Page 6 of Muse (The Forbidden Hearts #1)

SOPHIE

O ver the next week, I do everything in my power to avoid making eye contact with Mr. Hayes. If I ignore him long enough, maybe he’ll forget the whole drawing thing. Or, even better, maybe he’ll forget that night at the bar.

Not that I can.

I can’t stop thinking about that night. The music, the way we moved together, how natural it felt to laugh with him, to let myself get lost in the moment. I didn’t know he was a teacher. He didn’t know I was a student. We were just two people in a bar, flirting without consequence.

Now, I sit at a desk while he stands at the front of the room, and everything that felt so simple is suddenly impossibly complicated.

I don’t even know which part makes me want to crawl into a hole more. Him catching that stupid drawing on my desk, or the fact that I was basically draped all over him in that bar, smiling like an idiot and acting like I had any right to be there.

He handed everyone’s papers back the next morning like nothing happened. Just slid mine onto my desk without a word, without even looking at me. No flicker of recognition, no smirk, no anything.

That should’ve been a relief, but somehow, it only made me feel worse.

I shoved the drawing to the bottom of my backpack and told myself I’d burn it the second I got home. That was days ago and it’s still in there, mocking me for my stupidity every time I reach in for a pencil.

And of course, I can’t stop thinking about it. About him . My brain’s like a broken record, just skipping over the same humiliating track on repeat.

Every time I close my eyes, it’s all right there. That sketch sitting out in plain sight. The look on his face when he saw it.

And before that… the night at the bar. Now it’s a mess. I’m a mess.

Avoiding him sounded like a solid plan, but it’s a little hard to pull off when he’s standing at the front of the room five days a week. I’ve done my best to steer clear, keeping my head down and bolting the second the bell rings.

But this morning, I’m not fast enough.

“Sophie? Hang back a second.”

His gravelly voice stops me cold, and my stomach drops straight through the floor.

I scowl, debating whether I should pretend not to hear him and just keep walking. But I already knew this moment was inevitable. I turn around slowly, trying not to let the panic show on my face.

The classroom empties, the door clicking shut behind the last student. It’s just us now, and I’m caught standing under the heat of his gaze like I’m in the spotlight.

“Yes?” I manage, my voice tight.

“A couple of things,” he says, leaning back in his chair like this is totally normal. Like I didn’t have my hands all over him, his body pressed against mine. Like I didn’t whisper something borderline embarrassing in his ear about him smelling like cinnamon whiskey.

He’s acting like none of it happened. And maybe that’s the worst part.

“First, your rendition of me… quite the masterpiece, I must say.”

He smirks.

Smirks.

My cheeks blaze with heat and my lungs forget how to function.

“I almost made a copy to hang in my office.”

He says it like it’s casual, but that smirk? It’s the same one he had when he called me “beautiful” at the bar, right before spinning me like we were in a romance movie. I laughed at the time, but now I want to crawl under my desk and die.

“Second,” he continues, “it didn’t fit the requirements of the assignment. Not even close. But I’ll admit, you’ve got serious talent. Pulling that off with just a pencil in under an hour? Impressive.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like this whole situation is no big deal.

“So I won’t punish you this time. I’ll let you off with a warning.”

My heart is doing somersaults in my chest. I swear I see something in his eyes, a flicker of emotion. A crack in his facade.

Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s just what I want to see.

Either way, I’m not about to let him hold all the cards. If he’s pretending like nothing happened, fine. I can pretend too. Two can play this game.

“Well, I appreciate the compliment,” I say sweetly, forcing a grin onto my face. “If you did make a copy, I hope you frame it. Or at least get it laminated. ”

I tilt my head slightly, watching him. Testing him.

His expression shifts, his stare sharpening for a split second. His posture tenses, jaw clenching tight. He’s trying to stay composed, but I can see it. I feel the tension underneath his calm facade.

He clears his throat.

“Well, Miss Sophie,” he says, his voice suddenly clipped with an edge. “I think we’re done here.”

And just like that, the wall between us slams back into place.

“Enjoy the rest of your day.”

He turns back to his computer, his tone final like he’s just slammed a door shut in my face.

I stand there for a second longer, my pulse pounding and my mind blank. I want to say something clever or witty, but nothing comes. So I just turn and walk toward the door, swaying my hips just a little more than usual.

And yes, I hope he watches me leave.

The next two classes drag. Not only are they boring me to tears, but I feel numb.

By the time lunch hits, I’m starving and restless and basically vibrating out of my own skin.

I can’t focus, I can’t sit still. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath all morning, and I’m scared that if I let it out, I’ll say something that I shouldn’t.

I spot Sal by the lockers and latch onto her like a lifeline, tugging her arm and steering us straight past the cafeteria.

“We’re leaving,” I say.

“Ooooh,” she sings, grinning as she falls into step beside me. “Is this a random screw-school kind of day, or more of a ‘my hot teacher just looked at me like he remembers exactly how close we got on that dance floor and now I need greasy food and denial’ situation?”

She doesn’t even wait for me to answer.

“You definitely spoke to him again,” she says, practically vibrating. “And he definitely looked good. All buttoned-up and broody, probably trying not to think about how your hips felt against his.”

“Sal,” I groan, but I’m grinning. I hate that she knows me so well.

“So where are we going? I’ve got a quiz later, but I’m not that committed to my education. Got a joint?”

I snort. “No joint. Just a desperate need for food that wasn’t burnt to a crisp by someone who hates teenagers.”

