Page 20 of Taming His Teacher

I go about my business, straightening papers, erasing the scribbles on the board, doing my utmost to pretend he’s not there. But it’s difficult when my brain is shouting,Shep’s not here! He’s not here! Those blue eyes, floppy hair in need of a cut. Not here!

God, I’m sick. I’m married and carrying another man’s child, and yet I’m fantasizing about one of my students.You’re going to hell for this, Erin Elizabeth.Shep’s footsteps are heavy on the carpet as he approaches, too heavy to pretend I don’t hear him coming.

“Mr. Shepherd, I assume you’ll be going to lacrosse camp over break?”

“For the second half.” He’s responded, but absently, as if he’s only using ten percent of his brainpower. The other ninety percent is focused on me. His gaze is so intense I blush, though I’m wearing trousers, a twin set and pearls. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.” I shuffle papers on my desk, messing up stacks I’d neatened a minute ago.

“You don’t look okay.”

“It’s not considered good manners to tell a lady she doesn’t look her best, Mr. Shepherd. Surely Mrs. Wilson’s mentioned this in one of your etiquette sessions.” In an antiquated tradition, every year each boy is required to have a sit-down dinner with the Headmaster’s wife and a few other students, during which she imparts upon them bygone manners. You know, should royalty ever come to town. My accompanying beware-of-boundaries glare doesn’t have the same effect on Shep as it does on Caldwell or the rest of my students. If anything, he’s more determined.

“You’re pale and you flinched during class.”

The first of my little boys filters into class and I give Shep a hard glare.We’re not doing this in front of the kids.As he offers a fist bump to the lanky freshman passing by, I know he won’t cross any lines in front of them. He takes his role of upperclassman very seriously.

“I’m fine. Thank you for your concern. Enjoy Fort Lauderdale and I’ll see you in two weeks. If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the ladies’ before next period starts, and you don’t want to be late for Mr. Jeffries. You have a test, if I’m not mistaken.”

I’m not. Conrad was making copies yesterday in the faculty lounge while crowing about how much agony his students were going to be in. Sadist.

Shep glowers at me. If the world were a perfect place, I’d reach out, cup his jaw, run my thumb over his freshly shaved cheek and lay a kiss on his full lips.I’m fine.He’d take me in his arms, hold me close and say into my hair,Okay. I just worry about you.

But this world is far from perfect so instead I offer a tight smile to his angry scowl. He follows me out the door, turning left when I go right, and hefting his heavy bag over his shoulder before stalking down the hallway and bursting out the double doors into the sunshine.

In the bathroom, I shut and lock the stall door although I’m the only woman in the department, and tug down my pants and underwear, noticing a hint of blood on the gusset. Blood. When I wipe, there’s a pink tinge on the tissue and my heart starts to race.

Nothing to worry about. Spotting early on is perfectly normal. I’ve read it in the dozen pregnancy books I’ve devoured in place of my usual steady diet of kinky romances. Nothing to be afraid of. But it’s not early anymore. I’m almost four months along, as my snug waistband will attest to. I’ve been avoiding buying maternity clothes but I’ll have to give up the ghost and go shopping over break. Because really, not buying pants that fit is not going to stop my waist from expanding and why should I be physically as well as mentally uncomfortable?

I take a few deeps breaths and try to shove aside the unease crawling up my spine. I have three more classes to teach and then I’ll call my midwife. I straighten my clothes, wash my hands and head back in to where the boys are waiting for me.

* * *

Shep

I hate this. I’ll be lucky to not bomb this idiotic test. Jeffries is such a fucking asshole. I studied for this test, hard, and so did everyone else, but the highest grade is going to be a B. But the nerves bunching my shoulders tight aren’t about this test, they’re about Erin. She looked sick. Why didn’t anyone else say anything? Can’t they see it? Why didn’t Will do something about it? If she’s not feeling well, he should be taking care of her.

But I don’t think he thinks about her much. He thinks about Miss Davis more. Or at least looks at her more. I guess she’s pretty. A lot of crass jokes get made about her in the locker room, but she’s too…pointy. Erin’s suppler, sweeter, a soft place to land instead of a jagged bed of nails. I shut down the comments about Miss Davis after a few, but they know better than to make any about Erin when I’m around.

Shit. I’ve got ten minutes to finish this beast and then I have to book it across campus to get to Drawing on time. The rest of my afternoon is shot. But afterward, I could check on Erin. Make sure she’s okay. And if she’s not, make her do something about it.

I love that she’s so sunny and optimistic, I do. Too often, though, she takes it to the extreme, blocking out the world with hands over her ears and her eyes shut tight, humming something silly so the outside world can’t burst her happy bubble. But sometimes the bubble needs to be burst because you can’t fix something until you acknowledge it’s broken.

Hopefully it’s that her stomach’s upset. That’s what you get when you take your eggs over easy.

* * *

Erin

I’m explaining how to calculate the area of a parallelogram in geometry when the next twinge hits, this one stronger, more painful. My breath is knocked out of me. I drop the chalk I’ve been gesturing with and I couldn’t tell you which one of the boys who sit in the front row picked it up and handed it back. My clammy fingers graze his, and my vacant “thank you” gives me a few seconds to get my shit together.

I’ve been going to the bathroom between each period and there’s been more blood, but nothing that truly freaks me out. It is enough to make me nervous, forgetful, and I have to email my geometry class their homework.

I have lunch in the faculty dining hall. Will kisses me on the cheek but spends the entire hour discussing Chaucer with Lana Davis. I wonder if Will’s sorry he married me instead of trying to get into her pants. He doesn’t notice, or at least doesn’t comment, that I’m not looking well, not even a question as to how my day’s going. I wonder if I’m imagining it until Herb Warner from the history department asks if I’m feeling okay.

“Fine, thanks. Long week. You know how they get before vacation.”

“I do.” He proceeds to regale me with thirty years’ worth of tales of the antics of students going stir-crazy before vacations. I’m grateful for his chattiness. It means I don’t have to offer anything but a polite nod and occasional laugh at his endless stories.

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