Nick Horner fueled more than one of my private fantasies and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. From his dark hair to his green-hazel eyes, he was my celebrity crush, broad, and strong, with an ass you could bounce a quarter off. And I could wax lyrical for days over his face— his perfect face— with his gorgeous smile, dimples, and cheekbones, and lips just this side of plump and so pink I could almost taste them. He was so sexy he stole my breath, and I wanted him under me, on top of me, in me, me in him, all ways… badly.
Unfortunately, his daughter, Hannah, was in my English class.
Not unfortunate because she was a bad student. Not at all. In fact, she was a shining light in a class full of entitled rich kids at St. Josephs, and I mostly had good things to say about her in among the worries. It was just unfortunate that he was the parent of a child at the school and was off-limits, despite being my idea of perfection.
My lust-filled thoughts had begun when we bonded over pineapple on pizza at the last Queer Straight Alliance fundraising event. Or rather, we hadn’t bonded, but ended up teasing each other. Nick took the stance that it was the worst thing in the world, and I’d told him it was the best kind of pizza. That had been a few months back, when Hannah had only just joined my class, and the pizza-bonding had been a fun way to pass ten minutes, but nothing more. I flirted. I think he kind of flirted back, but I wasn’t sure, and it was never going to go anywhere.
“Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza,” he’d said right by my ear when I wasn’t expecting it. I’d spun around so fast that a mushroom appetizer had flown off my plate and barely missed hitting him in his perfect face.
I think I held up my end of the conversation, but there’d been nothing more than a buzz in my head, until I realized he’d been staring at me with a frown.
Then, I’d lost the plot entirely, made some joke about how we should add a new QSA seminar on how to admit to your horrified family that you liked pineapple on pizza. He’d snorted a laugh then, and it was as if I had a superpower that only worked on him, because I didn’t make people laugh. I was too serious, too intense— I’d heard it all. He’d smiled with me, not at me, and for a second there, with half a shrimp special in my hands, I’d thought I’d seen the ever-present aloofness in him melt away as he stared into my eyes with an intensity I’d never experienced. Then, he’d exited stage left, and I got the feeling I’d done something wrong— that maybe I shouldn’t have admitted that pineapple on pizza was definitely a thing.
We’d met at a couple of other school events after that, and I swear there’d been something there— an indefinable thing that was part attraction, part wariness, and wholly awkward, although it never went past chatting, and always ended with us exchanging handshakes and going our separate ways.
But now, for the first time, I was meeting Nick in an official capacity as Hannah’s teacher at our very first parent-teacher conference of the year, and I was excited, and nervous, and a bit sad that I couldn’t get my flirt on. I had important things to say to him about Hannah, and I needed to stay one hundred percent professional and certainly not imagine Nick Horner naked.
I grabbed a cinnamon roll from my bag— I’d missed any kind of meal break to write reports from yesterday’s parent-teacher meetings but I always carried emergency rations just in case. I even managed to finish the roll because Nick Horner was currently running late, the clock ticking off the minutes as I added a few more notes to my list. I was so lost in the words, brushing cinnamon roll crumbs from the paper as I wrote, that the sharp knock on the door startled the hell out of me.
“Come in,” I called, and a very guilty Nick Horner poked his head around the corner.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he murmured.
That was one of the things I liked about him— despite his money, and his celebrity, he wasn’t entitled and he’d even thought to apologize. This private school, the most expensive in San Diego, wasn’t used to parents who were humble enough to apologize for their tardiness.
“It’s fine, please come in.” I gestured to the selection of chairs.
He took the one opposite me, and I got my first look at the man who took up way too much real estate in my thoughts. He was nothing like I recalled, not bright and engaged, but instead exhausted— his eyes bracketed with lines, his normally bright hazel eyes dull. He wasn’t in a suit, but jeans and a T-shirt, with a ball cap pushing back his dark hair and even though he was a tall man, he was hunched in on himself.
Something wasn’t right.
“Is everything okay?” I know I sounded worried.
“Yeah, of course, and sorry again, I was stuck… just stuck,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat, and wriggled in the chair to sit more upright.
“No worries,” I reassured him.
“It’s been one of those days. Weeks.” He waved off his words, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. “So uhm, I’m here for Hannah’s report?”
I opened the file and went through all the usual items, her academic achievements in my English class, which for the main part were exemplary. Nick smiled softly at most of it, but it seemed as if the smile was difficult to hold, and he kept staring at anything but me. He was distracted and I wondered if he was getting enough sleep— or any at all. Maybe, he was deep into a new documentary and working all hours? Who knew? He listened with a sudden burst of interest when I talked about Hannah’s schoolwork, even wanting to know how he could help her at home. Then, for long moments, he zoned out. Was tonight the best time to talk seriously to him?
“I do have some concerns,” I began.
He finally glanced at me. His body language screamed defensive and exhausted, and I hesitated a moment before telling him what I felt because he seemed so damn brittle. I didn’t know what was going on with him, but he wasn’t the Nick I’d met before.
