Page 16 of Interpreter

Clearing his throat, he adjusts his tie as if he were letting steam out of his collar.

“Milah, have a seat.”

I raise a brow. Would he like for me to sit in his lap or on a guest’s lap?

“You can take mine,” comes a gruff voice to my left.

I guess I was so worried about what I could be called in for that I failed to notice Magic Mike incarnate. Holy tequila, he looks better than Felipe’s Magic Mike calendar. Even Mr. February, and that’s saying something. Bronze skin you know is genetic and not a bad tanning bed session. Dark scruff neatly trimmed like it grows naturally in that shape. Not too thick. Not too thin. Just plain fucking, melt-the-panties-right-off-of-me sexy. This man is no Mr. Sutter. This man eats the sweet Mr. Sutters for—“Do you want to sit down or not?”

No, he didn’t just interrupt my hotness declaration.

I narrow my eyes on his annoyed ones and ignore the titter of laughter coming from the woman at his side.

“Sure,” I say, and step aside so his fine ass can move around me. He grunts and brushes past me, smelling like he just came from cutting down Christmas trees—earthy and masculine. I feel a mewl creeping up my throat like a purr. He’s masculine in a way that no man should ever be. Ignoring the tingling swirling in my stomach, I ease down in the chair he just vacated, relishing the heat he left behind.

“Milah,” Principal Moorehouse beams when I’m finally seated and the broody man is standing, his hand on the back of the woman’s chair. “I’d like you to meet Tim and Anniston. Tim will be assisting you with your language class for the rest of the year.”

No. Effing. Way.

Radio host: Was the divorce related to your announcement?

Penelope: Not entirely. Tom, my husband and manager, suggested I take a break from singing, but he didn’t feel I should publicly announce my deafness.

Radio host: Let’s talk about that for a minute. Was the deafness sudden? You were singing nearly every night in your Vegas show until just recently.

Penelope: No. I started having symptoms when my son was in high school. It started with the lower decibels before progressing to complete hearing loss just recently. It’s strange, but somehow, even though I lost one sense, I was able to keep singing based off of memory.

“Tim has a degree in foreign language.” The principal of Bleckley Elementary beams. I don’t know what Anniston and Cade promised for him to take me on as a “class helper,” as Theo called it this morning. But whatever it was, it has the man singing my praises to Milah, who looks as if she couldn’t give a shit less.

Anniston elbows me, and I realized I’ve missed the last bit of his speech. I glance around the room and see Milah and Principal Moorehouse looking at me expectantly.

Fuck.

I stare wide-eyed at Anniston—a plea for her to fill me in. She chuckles and repeats, “Milah asked if you had any experience with children?”

My gaze snaps back to the girl not much taller than the kids she teaches. She fidgets in her seat while she waits for my answer for which I want to blurt, “How hard can it be?” But that would be rude, and I don’t want to start off my time here with a bad hangover attitude.

I clear my throat, tucking my hands in my pocket to keep from signing. “No, I don’t.”

“So what is your work experience then?”

Her lips move faster than the relaxed southern drawls I’m used to. Not that I don’t recognize she’s not from the south. Her midnight hair, tanned skin, and small stature is 100 percent of Latin descent. I guess it just threw me off since I haven’t had to read lips that moved much faster than I am normally accustomed to.

A guttural feeling squeezes my insides. I won’t be able to read her lips as well as I can my family’s. I’ll be forced to sign, and what if she doesn’t know sign language? The rest of her year—and mine—will be awkward and painful if I’m trying to communicate with lipreading only.

I turn to Anniston and sign, not speaking at all because I’m a spiteful little shit at the moment.“I changed my mind.”

Anniston maintains her smile in front of our guests like nothing is amiss, but her eyes tell a whole different story.“Too bad.”This is the commander that commands six men with one look. She’s respected and cherished, but if we were anywhere else, I would stand my ground and argue that Dr. Parker took advantage of a weak moment. I’d lie to my commander and tell her I’m fine and that she worries too much. Then I’d convince her to go home by pulling her in close and kissing the top of her head and whispering, “Everything is okay. Trust me.”

But none of those things happen because the saucy foreign language teacher catches my eye by moving her hands out in front of her, signing her words like a damn pro. “Are you not going to answer my question?”

I watch her finish the movement—which could do without the aggressive and irritated finish—before I raise my hands, answering her with only my hands.“Military.”I take a moment to smirk before I finish.“If I can handle a team full of assholes, I’m pretty sure I can handle a classroom of ten-year-olds. Any other questions, Ms. Iglesias?”

Milah, or Ms. Iglesias, as Dr. Moorehouse referred to her earlier, doesn’t comment or ask me any other ridiculous questions. I wasn’t aware this was a job interview. Theo said most of the time they appoint students to help with the class, so I shouldn’t worry about not feeling qualified. He meant it to be a joke, but it actually made me feel better about the whole situation.

I narrow my eyes at Anniston when everyone just stares around the room. My eyes say,“How does she know fluent sign language, Anniston?”

I’ve stopped wondering how Anniston can find out what the stray cat in town had for dinner. That’s an exaggeration, but I bet if she wanted to know she would find a way. Hell, she probably feeds all the stray cats in Madison. Theo claims she is just nosy as fuck, but I know it’s because she loves so passionately all things wrong in this world, that she makes it her priority to change what she can. No matter how much Theo whines about it.

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