As I stand outside Easton’s office, my throat feels dry. My heart’s hammering so loudly that I swear he must be able to hear it from out here. With a deep breath, I knock on his door.

“Come in!” he shouts.

For a moment, I hesitate, my hand locked tightly around the handle. After a couple of seconds go by, I hear him shout again. I know I can’t hold out here much longer, so I push through, holding my breath as I walk in. He doesn’t look up at first, and I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t realise it’s me, or because he does and doesn’t want to believe it’s true.

Once I close the door behind me, he finally looks up. A breath leaves his body before his posture becomes rigid. “Fuck!” is all he says at first. Closing his eyes, he looks down, shaking his head. “I didn’t want it to be true.”

So, it was the latter.

I don’t know what I could possibly say in return to make this situation any better. I doubt nothing ever could. So, instead, I stand, swallowing the bile in my throat as Easton seems to struggle with what to say or do next.

Finally, though, he looks up. And I see it there. Hurt. Disappointment. Maybe even resentment.

“You never said anything in the bar last night.”

Why does it seem like he’s blaming me for this? It makes my nerves fall slightly. “You don’t seriously believe that’s a conversation piece I want to be having with a guy I’ve just met, do you? ‘Oh, I’m eighteen, but tomorrow I’ll be starting school to do my final GCSE year with a bunch of fifteen-year-olds.’ I know that wouldn’t have gone down well.”

His lips form a thin line, frustration ebbing on that beautiful face of his. “You told me you were older. Twenty-one or something.”

I shake my head. “No, you told me I looked around that age. I just didn’t correct you.”

With a defeated sigh, he slinks back in his chair, rubbing both hands over his face. He takes in another deep breath before locking those beautiful eyes of his with mine. “And here I was worried that the only problem I had this morning was that the bonny lass I met at a bar last night hadn’t texted me back.” He gestures towards his phone, and in that moment, I can’t help but smile.

“You think I’m beautiful?” I ask, feeling euphoric all of a sudden. At least I know what bonny means.

I get the unimpressed look back again. “Focus, Sasha.”

“Sorry,” I answer. But then it hits me. He knows my name. Of course he does. That means he knows who I am and my history.

The walls close in, threatening to take me under. He’s the head teacher of the school. It’s his job to know more about me than I probably do.

Shit. What now?

I’d thought knowing he was the headmaster of my new school was bad enough, but this somehow seems worse.

“We could get into big trouble for what happened last night. It could cost you your last year and me my career. Do you realise that? I’m the youngest headmaster in the whole of the UK. I’ve even been in the papers about it. I can’t lose this. Not after all my hard work.”

Suddenly, my own selfish wants and needs feel insignificant in comparison. In a slight panic, I approach his desk, tapping my fingers along the edge.

“Listen, Easton … I mean, Mr Lockhart. You just need to forget last night ever happened. Okay?”

With that said, he looks up. “Can you?”

All my breath leaves my body. I know I will never be able to get that image out of my head. It’s all that I’ve been able to think about ever since. It’s been on constant replay. I just can’t grasp why he asked me that. Surely, he doesn’t feel it too—this spark between us?

It doesn’t matter anyway. None of it does. No matter what my body tells me, I can’t think of Easton in the same way again.

“It doesn’t matter what we think. What matters is where we go from here on out.”

He sighs again. “You’re right. We have to forget everything that happened last night.”

“We have no other choice.” He nods in agreement. “I promise I won’t cause any problems for you. The last thing I want is for you to get into trouble. I’ll stay away from you. It’s as simple as that.”

Shaking his head, Easton silently laughs. “Of all the women in the world, you had to end up being my newest pupil, didn’t you?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Sod’s law, I guess. And you ended up having to be my new head teacher. You can’t odds it, can you?!”

He chuckles slightly—a little of the obvious weight leaving his body. “I certainly could not have predicted this; it’s quite literally the last thing I expected.”

Feeling I should leave, I motion with my thumb towards the door. “Maybe I should go.”

“Are you feeling better?” he asks.

“What?” I respond with a frown.

“Back there. The teacher said you were sick.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Err, I guess a lot of it was to do with who appeared in assembly this morning.”

“I thought as much.”

“I do feel better, though. Well, not about this, but … well … you know what I mean.”

