Page 1

Chapter One

MEGAN HARTLEY

I'm shaking. Not visibly—I learned years ago how to keep my professional mask in place, how to smile and nod and discuss reading comprehension scores while my heart hammers against my ribs—but inside, where no one can see, I'm trembling.

Brock Rhodes sits across from me at the small table in my classroom, his long legs folded beneath a surface designed for children, his commanding presence filling the space in a way that makes the air feel thinner. He wears a charcoal suit, the jacket open over a crisp white shirt without a tie, and his eyes—steady, deep brown—seem to see straight through me.

"So you're saying she's doing well overall," Brock says, his voice low and smooth, the kind of voice that makes me think of late nights and whispered words in the dark.

I blink, forcing myself to focus on the papers spread between us instead of his hands resting on the table. The same hands I watched tie a first-grader's shoe at field day last spring when the child's laces came undone during the relay race.

"Yes," I say, my voice steady even though my pulse is not. "She's reading above grade level, her math skills are solid, and she's very social. A pleasure to have in class."

Brock's mouth curves into a small smile, and my stomach flips. "That's good to hear. I know the transition after the divorce was hard on her."

"She's adjusted beautifully," I say, and I mean it. His daughter is sweet, bright, and kind—a genuinely lovely child. Having Kayla in my class for the second year in a row has been a joy. I taught her in first grade last year, and when the opportunity came up to loop with the class into second grade, I took it without hesitation, thrilled to spend another year with these kids and their families.

What I hadn't anticipated was spending another year trying not to stare at Brock Rhodes.

I've known him for fourteen months now, and my attraction has only grown with every passing week. He's been an involved, dependable presence since the very beginning—volunteering for classroom parties, running field day stations, and quietly covering supply donations or field-trip sponsorships through the front office so no child is left out. On holidays and Teacher Appreciation Week, he always sends thoughtful, classroom-appropriate gifts that show how much he values my work.

He's a good father. A genuinely good man.

Which makes my attraction to him that much worse.

He's one of those parents every teacher appreciates—the kind who shows up and follows through. But somewhere over those fourteen months, I stopped just appreciating him. I started looking forward to every time he walked through my classroom door.

Brock nods, his gaze holding mine for a beat too long. "I appreciate everything you do for her, Miss Hartley."

"Megan," I say automatically, then immediately regret it.

"Megan," he repeats, and the sound of it in his mouth makes my thighs clench beneath the table.

"Is there anything else you'd like to discuss?" I ask, shuffling the papers into a neat stack.

"No, I think that covers it." Brock stands, unfolding himself from the small chair with an easy grace.

He extends his hand, and I rise to shake it, my palm sliding against his. His grip is firm, warm, and lasts just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

"Thank you again," Brock says, his thumb brushing—accidentally?—against the inside of my wrist before he releases me.

My breath catches. "Of course. Have a good evening."

He holds my gaze for another moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, and then he turns and walks out of my classroom, leaving me standing there with my heart racing and my skin tingling.

I'm twenty-seven, curvy and soft in ways I've spent years second-guessing—thick thighs, a rounded stomach, breasts and hips that don't fit the narrow ideal I see everywhere else. I have long, dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a smile my students seem to like. But I'm not the kind of woman who turns heads.

He's a parent. I'm a teacher. There are boundaries I absolutely cannot cross.

But God, I want to.

"You need to get laid."

I nearly choke on my wine. "Excuse me?"

My best friend, Cora, leans back against the couch in my small apartment, her expression entirely too smug. "You heard me. You're wound so tight you're going to snap, and I'm pretty sure I know why."

My face heats. "I don't know what you're talking about."