“Ugh, rude. Poor Donna. She does her best. Long live the queen of charred chicken nuggets.”

“Let’s hit the buffet up the road,” I say, already turning toward the lot. “I need fried food and an hour away from this place or I’m going to lose it.”

We walk fast, like criminals in the midst of a getaway. I do a quick scan for teachers, then unlock the Jeep. I always park in the back corner, near the exit. Just in case. That probably says something about me, but I’m not unpacking it today.

The sun is brutal, and the black leather seats scorch the backs of my thighs the second I sit down.

My car isn’t cute. The paint’s peeling, the AC sounds like it’s choking half the time, but she runs, and she’s mine.

Sal’s got a nicer ride thanks to her parents and their endless money that seems to grow on trees, but she’s a passenger princess by nature, so we usually take mine.

She props her feet up on the dash and throws her head back dramatically. “Okay, spill. How hot did he look this morning? On a scale from ‘mmm’ to ‘please ruin my life, sir’?”

I choke on air. “Sal!”

“Oh, don’t ‘Sal’ me. You danced with him all night. He bought you a drink. He spun you around like you were in a Nicholas Sparks movie. And now, plot twist , he’s your freaking teacher. I mean, Sophie. You’re literally living a Wattpad fever dream.”

I groan and thunk my forehead against the steering wheel. “It’s so bad.”

“It’s so hot.”

“He’s my teacher now.”

“Exactly! It’s forbidden. Delicious. Tragic. Like, actual angst porn.”

I flip her off as we pull into the buffet lot.

The place has definitely seen better days. Sticky floors, half the wallpaper peeling off the walls, and every table guaranteed to wobble no matter how many napkins you shove under the legs. But it smells like garlic bread and fried chicken and cheap comfort, so I’m not complaining.

We grab a booth near the dessert table and wait for the waitress.

This place is strictly seat-yourself, no rules, no frills.

We scroll through our phones in silence for a minute.

Sal sends me a video of some guy in a Ghostface mask doing a thirst trap dance in a crop top.

Classic. I roll my eyes, but appreciate the distraction.

The waitress wanders over and drops off two menus like she’s on autopilot. I order a Coke, Sal goes for her usual water, her one healthy habit, and we head for the buffet.

I’m halfway through stacking a plate with the worst possible combination of fatty foods, curly fries, fried chicken, and baked beans, when I turn and nearly slam straight into someone.

My plate jerks in my hand, precariously teetering on the edge of crashing to the floor.

I look up.

Of course. Of course .

Mr. Hayes .

He’s holding a to-go container, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up to his elbows. He looks effortlessly handsome. One of those guys that just wakes up in the morning already perfectly put together. And yeah, he looks good. Unfortunately.

My plate tips and I watch as my chicken fingers slide, everything going still for half a second.

Then his hand is on my arm, steadying me before disaster strikes and we both end up wearing my lunch.

His grip is solid and warm, his calloused fingers curling around my wrist in a way I must admit does something funny to my insides.

I freeze.

So does he.

“Whoa—careful there,” he says.

His voice is calm. Almost too calm. Like he’s working hard to sound unaffected. His hand lingers a beat too long before he lets go, and my skin tingles where he touched me. Stupid body.

“Um. I—sorry,” I manage, letting my hair fall into my face like that’ll help hide my embarrassment.

“All is well, Miss Sophie.” His tone is flat and professional. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hate the way it sounds.

Miss Sophie.

He didn’t sound like that at the bar. Now it’s all clipped and formal, like we’re strangers. Which I guess we are. Technically.

“What are you doing here?” he asks after a pause. “Pretty sure students aren’t allowed off-campus during lunch.”

“You caught me.” I shrug, trying to sound breezy and casual, even though my stomach is still twisting into knots. “The cafeteria isn’t great. I needed real food. I’ll be back in time for fourth, I swear.”

He looks at me for a second too long. There’s emotion hiding behind his eyes, a flicker of something I can’t quite get a read on.

Then he nods. “Alright. I’ll let you off the hook this time. ”

And then—he winks.

WINKS.

My brain short-circuits.

Before I can even begin to react, he’s already turning back to the buffet like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just fry my nervous system with one twitch of his damn eyelid.

I stand there for a second, trying to remember how walking works, then head back to the table with my overflowing plate and feeling like I’m about to suffer from a full-blown heart attack.

Sal’s halfway through a brownie, watching me like a hawk.

“You saw him, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“And you talked to him?”

“Briefly.”

“And he touched you?”

“Sal—”

She gasps, slapping the table with an open palm. “He touched you. Holy shit. He touched you .”

“I almost dropped my plate, and he caught me. Calm down.”

“Okay, but was it a teacher grab or a ‘we’ve danced before and I know exactly how your body feels under my hands’ grab ?”

I blink at her. “What the hell kind of scale is that?”

She just raises an eyebrow like it’s obvious.

I lose it. I laugh at full volume, unable to even catch my breath. A couple at the booth next to us turns their sharp gaze on us. I don’t care.

“There’s just… something about him,” I say eventually, my voice softer now. “It’s not just that he’s hot. I don’t know. It’s like…” I trail off, because I don’t actually know how to finish that sentence.

Sal quiets for a second, which is rare .

“You didn’t know who he was that night,” she says. “Neither of you did.”

“Yeah, well. We do now.”

She watches me. “So… what now?”

I stare at my plate, pick at my fries that are already getting cold.

“Nothing,” I say. “Nothing happens. It can’t.”

I stab a piece of chicken with my fork and try really hard not to think about how much I want to be wrong.