Misconduct

“It’s not my responsibility to chase you down!” I fought.

“Yeah, it kind of is,” he retorted. “Parent communication is part of your job, so let’s talk about why you’re communicating regularly with Christian’s friends’ parents but not with me.”

“Are you serious?” I nearly laughed, dropping the binder on the chair. “We’re not playing some childish ‘who’s going to call first?’ game. This isn’t high school!”

“Then stop acting like a brat,” he ordered, his minty breath falling across my face. “You know nothing about my interest in my son.”

“Interest in your son?” This time my lips spread wide in a smile as I looked up at him. “Don’t make me laugh. Does he even know your name?”

His eyes flared and then turned dark.

My throat tightened, and I couldn’t swallow. Shit. I’d gone too far.

I was close enough to hear the heavy breaths from his nose, and I wasn’t sure what he would do if I tried to back away. Not that I felt threatened – physically anyway – but I suddenly felt like I needed space.

His body was flush with mine, and his scent made my eyelids flutter.

His eyes narrowed on me and then fell to my mouth. Oh, God.

“Okay, sorry about that.” Shaw burst into the office, and Marek and I pulled apart, turning away from each other while the principal twisted around to close the door.

Shit.

I smoothed my hand down my blouse and leaned over, picking up the binder of lesson plans.

We hadn’t done anything, but it felt like we had.

Shaw walked around us, and I glanced at Marek to see him glaring ahead, his arms crossed over his chest.

“While Mrs. Vincent practically runs this school,” Shaw went on, amusement in his voice, “some things require my signature. So where were we?”

“Edward,” Marek interrupted, buttoning his Armani jacket and offering a tight smile. “Unfortunately I have a meeting to get to,” he told him. “Ms. Bradbury and I have talked, and she’s agreed to adjust her lesson plans to make accommodations for Christian.”

Excuse me?

I started to twist my head to shoot him a look, but I stopped, correcting myself. Instead, I clamped my teeth together and lifted my chin, refusing to look at him.

I would not be adjusting my lesson plans.

“Oh, wonderful.” Shaw smiled, looking relieved. “Thank you, Ms. Bradbury, for compromising. I love it when things work out so easily.”

I decided it was best to let the issue lie. What Shaw didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and Marek would most likely zone out of his parenting responsibilities for another few weeks before I would have to deal with him again.

“Ms. Bradbury.” Marek turned, holding out a hand for me to shake.

I met his eyes, noticing how one was not quite as wide as the other, giving his expression a sinister look as it pierced me.

Two things could be assumed about Marek: He expected to get everything he wanted, and he thought he just had.

Idiot.

The chilled pint glass was a welcome relief in my hand as I took a sip of the Abita Amber, the local favorite brew. It was mid-September, and the evenings still hadn’t cooled down enough to be pleasant. If not for the humidity, the city might feel more comfortable instead of like a stuffy, packed elevator with no room to move.

I fingered through the container on my table, counting all of the sugar packets as I sat at Port of Call, waiting for my brother to join me for dinner.

Seven Equals, six Sweet’N Lows, five regular sugars, and seven Splendas. What a mess.

I twisted around, grabbing another container off the table behind me, and picked out what I needed. The little packages crackled as I pulled them out and fit one more Equal, two more Sweet’N Lows, three regular sugars, and one more Splenda into the uneven container on my table.

Leaving the rest in the borrowed container, I replaced it on the table behind me and then recounted all of the packets. Eight, eight, eight, and eight.

Perfect.

I took a deep breath and set the container back along the edge of the table with the condiments and napkins, and…

And I stopped, looking up to catch my brother standing at the table with a drink in his hand, watching me.

Shit.

I rolled my eyes and waited for him to sit down.

We hadn’t seen each other in four days. I’d offered to help with student council after school this week, and he’d been buried in research and papers.

His white oxford was wrinkled and open at the collar, but he still drew women’s eyes as he approached the table. He leaned back in his chair, giving me the eye that said he was thinking and he had things he wasn’t sure he should say or how to say them.

“Out with it,” I relented, shaking my head and looking at the tabletop.

“I don’t know what to say.”

I shot my eyes up, tucking in my chair. “Then stop looking at me like I’m Howard Hughes,” I ordered. “It’s a nondestructive disorder that’s very common. It soothes me.”

“Nondestructive,” he repeated, taking a drink. “Was it five or six times that you went back into your apartment to make sure your stove was off today?”

I shifted, straightening my shoulders as the server came by, setting down waters on our table.

“Well, how am I supposed to remember if I shut it off after cooking the heroin?” I joked, and my brother broke out in a laugh.

I knew he thought my obsessive-compulsive bullshit was baggage that I needed help getting past, but the truth was, it was something I felt I needed.