“Are you suggesting I need to enter a formal courtship to maintain my professional credibility?” The question escapes before I can filter it, sharper than intended.
Carson’s eyebrows lift. “Not at all. I’m merely observing how these situations are perceived by the community we serve.” He picks up his pen again, tapping it against the table. “Academy parents expect certain standards from those who work closely with their children.”
To him, an Alpha’s scent on an Omega outside formal courtship disrupts the hierarchy he relies on to maintain control.
“I appreciate your concern,” I say. “I’ll keep your perspective in mind.”
Carson studies me, assessing whether his message has landed with sufficient force. “Excellent. That’s all I ask.” He gathers his papers, signaling the end of the conversation. “Your work with Quinn is too important to risk over a temporary assignation, after all.”
The dismissal of what Emily and I share twists in my heart.
His chair creaks as he leans back, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “I’ve been meaning to ask how you’re balancing everything these days. The committee work, substitute teaching, Quinn’s support plan, and now your outside interests. It’s quite a full plate.”
The question pins me like a butterfly to a board. “I manage my time effectively. The committee work complements my responsibilities with Quinn, and the substitute positions fill hours when she’s in class.”
Carson tilts his head. “Time management isn’t my only concern. Mental bandwidth is a finite resource, even for someone as capable as you. Your work at Pinecrest has been exemplary thus far,” he continues. “I’d hate to see that change due to outside distractions.”
The word hangs in the air between us. Distractions. Emily’s cottage with its warm lights and handmade quilts. Jared’s easy laughter over dinner. Mixie purring on my lap while Emily’s fingers card through my hair. The sense of belonging I’ve found within their walls.
“My personal life doesn’t interfere with my professional obligations,” I say for the second time, careful to stay neutral despite the flush creeping up my neck.
Carson taps his pen against the table again. “Perhaps not yet. But these situations have a tendency to evolve. I’m only concerned because I see such potential in you, Leif. The work you’ve done with the policy committee demonstrates capabilities beyond nannying or classroom teaching.”
My heart thuds painfully as Carson’s strategy emerges clearer with each word. He’ll dangle professional advancement as a counterweight to personal happiness.
“Quinn needs stability,” Carson murmurs. “The school needs consistency. Your path here at the Academy could be quite remarkable, with the right focus and priorities.”
Emily, or my career. Emily’s pack, or Quinn’s security. Those are the choices he’s offering me.
“I appreciate your concern,” I say. “And your confidence in my capabilities.”
“Of course.” Carson stands to come around the table. “We’re all invested in your success here.”
I turn to leave, and his hand finds the small of my back, his thumb rubbing small circles on my spine as he walks me to the door. “I hope I haven’t been too hard on you, Leif. As your friend, I worry about how you’ll be perceived. You’re valuable to the Academy, and there are those here who look up to your reliability, consistency, and understanding of appropriate boundaries.”
“I’ll see you at tomorrow’s faculty meeting,” he says, releasing me.
This time, he allows me to escape.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Grady
Rain pelts the window above my desk in steady sheets, turning the December afternoon into a premature twilight. My desk lamp casts a warm circle over scattered pieces of my current articles and red-inked drafts.
I reach for my cup of tea, only to find nothing but dregs at the bottom. As I grasp my cane to go brew a new cup, my phone starts ringing on the wooden desktop.
When I see Martin’s name, my heart quickens. Almost two months of phone calls, favors called in, and careful questions have led to this moment.
I accept the call. “Please tell me you found it.”
“Got a pen ready?” Martin’s voice crackles through the line, tense with satisfaction. “You’ll want notes for this.”
“Hang on.” I rifle through the notebooks on my desk to find the right one and uncap a pen. “Go ahead.”
“Carson Whitaker,” he says. “Currently dean at Pinecrest Academy. Previously at Westbrook Preparatory for four years, Highlands Academy for three, and Lakeview Educational Center for five.”
I write each name and timeframe, my pen indenting the yellow paper hard enough to leave impressions on the sheets below.