He smirks. “Yes, of course.”

As our eyes lock, the room falls silent. For a moment, I can’t seem to take my eyes away from him, and I know that’s the worst possible position I should be putting myself in.

“I’m going to go.”

Without another word, I turn and walk towards the door. But just as I touch the handle, I hear his voice.

“Why didn’t you text back last night?”

My heart skips at his question. Turning, I ask, “Does it matter now? Under the circumstances, I mean.”

He shrugs. “I guess not. Just curious. Forget I said anything.” He throws a file onto his IN tray, and for a split second, I wonder if it’s mine.

When I look back, Easton’s leisurely reclining back into his chair, his hands are clasped together, and he’s smiling at me.

I think my knickers just caught fire again. Seriously, that smile should be illegal—especially since I know I can’t have him.

When I don’t make a move to leave, he smirks. “Is there something else you need to talk with me about?”

I blink a couple of times before shaking myself out of my stupor. “No, nothing. I’ll get going to class. Nothing more needs to be said.” When he nods and gets back to his paperwork, I turn and am about to turn the handle when I suddenly stop and look up at the door. “I was going to text you back. I guess I just found it hard to know how best to respond to the beautiful man I met last night.”

Without looking back to gauge his reaction, I leave, closing the door quickly behind me. As I do, I lean up against his door and let out a deep breath.

“Are you okay?”

The voice makes me jump. I didn’t even realise Mrs Caterham was still here waiting for me. “I’m fine, thank you. Just a little overwhelmed. Mr Lockhart’s very nice.”

Her eyes light up at the mention of his name. “Yes, he is,” she answers, obviously flustered.

I shouldn’t feel jealousy. In fact, I have no right to feel anything at all where he’s concerned. It doesn’t help the little pang I feel in the pit of my stomach, though.

“I better get you to class,” she says, breaking my thoughts. “You have English first period, and you’ve already missed ten minutes.”

Oh, great.

I know I’ll have all the students’ eyes boring into me the moment I enter the room. I want nothing more than to lie low, keep my head down, study, and pass my exams. That’s all I intend to do.

Mrs Caterham leads me to my classroom. As I’d expected, the moment we enter, the teacher stops talking, and everyone looks my way.

“Ms Bowles, this is Sasha Blakely, our new student.”

Ms Bowles smiles towards me as everyone else just continues to stare. “Good morning, Sasha. How nice to meet you. Please, sit. We were just discussing poetry from the eighteenth century.”

I smile back, making my way to an empty seat next to Pigtails. I’m just grateful that the teacher didn’t make me stand up in front of the class and properly introduce myself.

“Love poets from the eighteenth century,” Samantha whispers to me.

“Thanks,” I reply, taking out my notepad and pencil case.

“Now, who can give me a name of a poet from the eighteenth century?” Ms Bowles looks around the room, but no one puts their hands up. Internally, I smile, because I already know of one.

“Sasha, how about you? Do you know of any?”

My head snaps to Ms Bowles, and everyone in the room looks at me. Of course she had to pick on the new girl. “Erm,” I say, chastising myself for sounding like a babbling buffoon. “Robert Burns,” I finally respond with a little more confidence this time.

“Very good.” She looks around the room. “Anyone else?” Everyone’s quiet. “Come on, ladies. How about William Blake? Lord Byron? John Keats?” She looks at everyone’s blank expressions. I’ve heard of all of them, but the rest obviously haven’t. She visibly sighs. “We will need to change that right now.” She walks towards her desk and picks up a book on poets through the ages and walks towards me. “Open your books to page two hundred and one.” She places mine on my desk, and I thank her. She smiles, walking back towards the front.

In a effort to keep up, I quickly turn the pages until I reach number two hundred and one, and I notice it’s all about eighteenth century poets.

“Today, we’re going to learn about these famous poets, what made them choose to write poetry, and what went on in their minds when they wrote. Was it pleasure, pain, happiness, loss? Once we have read through the book, I want you to pick a poet and then a poem which you will read for the class week after next. Unfortunately, I won’t be here next week as I’m having an operation on my knee, so we will have continue with it then. In the meantime, I would also like for you to try your own hand at poetry.” Everyone groans, causing Ms Bowles to smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time before that assignment.”