“Concerns? About my Hannah?” He was confused, shocked even.
How did I explain that things weren’t quite right? I’d been teaching for three years at St. Joseph’s now, and with Hannah’s cohort for this semester, but I was still a new teacher and sometimes struggled to explain things I couldn’t back up with black and white test scores and statistics. Hannah shone in verbal reasoning, her intelligence put her at the top of my class, but she lost focus easily, and her homework assignments weren’t consistent. I’d tried talking to her other teachers, but they’d given me the look. The one that said I should understand Hannah’s father was a celebrity, and maybe, I should let sleeping dogs lie in case we lost his donations.
They clearly didn’t know me very well— I was the champion of the underdog, and Hannah was struggling.
“I wanted to ask if everything is okay at home?” I said.
His body language shifted, going from shocked to closed off to frustrated. Maybe that wasn’t the best first question, and I glanced down at my list. Seeing him here had thrown me off-balance, and watching his stress had made me think there was something bigger than just what was happening with Hannah.
“Everything is fine.” He was quick to defend, as if he’d almost expected me to say something and had rehearsed what to say.
My chest tightened at the sudden iciness in the room. “I’m asking because Hannah hasn’t managed to hand in an assignment on time this semester, and I’ve noticed a pattern in her not concentrating in class—”
“You literally just said Hannah is one of your best students,” he interrupted.
“Hannah is one of the most vocal in class, always backing up her comments with thoughtful clarification, but I feel as if her academic progress doesn’t align with my high expectations for her. In a publicly funded school, there are procedures to follow for supporting students, but I’m hitting nothing but brick walls here at St. Joseph’s, and so I’ve gone straight to you, her dad.”
He raised an eyebrow, and I got the feeling he had a low opinion of my expectations and my comment on how the exclusive St. Joseph’s worked. I wasn’t sure what he was trying to convey with his expression, so I forged ahead.
“I feel that, at times, she’s over-engaged in my classroom, almost obsessive, and then appears scattered, so maybe she would benefit from a private assessment for what I feel could be some level of attention deficit.”
“What? Like ADHD?”
“I don’t know exactly—”
“I don’t need people thinking they can tell me what’s best for my kids.”
“Mr. Horner—”
“I know she’s been scattered, but have you thought that maybe it’s your teaching?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re a new teacher.”
“No. I’ve been here three years—”
“Which is nothing.”
“I agree, it could be my teaching methods,” I began diplomatically. I’d never said I was the best teacher in the world, but I knew my kids, and this wasn’t about the teaching, at least I didn’t think it was. I was thrown because he didn’t seem to be respecting my opinion, and I’d always had the impression he respected others.
Not that I knew where the impression came from— maybe because I’d seen the documentaries he’d made? Or because he hadn’t laughed me out of his space for liking pineapple on pizza?
“So why have none of her other teachers reached out?”
Great— he was going straight there. “I’m the only one who currently considers there to be an issue.”
“And there you go.” His tone was dead. “I don’t pay thousands to this damn place for one inexperienced teacher to jump to conclusions. She’s tired, having to take the slack for everything because of me— because I’m letting everyone down. Look, she’s working too hard, that’s all.” He left his seat and began to pace, agitation in every line of him. Gone was the smooth guy who didn’t have a hair out of place, in his place was a man who was on edge.
I was at a disadvantage staying in my chair, so I stood and held out a hand to stop him pacing. I didn’t mean to touch him, but he sure as hell walked into my hand and then flinched and stumbled back, only to catch himself and then straighten to his full height, which was a good six inches over mine.
I’m not intimidated. On the other hand, do I need to call security?
“Mr. Horner,” I began in an even tone. “I think we’re talking at cross purposes. I’m not jumping to conclusions, and I care deeply about the success or failure of my students.”
“My daughter is not a failure,” he snapped.
“I shouldn’t have used that word. I never said she was.” I raised a hand again. “Let’s start this again. I’ve been observing Hannah, and her usual group of friends seems to be pulling away, and she’s quiet, less engaged in my class, and in my observations, I wonder if you’ve considered having her evaluated for attention deficit. Girls are infinitely better at masking ADHD than boys, and it’s a wide spectrum that covers a multitude of—”
“We’ve been through a lot.” He was good at interrupting me. “You do know she lost her other dad, right?”
“I know, a few years ago.” I wish I hadn’t said that when I saw the flash of anger in his eyes.
“Are you implying there’s a time limit on grief?”
“No. What?” This conversation was seriously going off the tracks. “I didn’t say anything of the sort, losing a parent will never leave you. I understand that—”
“She’s fine.”
I wished he’d just let me talk. “I thought that—”
He didn’t even wait to hear what I was saying, exiting the room and slamming the door so hard the wall shook.
