Page 17 of Teacher's Pet

I am.…

The sound of a book thudding to the floor breaks the silence and I jump, eyes locked on the old literature that tumbles from the shelf nearest to me. My breath catches as the culprit, Noah, rounds the corner, a few old, bound copies of George Orwell’s works in his hands.

Instantly, I feel the fragile peace I’d carefully built here shatter. His eyes meet mine, and for a split second, we’re both frozen, just as surprised to see each other as the other is to be found.

Great.

Now, this once safe space isn’t the retreat it used to be.

Slamming my book shut, I make a deliberate show of how irritated I am by his presence, the action sharp and pointed. My gaze flicks to the window, pretending the outside world has some kind of solace to offer, as I watch his reflection bend down to pick up the fallen book.

Please, just go away.

"Go away," I quietly plead.

But of course, he doesn’t listen.

"We don’t start Orwell until the end of the semester," Noah says, his voice attempting to bridge the silence, offering some kind of weak small talk.

Peering at the copy ofAnimal Farmresting in my lap, I barely register the sudden shift beside me. He grabs the book, and the action makes my pulse spike, a quick shot of irritation flaring in my chest.

"What-"

"Listen before you bite my head off," he cuts me off, his voice too calm, too smooth, as he nudges my legs aside to make room for himself on the window seat.

I don’t pull away as he sits down next to me, but the air between us crackles. Without asking, he sets my book on top of his growing stack at his feet, the soft thud of it adding an odd weight to the silence.

The dim, gray light filters through the blinds, and I can’t help but take in his profile. Sharp, defined, closer than I ever wanted him to be. His slightly curled, brown hair falls messily across his forehead. The clean, barely-there stubble that lines his jaw only makes it look sharper, more angular. And damn him, the way his clothes fit his frame, tight enough to hint at muscles hidden beneath that stiff teacher attire, makes my breath catch for a second longer than it should.

"Ana?"

His voice slices through my thoughts like a cold knife. I snap my gaze up, my heart fluttering in my chest, barely hiding the annoyance that has now completely washed over me.

"What did you say?" I force the words out, the edge to my tone sharper than I mean it to be.

"I said," he repeats, leaning in just enough for me to catch the glint of something unreadable in his eyes, "I think we started off on the wrong foot."

The words hang between us, suspended, and I feel the tension coil tighter in my chest. What does he want from me now? His attempt at civility feels too calculated, too practiced.

Genuinely curious, yet unwilling to let my guard down, I cross my arms, a defiant gesture meant to keep some distance.

"Is Mr. Ackerman trying to create a truce with me?" I ask, my voice thick with disbelief.

The corners of his mouth twitch into a smirk, and something, an unfamiliar, uneasy sensation, stirs deep in my stomach.

"I don’t know how many students would go out of their way to spend their free time reading, let alone reading classic literature," he says, his voice smooth and calculated. "Perhaps I jumped the gun on seeing you as a problem student."

I feel a smirk of my own tugging at the corners of my lips, and without thinking, I lean in just a fraction closer, closing the distance between us.

"You see me reading an old book and suddenly think I’m a good girl, Mr. Ackerman?" I hiss, the words coming out sharper than I intend, but it doesn’t matter.

His gaze hardens for a split second, and I catch a flicker of something, danger maybe, before he closes the space between us further, the heat of his body pressing against mine. His jaw tightens, and his curls brush my forehead as he leans in, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin.

"Are you not a good girl, Anastasia?" His voice drops lower, and the question lingers, heavy with something I can’t name. A ripple of heat rushes through my body, pooling between my legs, and I immediately regret the way it makes my pulse quicken.

What the hell is he doing?

I force myself to focus, using the irritation rising in me as a shield.

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