Page 12 of If The Shoe Fits (A Howlin’ Good Fairytale Retelling #2)

chapter eleven

A few days later.

I shouldn’t be upset that Wulfredo Tremayne— the man of my increasingly inappropriate fantasies and the star of my recent naughty little romp —is giving me the space I explicitly asked for.

Jerk.

I mean, really, it should make me happy that he respects my boundaries.

Isn’t that what mature, level-headed adults want? Respect? Distance? The time to think things through?

Apparently not.

Because I’m not happy.

Not even close.

I’m definitely something , but happy isn’t it.

Frustrated is a good word,” Agatha says, her voice entirely too smug as we sort through decorations for the upcoming Harvest Moon Ball.

“What?” I snap, my head whipping around to stare at her.

How the heck does she know?

I haven’t breathed a single word about what happened between me and our devastatingly sexy boss to anyone—not even Agatha, my best friend and frequent partner-in-snark.

“Frustrated,” she repeats, totally unfazed by my outburst. “See, it fits right there.”

She points down, and I finally notice the Scrabble board sitting on the table between us.

I blink, realizing we’ve been playing this little game while waiting for some students to bring more boxes of ancient, slightly musty decorations down from the attic.

Oh.

My cheeks flame, burning with a telltale blush that I’m sure Agatha notices. I try to play it cool as I rearrange my tiles and finish the word.

“Frustrated,” I mutter, placing the letters on the board.

Agatha snorts, crossing her arms and tilting her head like she’s studying me under a microscope.

“I don’t know why I gave you that,” she says, clearly unimpressed.

I glance at the board, noting the triple-word score she just handed me. “Because you’re secretly a softy,” I quip, flashing her a cheeky grin.

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it, clutching at the gold pendant hanging from her necklace.

“Do you always wear that?” I asked.

“What? No, I just got it from my Granny. Anyway, maybe I just wanted to distract you from whatever’s got you all worked up. It’s written all over your face, you know.”

I huff, trying to brush off her comment, but I can’t help glancing down at the word frustrated staring up at me from the board. Agatha doesn’t even know how right she is.

Because I am frustrated.

Frustrated that Wulfy is respecting the space I asked for.

Frustrated that he hasn’t so much as growled my way in two whole days.

Frustrated that instead of focusing on my job, my students, or the Harvest Moon Ball, my brain insists on replaying every detail of that night.

And worst of all? Frustrated that part of me— the part I’m actively trying to suppress —doesn’t want him to give me space.

I sigh, grabbing a pumpkin-shaped garland from the pile in front of us and twirling it around my fingers.

“You know what’s frustrating?” I say, trying to change the subject.

“The fact that you keep sighing like you’re the heroine of some tragic romance novel?” Agatha offers, raising a brow.

I glare at her, but the corners of my mouth twitch.

“No. The fact that we’re down here decorating while the students take their sweet time bringing the rest of the boxes.”

Agatha smirks, but I can tell she’s not buying my deflection.

“Uh-huh. Sure. That’s definitely what’s got you all flustered.”

I groan, letting my head fall into my hands.

Goddess help me, I might just combust before the Ball even starts.

“Did you hear the mayor is coming to the ball?”

“She is? What about the rest of the Trifecta?” I ask.

I’m, of course, referring to the Witch Trifecta made up of our mayor, Evie Castor, and her besties Bella and Donny, all of whom are responsible for keeping the wards and protection spells surrounding our town in fine working order.

“Yep! All three Witches and their mates are coming. It’s going to be amazing,” Agatha whispers, practically vibrating out of her seat with excitement.

I snort.

“Come on! Act excited or something, before you turn into a Bront? character,” Agatha snarks, tossing a fake leaf garland at me like it’s some kind of decorative intervention.

I blink, caught between annoyance and amusement. “A Bront? character?”

She smirks, not missing a beat.

“Yeah, you know. Brooding by a rain-streaked window, sighing dramatically, waiting for some broody guy with cheekbones to come sweeping in on horseback—or whatever the supernatural equivalent of that is. A moody Werewolf in a trench coat, maybe?”

I narrow my eyes at her.

“I don’t brood.”

“You literally just sighed,” she shoots back, mimicking me with exaggerated flair, clutching her chest like a tragic heroine. “‘Oh, Wulfy, why dost thou haunt my dreams. Wilt thou lick my secret treasure if I specifically request?’”

I throw a crumpled piece of tissue paper at her, which she dodges with a laugh.

“You’re insufferable,” I mutter, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips.

“And you’re one good window seat and a thunderstorm away from becoming a gothic romance cliché,” she quips, holding up a plastic pumpkin like a prize.

“Get it together, Dora. Harvest Moon Ball prep waits for no one—not even tragic witches pining for their fated mate.”

“Fine. And I’m sorry. That is really cool about the Trifecta,” I concede, after she rolls her eyes at me.

“ T hank you,” she says, placing the last of the garland in a pile.

“So, how’d your pop quiz go?” Agatha asks, her tone casual but her eyebrow arched in curiosity.

“The juniors did well,” I reply, smoothing a wrinkle from the tablecloth. “I gave the same quiz to my sophomores, and… well, let’s just say they were not happy.”

“No?” she prompts, a knowing grin tugging at her lips.

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head, the memory still fresh enough to make me wince.

For whatever reason, it was like no one in the sophomore class had even glanced at their notes.

I mean, not one.

The room was filled with blank stares and frantic scribbling, as if sheer determination could summon the correct answers from thin air.

“Only the Spano twins—Bethany and Daniel—managed to pass,” I add, frowning. “And even that was by the skin of their teeth.”

Agatha looks up from the stack of streamers she’s sorting. “Bethany and Daniel? They’re the straight-A kids, right? Always turning in assignments early and volunteering to help after class?”

“That’s them,” I confirm, twirling a piece of ribbon absentmindedly around my finger. “But what’s weird is, the rest of the class—all of them—bombed. And it’s not like I gave them something impossible. It was the same material we’ve been covering for weeks!”

“Hmm,” Agatha says, her brow furrowing. “That’s odd. Was it, like, everyone-everyone?”

I nod, still puzzled.

“Pretty much. And the thing that really stuck out? Most of the ones who failed—like, spectacularly—were from the cheer squad and the football team.”

Agatha pauses, giving me a pointed look. “Okay, that’s suspicious. Did they have a big game recently? A late-night practice or something?”

“That’s what I thought at first,” I say, crossing my arms. “But no. I checked, and the only thing on their schedule was a pep rally last week. Nothing crazy. They had plenty of time to study.”

“Huh,” Agatha murmurs, her tone thoughtful. “Sounds like there’s something else going on.”

The sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hall, interrupting our conversation. I glance toward the door as the first wave of students carrying boxes of decorations approaches.

“Guess we’ll have to solve the mystery later,” I say, waving my hand to magic the Scrabble board away before anyone gets an eyeful of the, uh, less-than-professional word choices we might’ve made.

The board and tiles disappear with a faint shimmer of blue light, leaving the table looking perfectly respectable.

“Smart move,” Agatha whispers, grinning.

I shoot her a look. “What? I’m a teacher, not a saint.”