I stared at the space he’d been taking up as if it had all the answers. Five minutes, that was all that had passed in the aborted meeting, and I’d never witnessed such a range of emotions. I didn’t know how long I stared, but it was long enough to conclude that Nick Horner had lost his shit in a spectacular way. I picked up Hannah’s paperwork and shuffled it into a pile— lost in thought when the door flew open again— and Nick walked back in. He closed the door behind him and leaned there, his chin on his chest.
“Christ,” Nick muttered, then pressed his fingers to his forehead.
“Mr. Horner?” I asked cautiously, not wanting to spark anything weird. There were only maybe five steps between us, and I was close enough to see his wet eyes— it wasn’t fear I was feeling, but compassion. “Nick?”
He winced when I used his name. Had I overstepped? Or was there something else going on?
“Do you have a bathroom?” he asked.
I gestured to the end of the conference room, and he headed that way. I followed him a few steps, wondering if he needed something, confused as hell, and when he didn’t close the door but just splashed water on his face, I waited at the doorway for him to talk.
“Do you need me to get anyone?” I asked.
He turned toward me so fast I took a step back. “ No— I know there’s something going on with Hannah.” He pressed a wet hand to his chest and left a damp spot there. “I know in here that I’m letting her down because I can’t get my head straight, and she’s carrying a load I should be lifting.” He yanked paper towels from the supply and scrubbed his face, then threw them into the trash can. “I came back to apologize, but…” He pressed fingers to his temples and winced.
“Hannah is an exceptional student, and I just want what’s best for her.”
“I know that I’m failing at this, and if people find out how about her, how do you think this will look to them?” he asked tiredly, supporting his weight by gripping the vanity.
Wait? What? He was upset because he didn’t want people to know his daughter was struggling? “Sorry?” I was angry then. I couldn’t help it, and the irrational side of me spilled out all over him. “Are you saying you care more about your media profile than your daughter?”
“No. What?” He looked horrified. “That’s not what I meant. Of course, I don’t think that.”
“Really?”
“No! Yes. You don’t understand. There are people who think they know me and judge me for every goddamn move my family makes.”
His anger slipped, and in its place was a vulnerability so raw that I took a step closer and raised a hand. I didn’t know what I would do, touch him in reassurance, pat him, thump him for shouting at me? God knows, but he was confusing the hell out of me.
“You don’t know what it’s like for everyone to be watching you all the time!” he said and then slumped.
I reached for him, compassion welling inside me, and for a second, he covered my hand with his. As if he recalled something terrible, his eyes widened, and I didn’t understand how we’d gone from him being angry to needing compassion.
“I can listen if you need me to.”
He stared at me in silence, and then placed a warm hand against my left cheek.
“Pineapple,” he murmured. “You threw a mushroom thing at me and made me smile. Your eyes make me think… You’re the only one since Danny that I’ve ever…”
“Huh?”
“Shit, I’m sorry.” The apology was raw.
I raised a hand to cover his. “It’s okay, Mr. Horner.”
“Nick. My name is Nick.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know what I’m saying.” He sounded broken, and there was anger there as well, only it seemed directed at himself. “I’m fucking up, and I’m not ready. This is your fault. No, it’s not your fault. It’s on me, and I don’t think I should do this, but I wanted to.”
We stared at each other in silence, and we were so close that if he shifted an inch or two we’d be kissing. I should’ve moved back, but instead he cursed, and the curse came from a place deep inside him, and it dripped with pain. He hauled me into his arms, and we kissed. It was more than just a kiss, it was an all-consuming claiming of each other, and after a moment of panic over what we were doing, I gripped his shirt and gave as good as I got.
I forgot everything but the taste of Nick, and the way he tugged me forwards and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind us and lifting me— lifting me— onto the counter, and insinuating himself between my legs. Both of us hard, the kiss was everything, and desperate to get my hands on him, I wrapped my arms around his neck, lacing my fingers together, and someone whimpered.
Me.
“Please tell me to stop,” he pleaded.
I tightened my grip. “More,” was all I could force out, and we went back at it like kids under the bleachers, all uncoordinated hands and lips.
“You taste of cinnamon,” he blurted as he drew breath.
“Rolls.” I was incoherent as I kissed him again, our tongues tangling, and his hold solid on my back.
Then as quickly as it started, it stopped.
He released me, and stumbled away, his back hitting the wall, and as he wiped his mouth, his eyes widened.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. I’m sorry, this should be about Hannah!” He scrunched his hair as if he was going to pull it out from the roots.
“Let’s talk then.”
“It’s too late. It’s too much.” He looked destroyed, “I can’t even look at you.”
Ouch, that hurt, and I felt exposed and disrespected, with my lips still wet from his kisses.
I wanted to shout at him, but before I could say anything, he yanked at the door to leave. I followed him out into the room, but he was heading through the main door, and even though he didn’t slam it, the end of our meeting was final. So many lines had been crossed, and none of what had just happened made any real sense.
Was it worse that I was furious at his denial that anything was wrong with Hannah, or that I just wished he’d come back?
Please come back.
