Page 27 of Home to the Hollow

Jekyll and Hyde bound out of the car, clearly sensing my discomfort, and land on either side of me with glares on their whiskered faces. The boys’ eyes widen and they guffaw, still eyeing me like a piece of meat. A cougar I am not—despite my tryst with Hottie McBabyVet today—and I roll my eyes, flicking my ponytail over my shoulder to show my dismissal of their moronic behavior.

I’m so focused on pointedly ignoring their catcalls as I walk to the door. It doesn’t occur to me that the football team is Edgar’s domain and that might mean?—

“Well, hello, sugar.”

I goddamned swear, the Universe is plotting against me.

Turning on my heel, I face the escape artist himself. I cross my arms over my chest, letting Jekyll and Hyde do their protective snarls without a word of chastisement. He deserves ALL of our wrath for deserting me without so much as a ‘Sorry I broke your bed’ note. “Hello, Edgar. Are those your little doppelgängers?”

His brow arches and he glances over his shoulder where his JV O-line is still hooting and hollering in my direction. Jerking a thumb at them, he smirks. “Them? Just boys,drugar.” He lifts his fingers to those lush lips and blows a whistle that makes even MY ears scream before facing the hyena squad. “We. Do.Not. Harass. Women. Gentleman! 50laps for the entire team.Now!!”

The boys look like they’ve seen a ghost, moving like The Flash on his treadmill in the field's direction. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I bet they’re terrified. Domination Edgar is also Coach Edgar, and those boys havenoidea what they’re dealing with.

“Better?”

I sniff, shrugging. “I suppose.” Spinning around again, I march towards the door and give him my back. I refuse to let him know how much seeing him is affecting me, and I don’t want to have the discussion we need to have in public. He doesn’t comment, but I can feel his eyes on my back as I open the doors and head for the office.

Why can’t one damned thing be simple in this blasted town?

* * *

“Why,Jolene, it’ssonice to meet you! I’ve heard suchlovelythings about you!”

I blink at the very blonde, brightly colored, very Southern woman that is Bobbi Jo Ratliff. I’d spoken to her on the phone several times in my various interviews, but nothing could have prepared me for the woman in person. She’s like someone took an older Elle Woods, dumped her in Pulitzer instead of Prada, bleached her hair an almost silver platinum, and gave her the personality of Kathy Najimy.

She’s also a hugger.

Damn Edgar. That motherfucker should have warned me. I bet he’s laughing in his stupid, ass hugging athletic shorts. Yes, yes! I noticed.

“Um, well, it’s nice to meet you, too, Principal Ratliff.”

Her laugh booms in the wood paneled office, echoing like a funhouse. I don’t even want to KNOW what it sounds like in here when she loses her temper. “Oh, Jolene! We don’t stand on tradition like my predecessor did. Whistler’s Hollow Finishing School isremarkably differentthat when you attended under Principal Masterson.”

I’ll have to see that to believe it, to be honest. “That sounds good, ma’am—I mean, Bobbi Jo. I didn’t have a truly terrible experience here as some alumnae might have, but every institution can benefit from sweeping changes over the years.”

Her bright magenta lips break into a wide smile, and she nods. “That’sjustwhat I told the board when I took over. We no longer require a uniform—that was my first decision, and I stand by it. Those old stuffy shirt academy type clothes only made for teens with little outlet for their emotions and it contributed to poor decorum. We have rules about attire for minors, obviously, but the staff and students dress casually. Only if they violate our simple guidelines, do they lose the privilege and get relegated to business casual.”

Hell motherfucking yes.I could kiss this ridiculous woman.

“Does that mean that I can wear clothing that is appropriate for creating art in my classroom? Nothing scandalous, of course, but not ‘teacher wear’? And I can encourage my students to bring art-friendly clothes that stay within your code for classes?”

“Ofcourse! It would be patently idiotic to have those little darlings ruining Gucci with oil paint, don’t you think?”

I roll my eyes. Their name brand extravagance wasn’t my concern, but if Bobbi Jo will let them dress for class, then I don’t have to worry about parents throwing hissies about ruined Armani, either. It’s a win-win, even if she doesn’t getwhyI want students to have the freedom to be messy. “I do, Bobbi Jo. I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

“Since you’ve filled out all your paperwork, would you like a tour of the building? We’ve made several upgrades, including the art wing.”

Art wing? What in the actual fuck?

“I would adore that, Bobbi Jo, but I need to get more chores out of the way before the staff meeting Monday. I’ve got my house moderately under control, but I need to check in on the studio installations, and I have to get my syllabus together as well.”

“Too cute!” she yells. “Honey, if you show up with everything done, you’ll be the talk of the meetin’. I can only think of one other teacher who will be that prepared.”

You can bet your ass it isn’t Coach Edgar.

“Well, I like to get off on the right foot, ma’am.” I hold my hand out, wincing when she grabs me into another bone crushing bear hug. “I’ll email you if I have questions while I’m logging in this weekend.”

“You do that, honey!”

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