“Excellent.” Carson releases my elbow and opens his office door. “After you.”
I step inside, the door clicking shut behind me. Leather-bound books and stale coffee fill the air, undercut by the heavier press of Carson’s pheromones. My coat weighs on me, but shrugging it off would mean admitting I won’t be leaving in five minutes.
Carson moves past me, his shoulder brushing mine as he circles behind his desk. The contact, brief as it is, sends a chill across my skin.
“Please, sit.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “This won’t take long at all.”
I perch on the chair, refusing to settle into its leather embrace, as if maintaining physical readiness to leave might somehow speed up this interaction.
Carson hangs his suit jacket on the coat rack in the corner before turning to his computer, the screen illuminating his profile in a wash of blue light.
“There’s an issue with the substitute coverage for next week,” he begins, clicking through files. “The administration asked for your input, given your extensive work with the policy committee.”
“What’s the issue?” I ask, hoping to expedite whatever this is. “I can review any documents by email tonight.”
Carson clicks his tongue, faint disapproval in the sound. “This requires your immediate attention, Leif. The Roberts family has questions about Sprinkles being in the classroom with a substitute present.”
He crooks two fingers, the casual gesture still expecting obedience. “Come see these emails. The language concerns me.”
Reluctantly, I set my messenger bag on the chair and move beside his desk. Carson shifts his chair closer as I lean toward the screen, our shoulders brushing while he points out the message. Heat crawls up my neck at the contact.
“Note the phrasing here,” Carson leans closer, his breath warm at my ear. “‘Concerns about consistency of supervision.’ That’s coded language questioning your arrangements.”
His finger traces lines of text on the screen, each movement bringing his hand closer to mine, where it rests on the desk. When our knuckles touch, I pull back as if burned, disguisingthe motion by reaching for the mouse to scroll through the document.
“I can draft a response tonight,” I offer, taking a half-step away. “I’ll send it to you before morning.”
Carson stands, eliminating the distance I created. He reaches past me to open a drawer, his chest brushing my shoulder, trapping me between his body and the desk. “Before you do that, you should review these previous communications, too.”
He extracts a folder, his movements unhurried as he flips it open and spreads papers across his desk. Each document requires explanation, his finger tracing paragraphs while his body crowds mine. The cherries-and-iron of his Alpha pheromones surrounds me, attempting to assert dominance over my own cedar notes.
The wall clock above his bookshelf changes to seven fifty-eight. My promised five minutes have already stretched to thirteen.
“There’s also the matter of the winter festival committee report,” Carson continues, shifting topics before I can interject. “The parent volunteers expressed confusion about the service animal demonstration portion. Preparations are already underway, so we need to smooth out these wrinkles.”
He produces another folder and spreads additional documents across the desk involving committee notes, policy drafts, and parent correspondence.
Each page steals another minute from my evening.
My phone vibrates again.
“One moment, please,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “It might be important.”
Carson’s hand closes around my wrist hard enough to halt the motion. “This will only take another minute. The committee presentation is next week, and the optics need to be perfect.”
My pulse jumps with fear, and I slowly withdraw my hand, leaving my phone unanswered.
Carson slides another document toward me and continues explaining policy revisions, standing close enough that his hip brushes mine whenever he shifts his weight.
As the wall clock reads eight-oh-four, heat gathers beneath my coat, sweat trickling down my sides.
“Carson, I really need to go,” I say, forcing firmness into my voice. “I have dinner plans, and I’m already late.”
“Almost finished.” His tone suggests my concern is overzealous. “I just need to show you the presentation materials.”
He retrieves a portfolio from the credenza and spreads several charts across the desk, stepping close again as he explains how the committee intends to structure the report.
I edge toward the door. “I can review these at home and send feedback tonight.”