Page 13 of If The Shoe Fits

He’s just standing there, casually filling out his custom suit like he’s the lead in a high-budget romantic drama.

His shoulders are broad enough to make Atlas jealous, and his jawline could probably cut glass.

I swear, the man’s mere existence feels like a personal attack.

He’s the epitome of what a man should look like—tall, strong, with just the right amount of scruff to make you wonder what it would feel like against your palm.

Total physical perfection.

Bastard.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, he has the audacity to be so effortlessly charming—well, with everyone else. I mean, to me he is barely civil.

But whatever.

Principal Tremayne is the kind of guy who smiles with his whole face, and his eyes crinkle in this way that makes you want to sigh dreamily and smack yourself for it later.

But the worst part—the absolute cherry on this hellish sundae—is how affectionate he is with his kid.

His rotten to the core, monster brat of a kid.

Even as he ends their embrace, he kneels down, tying her shoe with this look of pure, unfiltered love that could melt the iciest of hearts.

Then he stands, and pats her hair, laughs when she pouts, and even gives her another quick hug before facing me.

Meanwhile, I’m standing there like a total idiot, clutching my chest like it’s a life raft, wondering why the universe hates me.

I mean, is this a cosmic joke?

Here I am, trying to get through my day without embarrassing myself, and he’s out here being the perfect father and ruining every chance I have at rational thought.

It’s maddening. Completely unfair.

I shake my head, trying to snap myself out of it.

Focus, Dora. You’re a professional. An adult.

I do not have time for silly schoolgirl crushes on men who look like they just stepped out of a cologne ad.

Nope. Not today.

“Oh, um, excuse me. I can come back,” I mutter.

I move to retreat, but he stops me with one glare from his gold-tinged brown eyes.

His glasses only make his expression appear sterner, and I am nearly overcome with the image of him wearing them and nothing at all while he gives me orders—in bed.

Yes, please.

Dear Goddess, I need help. Or a man. Or something, for fuck’s sake.

This level of obsession is borderline delusional, and I can’t afford to risk my job.

I pinch the inside of my wrist to stop myself swooning, and again, I move to step back.

“Not one foot,” he growls, and I freeze.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

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