The old Volvo groans and sputters. “Come on, Fred. You’ve got this.” After another failed attempt, the engine rumbles to life. I pat the dashboard. “See? I knew you could do it.”
As I pull out of the parking lot, I envision a date night withhimand laugh.
Get it together, Chloe. He’s just a parent.
An intense, impossibly handsome parent who probably has a wife, two-point-five kids, and a golden retriever. Or who’s at least in a relationship with one of the student’s moms. Definitely out of my league, though a girl can dream.
Five minutes later, I’m still thinking about Kolya and those mysterious eyes when my house comes into view at the end of the street.
Small, perfect, and blue, with white trim that glows in the dusk. I park in the driveway.
Everything’s fine and normal.
I’m safe, and so is the life I’ve built, brick by careful brick.
So why’s my heart racing?
Inside, I follow my usual routine. I place my shoes by the door and my bag on the hook above them. My home, familiar and soft and with throw pillows fluffed just so, envelops me. A rainbow of books arranged by color lines the shelves. The living room features faded yellow walls, worn hardwood floors, and a secondhand, oversize recliner that’s cozier than my bed for a long nap.
A place for everything, and everything in its place.
I spot my lovely new globe bar. The Italian antique with mahogany legs is an extravagant gift, at least by my standards. I cross the room to skate my fingertips along the equator, tracing continents and oceans.
Last year, a parent left this gift right outside my classroom door.
For the teacher who gives our children the world. Here’s a small piece of it for you.
Even the memory of the note warms my heart.
I follow the coastline of Europe with my nail, skimming over places I’ve never been and can only read about.
Barcelona. Nice. Athens?—
A shiver crawls up my spine.
I spin, scanning the room. Nothing out of place. Everything exactly where it belongs.
“The cottage,” as I’ve dubbed it—at under eight hundred square feet and with only one bedroom, it’s certainly as comfy as one—remains unchanged, but the air’s charged.
My feet carry me to the front window. Peeling back the curtain, I peer out at the quiet street. Houses glow with eveninglamplight. Just my sleepy neighborhood settling in for a Wednesday night.
I shift to the kitchen windows to check my tiny backyard.
The oak trees loom, their branches black against the sky as they claw at the twilight. For a split second, I think I see motion slicing through deeper darkness.
I blink.
Gone.
Just a shadow.
“You’re being ridiculous.” I let the curtain fall. “Too many romantic suspense novels before bed.”
But as I move away from the windows, the uneasy sensation lingers. A prickling between my shoulder blades insists someone’s watching. No matter how I try to reason the gut instinct away, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone.
Chapter 3
Kolya
