Page 12 of Healed By the Grumpy Elf

Orlin moves closer, his large frame blocking the light from the single lamppost. He leans on my door, preventing me from opening it.

"I've been thinking we should have dinner this weekend. Just the two of us."

My heart hammers against my ribs. "I'm sorry, but I'll be busy preparing for the field trip to Mermaid Cove."

"Surely you can spare one evening." His hand brushes my arm, the contact sending an unpleasant chill through me. "You can't keep putting yourself last. Let me take care of you."

I pull away, forcing firmness into my voice. "I'm sorry, Orlin, but I'm not interested in dating right now."

His expression darkens slightly before he forces a smile. "You're just tired. You'll feel differently after a proper meal. Let me spoil you a little. You deserve it."

Before I can react, he leans down suddenly, his face looming close as he attempts to kiss me. I duck away, heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"Orlin," I manage, pressing my back against my car door. "I've been clear about this. I'm not interested."

His massive frame blocks my escape route, one arm braced against my car as he towers over me. The parking lot lights cast deep shadows across his face, making his expression difficult to read.

"You're just stressed, Maeve." His voice drops lower, a rumble that makes the hairs on my neck stand up. "Everyone needs someone. Even you."

I grip my keys tighter, the metal edges biting into my palm. "I appreciate your concern, but this isn't appropriate. Please step back so I can leave."

His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath the rough green-gray skin. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he might refuse. Then he straightens to his full height, removing his arm from my car with deliberate slowness.

"You work too hard." The words sound like a criticism now, not concern. "One day you'll realize what I'm offering."

I take the opportunity to open my car door, slipping into the driver's seat before he can change his mind.

"I need to go. Good night, Principal Braggstone." My voice comes out steadier than I feel as I lock the door with a decisive click.

My hands shake as I start the engine. In the rearview mirror, I see him still standing in the parking lot, watching me leave. The image stays with me as I drive home in the gathering darkness, rain beginning to spatter against my windshield.

A shiver runs through me as I pull into my driveway, and it has nothing to do with the spring night's chill.

Just what I need, more complications.

Chapter 4

Lorian

Istareattheivy-covered stone building of Saltford Bay Elementary, my jaw clenching involuntarily. The cheerful yellow banner welcoming visitors flutters in the morning breeze, mocking my discomfort. Children's laughter filters through open windows, high-pitched and relentless.

This is not where I should spend my morning. I have patients to see, medical journals to read, a clinic to modernize. Yet here I stand, because apparently Dr. Wells had astanding arrangementtogive health lectures at the school. A commitment Mrs. Beckham helpfully transferred to my calendar. Without consultation.

"It's tradition," she'd said this morning with a bright smile. "The children always look forward to the doctor's visit."

Children. I suppress a shudder. Small, unpredictable beings with sticky hands and no concept of personal space.

I straighten my tie unnecessarily and check my watch. Ten o'clock precisely. Time to get this over with.

Thirty minutes, maximum,I tell myself. Then I can return to actual medicine rather than babysitting.

The presentation I've prepared on nutrition is scientifically accurate and comprehensive. It should fill the time easily and leave five minutes or so for questions. How many questions can kindergarteners realistically ask, anyway?

Without allowing myself another minute of hesitation, I move on, pushing the front door open and stepping inside the reception area. My senses are immediately assaulted by a wave of sensory stimuli that makes me wince. Colors, sounds, smells, all combine for a chaotic effect that makes my palms go sweaty. Construction paper cutouts of spring flowers dangle from the ceiling, swaying in invisible drafts. Thepolished linoleum floor gleams under fluorescent lights that buzz with an almost imperceptible flicker.

"Dr. Reizenhart!" a booming voice echoes down the hallway.

A large troll male strides toward me, wearing a dark-brown suit over a light-blue shirt, each footfall sending small tremors through the floor. He smiles broadly at me, his gray-green skin shining softly under the light.