Page 6 of If The Shoe Fits (A Howlin’ Good Fairytale Retelling #2)

chapter five

I put up with a lot of crap on a daily basis. I mean, I’m a teacher, it’s practically part of the job description.

Grading endless essays, dealing with student drama, pretending I didn’t just see another kid use a spell to pass notes in class.

It’s all part of the deal.

But dealing with this ridiculous crush?

Absolute torture.

The kind they write about in angsty novels where the heroine always ends up sobbing into a pint of ice cream.

Let me set the scene: Here I am, just your average plus-sized Witch, rocking a little extra padding around ye olde love handles. Not that they’ve been used for much loving lately, but still, they’re there, and I’ve come to terms with them.

Mostly.

But then I walk into his office.

He’s just standing there, casually filling out his custom suit like he’s the lead in a high-budget romantic drama.

His shoulders are broad enough to make Atlas jealous, and his jawline could probably cut glass.

I swear, the man’s mere existence feels like a personal attack.

He’s the epitome of what a man should look like—tall, strong, with just the right amount of scruff to make you wonder what it would feel like against your palm.

Total physical perfection.

Bastard.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, he has the audacity to be so effortlessly charming—well, with everyone else. I mean, to me he is barely civil.

But whatever.

Principal Tremayne is the kind of guy who smiles with his whole face, and his eyes crinkle in this way that makes you want to sigh dreamily and smack yourself for it later.

But the worst part—the absolute cherry on this hellish sundae—is how affectionate he is with his kid.

His rotten to the core, monster brat of a kid.

Even as he ends their embrace, he kneels down, tying her shoe with this look of pure, unfiltered love that could melt the iciest of hearts.

Then he stands, and pats her hair, laughs when she pouts, and even gives her another quick hug before facing me.

Meanwhile, I’m standing there like a total idiot, clutching my chest like it’s a life raft, wondering why the universe hates me.

I mean, is this a cosmic joke?

Here I am, trying to get through my day without embarrassing myself, and he’s out here being the perfect father and ruining every chance I have at rational thought.

It’s maddening. Completely unfair.

I shake my head, trying to snap myself out of it.

Focus, Dora. You’re a professional. An adult.

I do not have time for silly schoolgirl crushes on men who look like they just stepped out of a cologne ad.

Nope. Not today.

“Oh, um, excuse me. I can come back,” I mutter.

I move to retreat, but he stops me with one glare from his gold-tinged brown eyes.

His glasses only make his expression appear sterner, and I am nearly overcome with the image of him wearing them and nothing at all while he gives me orders— in bed .

Yes, please.

Dear Goddess, I need help. Or a man. Or something, for fuck’s sake.

This level of obsession is borderline delusional, and I can’t afford to risk my job.

I pinch the inside of my wrist to stop myself swooning, and again, I move to step back.

“Not one foot,” he growls, and I freeze.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

“Go on to class now, Cyndi. I’ll take care of this,” he tells his daughter.

“Are you sure, Pop?” she asks, her impossibly big, blue eyes swimming in tears.

He nods sagely, kisses her temple, and pats her shoulder—the epitome of a good father.

“Thank you, Pop. I-I’m sorry if I c-caused any t-trouble,” she says, lips trembling.

Wow. This girl is good.

“There, there, it will all be fine,” he tells her.

“You’re so good to me. Oh, don’t forget your tea, Pop.”

“I won’t forget. You spoil me so, my sweet Cyndi,” he tells her, and his eyes are brimming with fatherly pride.

“Anything for you, Pop.”

I stand there, arms crossed, watching this saccharine sweet display of father-daughter affection, and honestly, it’s enough to give me a toothache.

Principal Tremayne is laying it on thick. Another peck on her head, a murmured reassurance. And Cyndi is eating it up like it’s her favorite dessert.

Cyndi catches sight of me, her crocodile tears vanishing in a heartbeat as she slants her eyes my way, lips curling into a grin so smug it should be illegal.

Her father pats her shoulder one last time, oblivious to the fact that his precious little angel is more like a pocket-sized devil in Prada.

And then she’s strutting past me, head high, confidence radiating off her like some unearned badge of honor. As she gets close, she leans in just enough for me to hear her hissed words.

“Told you I’d tell my father. Now you’re in for it.”

Her tone is pure menace, but her smirk?

Oh, that smirk is lethal.

I could practically see the invisible checkmate sign glowing above her head.

As she glides by, I catch a faint whiff of magic in the air.

The unmistakable tang of it prickles against my senses.

She’s cast a spell—probably something subtle to keep her Werewolf dad from picking up on her nasty remark. Of course. Because that would show her true nature.

Classic mean-girl Cyndi behavior.

But unfortunately for me, I hear every word loud and clear.

I narrow my eyes, fighting the urge to stick my foot out and trip her. Not that I would.

Probably.

The door clicks shut behind her, sealing me in the office with Principal Tremayne. The sudden silence is deafening, save for the faint sound of his fingers drumming against the desk.

I turn my head slowly, and that’s when I hear it—a low, threatening growl rumbling from his direction.

It’s not full Werewolf-mode yet, but it’s enough to make my stomach tighten.

Great. Just great.

And why was it sexy?

Now it’s just me and him, and I can’t decide which is worse.

Cyndi’s smirk or her father’s barely contained fury.

Either way, I have a sinking feeling I’m about to find out exactly what in for it means.