Page 16 of If The Shoe Fits

He’s so completely out of my league, it’s funny. Or it would be if he didn’t haunt my dreams and most of my waking moments.

Sigh.

I’m just an average, overworked Witch in sensible shoes and the kind of wardrobe that screams, “Don’t look at me, I’m just here to grade papers.”

I let out a small, shaky sigh, trying to focus on literally anything else.

“That’s Principal O’Connell’s clock,” I say inanely.

“Yes, it was a gift when I took the job,” Wulfy,er, Principal Tremayne remarks.

He looks shocked that I’m making small talk, but he inclines his head and continues the conversation, “Are you two close? Do you see him often?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know about close. He is doing fine now in his retirement home. I visit him once a month, bring his favorite lemon scones and listen to him reminisce about the good old days.”

“I see. So you two had a special relationship?”

“Well, he’s the reason I got hired here in the first place. But I don’t know about special,” I mutter, looking down at the carpet.

Is that a chew toy under his desk?

I force myself to look up at Wulfy again, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my cheeks flush the second our eyes meet.

It’s fine.

This is fine.

Just a professional conversation with my boss.

No big deal.

Except that every nerve in my body is currently lighting up like I’ve accidentally touched a live wire.

Anyway.

“So, um, is there something I can do for you, Principal Tremayne?” I ask, trying not to sound like the naughty schoolteacher in a porno.

“Yes, Professor Troy, as a matter of fact there is,” he says, leaning forward and flattening his hands on his desk, “you can tell me just what the hell do you have against my daughter?”

chapter seven

Okayyyyy.

It’s pretty clear that Wulfy Tremayne is fully aware of my ongoing battle with his darling little angel, Cyndi.

His jaw is tight, his shoulders stiff, and his amber eyes practically glowing with a fiery intensity that’s—well, let’s just say it’s distracting.

He’s obviously upset.

And judging by the way his fingers are drumming against the desk, he’s expecting an explanation.

I should’ve seen this coming. I mean, of course the Principal wants to know why his precious spawn has been crying big, fat tears all over his suit jacket.

But what I wasn’t expecting was the low, guttural growl that accompanied his first question.

Nor was I expecting that growl to make my panties practically disintegrate on the spot.

“I’m s-sorry, Mr. Tremayne,” I stammer, cursing the wobble in my voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

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