I whip out my phone and fire out a text to him.
Me: Thanks for the warning, dick.
Hugo: Yeah, about that. I was going to tell you the news over a drink. Guess Dad beat me to it.
Me: Waiting eager as fuck in my house like a kid on Christmas Eve.
Hugo: I’m sorry, man. I should have known better.
Me: AG? Really?
Hugo: Not all of us have big dreams of being a high school statistics teacher.
I send him several middle finger emojis.
Hugo: Seriously. This could be good for me. For our family. I didn’t tell you because you always get pissy when Dad is involved.
He’d get pissy too if Dad stole the love of his life, put a couple babies in her, and then married her, making her his stepmom.
Me: What do you need from me?
Hugo: Get along with Dad. Be happy for me.
Me: I’m happy for you.
Hugo: Liar.
Me: I’ll get there. As for Dad…I’ll work on it.
Also a lie.
Hugo: Just help me keep an eye on Spencer. The last thing we need is some scandal popping up when I’m knee-deep in this campaign and have dumped a shit ton of money into it.
Me: Spence isn’t going to cause trouble. I’ll keep an eye on all three of those brats at school. You have my promise.
Hugo: Let’s have that drink soon. Tonight?
Me: Long day today. Friday?
Hugo: I’ll pencil you in.
Asshole.
Me: What did Jude say when you told him?
Hugo: Jude is Jude. He rarely replies to my texts and never responds to my phone calls. I’ll feel him out on Sunday.
We text back and forth for a bit while I make dinner. It’s not until he’s done chatting and I’m alone with my thoughts that they drift back to Willa.
Is that monster of a stepbrother of hers going to take more pictures?
My blood boils at the thought of him lurking over her sleeping form, moving the covers away to reveal naked parts of her. If he wasn’t seventeen, I’d whip his ass for the hell of it.
I should check on her.
Grabbing my laptop from my bag after dinner, I make my way into my home office and sit down. I have assignments to load, but first, I need to make sure Willa is okay. I open up my inbox, skip over some student questions for the time being, and draft an email to Willa.
Just making sure you’re okay. If you ever need to talk, my number is on the syllabus.
I should delete the email, not send it. But I’m not being perverted. I just want to know that she’s okay. It’s platonic. Any teacher would check in on their student after going through something like Willa did today. It’s completely normal.
She doesn’t respond, so I busy myself with my work. If I let my mind drift, I’ll get pissed at Dad or annoyed with Hugo hiding shit from me, or obsess over Willa. Once I’m finished for the evening, I grab a quick shower. I’m just coming out of the bathroom in a towel wrapped loosely around my waist when I hear buzzing from my phone. I pick it up, expecting more yammering from Hugo, but instead discover a number I don’t recognize.
Unknown Number: A little freaked out if I’m being honest.
A flash of heat ignites in my gut, burning its way through every nerve. It’s Willa. She responded. It’s such a simple text, answering my question. Benign. It assures me she’s fine. No need to delve further.
Except, I do.
Me: That’s natural. It was an invasion of your privacy, and quite frankly, criminal.
I quickly save her name on my phone. I’m waiting on pins and needles for her reply like a desperate teenage virgin talking to a girl for the first time.
Willa: Thank you for what you did today. It means a lot. I don’t have anyone who cares enough to fight for me.
Her words are a punch to my chest. How can someone so sweet and beautiful be treated that way?
Me: You’re welcome. It was my pleasure.
Willa: Good night, Mr. Park.
Me: Call me Callum when we’re not at school.
Fuck.
The dots move and stop a couple times, making me regret my last text. It’s too late to take it back now.
Willa: Does this make us friends, Callum?
My dick thickens at her text. I can almost imagine her lips curling into a flirty smirk. This is wrong. We’ve crossed a line here and I need to gingerly step back over it, creating distance between us.
But she just fucking admitted she has no one.
No. One.
Me: Yeah, I suppose it does. Get some rest.
Willa: Yes, sir.
Me: Good girl.
Jesus Christ. Do I have to keep flirting with her?
Willa: See you tomorrow. Thanks again.
I toss my phone away from me onto the bed. The last thing I need to do is reply and call her sweetheart or beautiful or anything else to get my ass in trouble. With a grumble of annoyance, I yank off the towel around my waist, grab a bottle of lube, and fuck my fist in an effort to relieve some of this built-up tension.
All it does is make me crave her more.
Fantasize about my dick inside her and her lips on mine.
I’m going to have to figure out something to get this girl out of my head. This is getting out of control.
Willa
Friends.
Such a loaded word, especially for someone who doesn’t ever make friends. Maybe to someone like Mr. Park—er, Callum—it’s a word that’s tossed around easily. But for me, it actually means something.
A friend is someone you can depend on.
Yesterday, not only did he defend me and do his best to protect me from what Levi had done, but he also checked on me later.
I’m sure texting with your student is a big no-no.
I certainly won’t be telling anyone. It can be our secret.
My skin flushes. I’m going to see him soon. With thoughts of Callum next period comes the dread of having to see Levi. I’d managed to escape this morning without a run-in with anyone in my family, including Mom, but I can’t avoid my stepbrother forever.
As the clock ticks by too slowly, I agonize over texting Callum again. Was our conversation last night just a one-time thing? Would he reply if I texted him today? I’m itchy with nerves, once again confused about this thing between us.
“Psst.”
I jerk my head to the left to find Dempsey Park smirking at me. He’s like a younger version of Callum—same floppy dark hair, though minus a few grays at the temples, same icy blue eyes, same intensity that clearly runs through the family blood. But where Callum is all fitted suits and impeccable perfection, Dempsey is the opposite.
He wears a lot of black. Black concert tees. Black, holey jeans. Black boots. Even the leather bracelets he wears around his wrists are black. Every bit the bad boy his reputation warns of.
“What?” I mouth, frowning at being the object of his attention in the middle of class.
“Got a pencil I can borrow?” His eyes flash with mischief. “Pretty please.”
I study him for a moment, wondering if he’s messing with me. Hot guys like him don’t normally talk to me. But, then again, hot teachers don’t talk to me either. Seems like it’s just one of those weeks.
“Uh, sure,” I mutter. “In my, uh, bag.”
For some lame reason, my skin flames red-hot. I lean down and dig in my bag, hunting down a pencil. A cool draft skates across my chest. It’s then I remember the V-neck shirt I wore today in my effort to be “sexy” for Callum.