My loafers squeak on the polished linoleum as I walk past trophy cases and the murmur of voices behind closed classroom doors.
My palms start sweating as I reach the office of academic affairs and pull open the door, releasing a rush of air heavy with coffee and copier toner.
Inside, the outer office hums with quiet activity. A secretary types at her computer, phone cradled between her ear and shoulder as she schedules appointments. Wood filing cabinets line one wall, each drawer labeled in neat block letters.
The secretary covers the mouthpiece of her phone. “Can I help you?”
“Leif Hollis,” I say, drawing my shoulders back. “I have a two-fifteen appointment with Dean Whitaker.”
She checks a schedule on her desk, running a manicured finger down the list of names. “Yes, Mr. Hollis. Dean Whitaker is expecting you. Please have a seat. He’ll be with you soon.”
I settle into one of the chairs in the waiting area, placing Quinn’s folder on my lap. A clock ticks above the secretary’s desk, each second increasing my anxiety. It takes conscious effort to keep my breathing steady while my pulse races.
The inner office door opens at two-fifteen. Carson Whitaker stands in the doorway, his tailored suit pressed, and his sandy hair combed into submission.
Gray-green eyes assess me before his mouth curves into a practiced smile. “Leif, thank you for coming. Please, step into my office.”
I rise and follow him into the inner sanctum, the secretary tracking our movement before returning to her computer screen. The door closes behind us with a soft click, and I flinch.
Carson’s office mirrors his old space at Westbrook, only more imposing in its attempt to impress. Dark mahogany furniture dominates the room, with a massive desk positioned before a wall of bookshelves, a conference table surrounded by high-backed leather chairs, and a sideboard holding crystal decanters and glasses.
Framed credentials and awards cover the walls, each one a testament to Carson’s rise through educational ranks.
Sunlight filters through vertical blinds, casting striped shadows across the plush carpet. Carson’s cherry-and-iron pheromones saturate the air, triggering warning signals in my brain.
“Please, sit,” Carson gestures to a chair positioned before his desk, its seat lower than his own.
I sink into it, the folder balanced on my knees, as Carson circles to take his place behind the massive desk. The power dynamic couldn’t be clearer. He’s elevated, and I’m diminished.
“Water?” He indicates a crystal pitcher on the sideboard.
My mouth has gone dry, but I wave away the offer. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Carson settles back in his chair, fingers steepled before him. “Well then. Let’s discuss Quinn’s support plan, shall we?”
Uneasiness ripples through me. “Don’t we need to wait for the counselor?”
Hetutswith disappointment, triggering in me an immediate desire to apologize for questioning him. “Jenny was called away to deal with a sick child, but since we’re both already here, we’ll proceed without her. I have all the notes to go over.”
My mouth opens, but a raise of his eyebrow has me snapping it closed again.
Carson opens a folder on his desk, sunlight catching on his polished cufflinks as he flips through the pages. A look of pleased surprise settles over him, as if uncovering good news he’d anticipated all along.
“I must say, based on young Quinn’s history, she’s made remarkable progress integrating with her peers.” His finger traces down a page of notes. “Her teacher reports significant improvement in social interactions, and her academic performance has been steady despite the transition.”
I clutch my own folder tighter. With Carson, praise always serves as a prelude to criticism.
“And Sprinkles… What an exceptional service animal.” Carson closes the folder and folds his hands on top of it. “The training evident in his behavior speaks to your thoroughness in preparing for Quinn’s needs.”
My shoulders remain rigid despite his complimentary words. “Blake and Nathaniel deserve the credit for Sprinkles. They ensured he received the best possible training.”
“Of course. A pack effort.” Carson’s lips fold around the wordpackas if it’s the epitome of societal achievement. “Speaking of which, how are the Wrights adjusting to Quinn’s school routine? I understand her integration was their primary concern.”
“They’re pleased with her progress.” I keep my answers short, offering nothing he can use as a weapon later.
Carson leans back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. “Excellent. Your expertise has been invaluable to them.”
The clock on the wall ticks through ten seconds of silence. Carson waits for me to fill the conversational void, but I recognize the tactic from past interactions and hold my tongue, my palms damp on the folder.