Page 21 of The Love Syllabus

“Everything you need to know is listed on the fridge. Breakfast is at 7:30, lunch at noon, pre-supper at 3:30, and dinner at 6 PM sharp.” I reply, gesturing toward the detailed pinned notes. “But don’t worry about food. I’ll prepare and cook everything according to their preferences, and yours too.”

She pauses, turning from the list on the fridge to face me with a challenging smirk. “You don’t know what I like, Mr. Grimes.”

Her warmth invites me in, daring me to step closer.

“I have a knack for knowing what people want,” I say, watching her carefully. “And I take pleasure in fulfilling their needs.”

She inhales sharply. “Oh, really?”

There’s a challenge in her voice, but something else, too. Curiosity.

She tilts her head, eyes locked on mine. “Alright, then. Humor me. What kind of flavors make me moan in delight?”

Damn, she knows exactly how to push my buttons. I hold her gaze, moving in just enough to let my chest brush against her breasts, sending a ripple of pressure between us. I know she feelsit. She can definitely seeitas I subtly tuck in my thick bulge after watching her eyes widen.

“Mr. Grimes,” Kerry whispers, almost a caution.

“Spice,” I murmur. “Nothing too overwhelming. Just enough to add a little excitement.”

My thumb grazes her bottom lip, and I feel the sharp inhale she tries to suppress.

“You like comfort foods,” I continue, my voice dropping lower. “But with a little unexpected heat. Like honey butter cornbread—sweet, warm, but with just enough cayenne to make your lips tingle.”

Her lips part slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I love cornbread. And I’ve never had it with Cayenne, but I think I love that, too.”

I want to kiss her.

But, unfortunately, our connection is abruptly interrupted by Ms. Tina’s cheerful intrusion.

“Mr. Grimes!” The voice slices through the moment.

Both Kerry and I jump back, painfully peeling away from one another.

Ms. Tina, my head housekeeper, stands in the doorway, grinning. “Giving our new guest a tour, I see,” She says, clearly amused.

I take a deep breath and step back, feeling the need to reestablish boundaries after our unexpected flirtation. “I’m sorry, that was…unprofessional.” I admit, offering Kerry a brief, apologetic smile.

We shake hands to seal our mutual commitment to professionalism, though our interlocked fingers suggest otherwise.

With renewed focus, I lead her through my sprawling estate, pointing out the playroom adorned with colorful murals and puzzles scattered across the floor and the classroom filled with two desks, boards, and educational supplies.

Finally, we venture to the heart of my home, the family library. Her eyes widen with admiration as she peruses the shelves. Her hands brush against the spines of novels by iconic Black authors she seemingly adores—Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Phyllis Wheatley, and W.E.B. Du Bois. Each name she whispers adds another layer to her that I’d love to peel back.

“You love to read, I take it?” I ask, though the answer is written all over her face.

Kerry nods. “Now, this is my type of playroom.” She responds, her voice tinged with awe.

“I don’t read much of the classics,” I confess as we roam the library, “But I’m big on ethnobotany, food science, and herbology. It’s all part of my culinary explorations and natural remedies for the girls.”

Kerry nods appreciatively. “That’s fascinating. You’ll have to readandinterpret some of your favorite books one day.” She says, genuinely intrigued. “Would you mind if I spend time in here? When I have breaks, of course. I’d love to sit and read while watching the sun rise and set. It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world, being surrounded by warmth and books.”

After studying her for a second, I reply, “Of course. You have full access to everything in my home.”

I desperately want to sayeveryone, too, but I control myself, barely.

While continuing the tour, I feel a knot of apprehension grow in my stomach. I’ve never introduced a teacher to my daughters quite like this, never with a personal interest involved.

But before we enter, Kerry’s phone rings. Her expression shifts instantly, the light dimming in her eyes. She stares at her screen, frozen for a moment, and I catch a glimpse of the caller ID: Unknown.

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