Page 11 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

The new principal would fit right in here with those stodgy faces when the time came, I was sure. I hadn’t met him yet, but with a name like Mr. Darlington, he was bound to be a pretentious snob like the rest of them.

Directly to my right was the portrait of Aaron Tingle, who had been principal during my years at the private high school. Frowning, of course, because joy couldn’t possibly have anything to do with learning. If you found cause to smile at school, well, then, you were doing it wrong. He was the sort of man who mistook misery for wisdom.

I turned to look his portrait full in the face. On impulse, I did what I had always longed to do: I stuck out my tongue and blew a raspberry at him.

“Mrs. Gonzales.”

I jumped to my feet like a startled cat. “Mr. Darling—oh no.” I stared at the new principal in abject horror.

The man who had witnessed me crying during sex stared back.

There must be some mistake. In the first place, because after a teen pregnancy and being widowed before most people graduated college, my life had been hard enough. The universe owed me something, and this wasn’t it.

In the second place, he had absolutely nothing in common with the dour principals who encircled the room, other than the fact that they were all males. Because of course they were. God forbid a woman—

I shook my head. Now was not the time. The point was that this man could not be the new principal of Piedmont Latin Academy. He was too good-looking, for one. I had thought him ridiculously attractive in the dim light of Goat’s Tavern, and he was even more so now in the warm daylight that streamed through the windows, making him squint his green eyes at me behind his glasses.

It was those eyes that had taken me from maybe to yes that night. He had told me a dirty joke that made me double over with shocked laughter. No one ever told Kate Gonzales, sanctified Widow of Hart’s Ridge, dirty jokes. But he didn’t know about any of that, and when he had leaned closer, his meadow-green eyes sparkling with mischief and not a single ounce of pity, my maybe had changed to yes, him.

Which was a third reason he absolutely could not be principal of Piedmont Latin. He told dirty jokes.

“Mrs. Gonzales? Mrs. Katharine Gonzales?” His mouth flattened to a grim line. Ah, now I saw the resemblance to his predecessors. “Have a seat, please.”

I sat. Max, I suddenly remembered. He had introduced himself as Max and not bothered with a last name. Which, fair enough. Neither had I. I hadn’t bothered with a truthful first name, in fact.

“My middle name is Rose,” I offered. “My friends call me Kate.”

Those green eyes flicked over me and then back to the sheaf of papers on his desk. “Thank you for meeting me, Mrs. Gonzales.” Clearly he didn’t consider us friends. His tone was short and clipped, and not thankful at all.

“Of course.” I crossed my legs and ran my damp palms over my skirt. It was one of my favorites, a pale yellow that nipped in at the waist and had a little swing at the hem, covered with swirly lollipops. It was perfect for helping customers at Sweet Things, but now I wished I had chosen something different. A skirt that didn’t suggest something needed to be licked. “What can I do for you?”

There was a pause. The papers rustled in his hand. He cleared his throat.

Hm. I narrowed my eyes. “You kind of want to make a dirty joke right now, don’t you?”

He wrestled with that for a moment. The corner of his mouth twitched. I watched, fascinated. Would the sacred shades of Piedmont Latin be thus polluted? Dear god, I hoped so.

Alas, it was not to be.

“Mrs. Gonzales,” he said firmly. And then blinked, as though something had just occurred to him. His gaze shot to my left hand.

Dammit. I didn’t want to say it. He was the only man in a decade to look at me like he was seeing something other than Property of George stamped on my forehead. I didn’t want that to change, didn’t want the memory of the freedom it had given me to be tarnished by reality. But I couldn’t let him stew in guilt, wondering if he’d slept with a married woman. Wondering, especially, if he had inadvertently wrecked the homelife of one of his students.

“My husband died ten years ago,” I said. “And you can call me Kate,” I reminded him.

His expression softened. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yes. Well. Thank you.” I straightened my back and lifted my chin. I was George’s widow. Widows were demure. They didn’t do things like taunt Mr. Darlington into cracking dirty jokes in the principal’s office. No matter how much they wanted to. “Now, do you want to discuss the PTA fund and where we currently stand there?”

“That’s not necessary. Christine brought me up to speed. Thank you for that, by the way. It was very helpful.”

“Oh. Then why did you ask me to come?” I asked with just the teensiest bit of emphasis on come. Because I couldn’t resist. That was a new experience for me. I always resisted.

No, not new. Just long buried. I had been a precocious teenager, the kind who had never met a button I wouldn’t push. I could feel that inner girl slowly awaken now, stretching her latent muscles for the sole pleasure of tormenting Mr. Maximillian Darlington.

He gave a long-suffering sigh, clearly regretting that he had asked me to come. “The girls archery team needs a temporary volunteer coach while Mrs. LaFay is on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. You were highly recommended.”

“I was?” My delight was tempered by surprise. I had been the North Carolina State Champion in the junior archery division three years in a row when I attended Piedmont Latin, but that was a very long time ago. There were still a few teachers around who would remember, but they would also remember why I didn’t compete my senior year. “By whom?”

---