Not in a fun way.
But her eyes were soft, her lips curved. “You knew all their names already. You called them Ms. Blackwell and Mr. Jones and so on. Except for Sam, because those sorts of titles cause them gender dysphoria. Which I know, since Sam’s in my second period class. Earlier this week, they told me you always used their preferred pronouns and name. From the moment you received their information form.”