Page 41 of A Heart of Bluestone

Eric’s bemused glint sharpens his caramel gaze. But the smile that dances on his lips is soft enough that I’m put at ease.

He extends his hand, as if to take the folded paper pinched between my fingers—but his hand bypasses the assignment… and lifts to my cheek.

The brush of his thumb on my temple is tender and fleeting. His hand comes away too soon, and I am too shocked, too stunned to react when I should.

I watch his hand recede—then I blink on the fluorescent yellow streak that stains his thumb.

Highlighter.

I feel the instant burn on my face, the heat I can’t contain.

I had fucking highlighter on me.

My mouth sucks inwards, and I just glare at the streak of yellow on his thumb, and I wonder, fleetingly, how easy it would be to lob myself off the nearest tower.

“You have been catching up on your work, then,” he decides, and finally, the smile takes root, it turns crooked on his lovely mouth. “Witchdoctor Urma sent Milton a sick card. You were poorly?”

He must see the blush that is eating me up whole, because I feel it as though someone has set me alight. Ruminating on the highlighter. Of all the times I’ve wished to be swallowed up by the ground…

“Better now,” I say with a loosened breath.

“You look it.”

Those words strike me.

Eric doesn’t question how sick I was, doesn’t question the legitimacy of it. I think… he’s flirting?

No other teacher would give such an unnecessary comment, aninappropriatecomment one could argue.

It lures my gaze to his.

“Are you my teacher today?” I blurt out the question in a breathy sound. My toes take the weight of my body as I lean closer, as if ready to step closer—and I know I’m in danger of a major fuck up. And still, I add, “You aren’t wearing your robes.”

Eric gives a lazy, one-shouldered shrug. But the heat that crawls over his cheeks like a frosty wind has hit him, it tells me enough.

“It’s Friday night,” he says, soft, his gaze flickering over my bare shoulder. He forces his eyes back to meet mine. “I’m just Eric.”

I lean into that step, and I lift my chin to meet his gaze. “Well,Just Eric, will you accept my assignment?”

He reaches for it in the small space between us, too tight a space between a teacher and a student. But he isn’t a teacher tonight. Said so himself. So this isn’twretchedlyterrible, is it?

He pinches it between his middle and index finger. But his gaze doesn’t stray from mine.

“Ok,” I choke on the word, my face splitting, hot, and I stagger back a step. “Have a good Friday, Just Eric.”

Still, his eyes glitter into mine. “You, too, Olivia.”

I bite down on my bottom lip before I turn my back on him. It’s all I can do to not giggle like a flustered teenager, and I loathe myself for that.

I leave with a bounce in my step—and I’m sure, Eric’s gaze running over my ass as I go. I don’t look back.

8

The weekends at Bluestone are the sort of days to dream of. They are the sort of days I thought I would have when I first came to the school.

Sometimes, I let myself wonder what it would have been like for me if my magic wasn’t dormant.

If, when I turned thirteen, my magic showed itself, and Dray saw that, would we have walked the halls of Bluestone hand in hand? Would our unofficial engagement have become official?

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