Page 7 of If The Shoe Fits (A Howlin’ Good Fairytale Retelling #2)
chapter six
“ S it down,” he says, and nods his head to one of the empty chairs in front of his desk.
“Okay,” I murmur and do just that, watching as he takes his seat.
Nerves skitter up my spine like jittery little Sprites, and I find myself fidgeting with the hem of my long skirt.
Why did I wear this?
I should have worn something else. Something that doesn’t make me look so, so dumpy.
I shake off the thought, trying to remind myself how absurd it is. Wulfredo Tremayne— Wulfy, as I secretly call him in my less dignified daydreams —wouldn’t care if I showed up in a ball gown or a burlap sack.
He has zero interest in a frumpy, chubby, almost-middle-aged Witch like me.
And really, it’s best if I remember that.
Besides, this skirt is like every other piece of clothing I own. Loose-fitting, dark, plain, professional.
Nothing that feels remotely like something I’d wear on a day off or, heaven forbid, a date.
Not that I’ve had many of those lately.
Oh, who am I kidding? It’s been years.
Long. Lonely. Years.
I’m turning thirty-six next month, and the two most consistent things in my life are my job and my childhood bedroom.
Yes, I still live at the old family home.
Yes, it stings every time I think about it.
And yes, it’s all feeling particularly raw as I sit here, face-to-face with him .
I glance down at my hands, suddenly unable to hold his gaze.
It’s ridiculous, really. I mean, I’ve been fantasizing about Wulfy Tremayne ever since he took over as principal.
Poor old Principal O’Connell had to retire after his health took a bad turn, but let’s face it—O’Connell wasn’t exactly a vision of swoon-worthy masculinity.
He was more of a kindly, round Warlock with a penchant for sweater vests and peppermint tea.
Wulfy, on the other hand… Well, Wulfy is different .
He’s tall and broad, with that whole “rugged yet put-together” vibe that makes you wonder if he chops firewood in his spare time just to stay in shape.
His voice is low and rumbly, the kind that makes you sit up a little straighter when he calls your name.
And his eyes—don’t get me started on his eyes.
A deep amber-gold that seems to see straight through you, which is frankly unfair when I’m already trying not to melt into a puddle in his office chair.
He’s so completely out of my league, it’s funny. Or it would be if he didn’t haunt my dreams and most of my waking moments.
Sigh.
I’m just an average, overworked Witch in sensible shoes and the kind of wardrobe that screams, “Don’t look at me, I’m just here to grade papers.”
I let out a small, shaky sigh, trying to focus on literally anything else.
“That’s Principal O’Connell’s clock,” I say inanely.
“Yes, it was a gift when I took the job,” Wulfy, er , Principal Tremayne remarks.
He looks shocked that I’m making small talk, but he inclines his head and continues the conversation, “Are you two close? Do you see him often?”
“Oh, well, I don’t know about close. He is doing fine now in his retirement home. I visit him once a month, bring his favorite lemon scones and listen to him reminisce about the good old days.”
“I see. So you two had a special relationship?”
“Well, he’s the reason I got hired here in the first place. But I don’t know about special,” I mutter, looking down at the carpet.
Is that a chew toy under his desk?
I force myself to look up at Wulfy again, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my cheeks flush the second our eyes meet.
It’s fine.
This is fine.
Just a professional conversation with my boss.
No big deal.
Except that every nerve in my body is currently lighting up like I’ve accidentally touched a live wire.
Anyway.
“So, um, is there something I can do for you, Principal Tremayne?” I ask, trying not to sound like the naughty schoolteacher in a porno.
“Yes, Professor Troy, as a matter of fact there is,” he says, leaning forward and flattening his hands on his desk, “you can tell me just what the hell do you have against my daughter?”