He’s right to be, as I’ve been on edge for a long while now, teetering between staying on the tracks or derailing spectacularly.
* * *
The bell rings,signaling the end of the day and, like clockwork, Camilla appears in the doorway of my office. Her eyes blazing with desire. I text her to meet me here after class, as I gave her my number but didn’t set out any rules.
“Have a seat, Miss Morrone.”
She swallows hard and then shuts my office door behind her, before taking a seat opposite me. “Am I in trouble, sir?” Her voice is seductive and I know she thinks I’ve called her here for a repeat of what happened in the classroom this morning.
“I want to establish some ground rules.”
Her expression falters at the serious tone of my voice. “Oh, what kind of rules?”
“Rules concerning you having my cell number.”
Her lips purse together and I can tell she’s getting ready to argue. “No texting during the school day, and only minimal texting at all.” I grimace. “I hate texting.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Are you questioning my rules?” I arch a brow. “As I won’t hesitate to change my number if you can’t follow them.”
She releases an exasperated sigh. “Fine. What other rules?”
“We will speak on the phone if you want to talk to me.”
She scoffs at that.
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, you aren’t exactly the best conversationalist I’ve ever met.” She shakes her head. “I would have thought you were more suited to sending texts.”
I growl at that. “Are you saying I don’t have much to say, Camilla?”
She shrugs. “Well, we don’t talk, outside of having sex.” Her tongue wets her bottom lip. “So, unless you just plan to have phone sex?”
“Talk to me now,” I demand.
“About what?”
I am not the best conversationalist, but for some reason, it irritates me that she’s noticed. That she thinks we don’t have anything to speak about.
“Tell me about your family.”
Her throat bobs and I notice a flicker of sadness ignite in her eyes. “I love my family, even if they’ve always made it clear I have no freedom to choose my own future.”
“In what sense?”
“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve known that I’ll be subjected to an arranged marriage of my father’s choosing.” She winces at the mention of her father. “Or more likely, brother.”
I hate the concern that blazes to life inside of me at the sadness in her eyes. “What’s wrong with your father?”
“Stage four cancer.” Her lips purse together as if she’s trying to stop herself from crying in front of me. “We found out over Spring Break.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, genuinely hating seeing her in pain.
A few tears leak from her eyes and she swipes them away. Normally, others’ pain, no matter what kind, gives me joy, but right now I don’t feel anything but pity.
“Come here,” I order.