I knew he’d noticed too. I mean, it’s a little hard not to notice when every time I see him in the hallway, I duck my head or turn around and walk away, blushing like crazy for trying to kiss him.
But I didn’t know he would summon me to his office for avoiding him.
It’s a good thing though.
I’ve been acting like a coward. I need to apologize for what I did.
I madehimapologize, didn’t I? It’s only fair.
Besides, I don’t even think I’ll get to talk to him much after this. Because remember part two of my grand plan? The one that was going to permanently put an end to his pain.
I put that plan into motion.
Well, it’s more like Leah’s plan, but there’s a dinner on Friday and that dinner is going to change everything.
That dinner is going to make him happy and, well, everything will go back to how it was before. Arrow and Sarah, together, and me, the little sister, all alone, spending senior year at St. Mary’s, waiting for an opportunity to run away.
Which is how it should be.
So yeah, I’m going to apologize because I won’t get a chance after this.
With that determination, I go through my shower and dinner quickly and when I’m done, I walk to his office.
I have a new pair of cargo pants on, freshly laundered and ironed, and I’ve even tied up my hair with the mustard-colored ribbon in a neat ponytail.
All clean and tidy.
Just the way he likes.
I knock on the door and his voice travels through it to hit me in the gut and steal my breath. “Come in.”
Swallowing, I turn the knob and open the door.
He’s sitting at his desk. There’s a book spread open on the table, a pen holder, a couple of Post-its, a stack of notebooks. Soccer balls are neatly arranged by the beige wall, along with a bookcase that has books on it arranged just so.
Everything has its place and order.
Even him.
Sitting in his high-backed chair, his shoulders broad and his back straight, he looks like he belongs here. He looks like he commands the room as much as he dominates the soccer field.
Maybe it’s the way he’s staring at me, with complete authority, complete possession. Or maybe it’s the way his elbow rests on the arm of the chair and he’s clicking this pen in his hand, waiting for me to step inside the room.
Step inside his lair.
So I do. I step inside and warmth grips me from every side. It grips the back of my neck, circles my waist and slides down to my thighs.
“Close the door,” he commands, sounding every inch the coach that he is.
Every inch the famous The Blond Arrow.
Swallowing, I obey.
“Lock it,” he orders again, clicking the pen.
“What?”
“Lock the door.”
