Page 15 of If The Shoe Fits

Now it’s just me and him, and I can’t decide which is worse.

Cyndi’s smirk or her father’s barely contained fury.

Either way, I have a sinking feeling I’m about to find out exactly whatin for itmeans.

chapter six

“Sit down,” he says, and nods his head to one of the empty chairs in front of his desk.

“Okay,” I murmur and do just that, watching as he takes his seat.

Nerves skitter up my spine like jittery little Sprites, and I find myself fidgeting with the hem of my long skirt.

Why did I wear this?

I should have worn something else. Something that doesn’t make me look so,so dumpy.

I shake off the thought, trying to remind myself how absurd it is. Wulfredo Tremayne—Wulfy, as I secretly call him in my less dignified daydreams—wouldn’t care if I showed up in a ball gown or a burlap sack.

He has zero interest in a frumpy, chubby, almost-middle-aged Witch like me.

And really, it’s best if I remember that.

Besides, this skirt is like every other piece of clothing I own. Loose-fitting, dark, plain, professional.

Nothing that feels remotely like something I’d wear on a day off or, heaven forbid, a date.

Not that I’ve had many of those lately.

Oh, who am I kidding? It’s been years.

Long. Lonely. Years.

I’m turning thirty-six next month, and the two most consistent things in my life are my job and my childhood bedroom.

Yes, I still live at the old family home.

Yes, it stings every time I think about it.

And yes, it’s all feeling particularly raw as I sit here, face-to-face withhim.

I glance down at my hands, suddenly unable to hold his gaze.

It’s ridiculous, really. I mean, I’ve been fantasizing about Wulfy Tremayne ever since he took over as principal.

Poor old Principal O’Connell had to retire after his health took a bad turn, but let’s face it—O’Connell wasn’t exactly a vision of swoon-worthy masculinity.

He was more of a kindly, round Warlock with a penchant for sweater vests and peppermint tea.

Wulfy, on the other hand… Well, Wulfy isdifferent.

He’s tall and broad, with that whole “rugged yet put-together” vibe that makes you wonder if he chops firewood in his spare time just to stay in shape.

His voice is low and rumbly, the kind that makes you sit up a little straighter when he calls your name.

And his eyes—don’t get me started on his eyes.

A deep amber-gold that seems to see straight through you, which is frankly unfair when I’m already trying not to melt into a puddle in his office chair.

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