I put the paperwork down and waited.
His finger zig-zagged on my desk before he waggled his eyebrows at me.
“Is there a point to this, or are you trying to hit on me via mime?” I asked.
“There’s someone here to see you.”
“For fuck’s sake, Carlton, just spit it out,” I snapped.
“A young lady with a firm handshake and the softest skin I’ve ever touched. I think she uses scented hand lotion—I can still smell it on my hand.” He lifted his palm and inhaled it like one of Grammy’s pies.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. This was the danger of boredom: people turned into morons.
“It’s the new teacher.”
My head snapped up so fast, Carlton grinned.
I stood. “Why the fuck were you touching her hand?”
He held his hands up. “Hey, she offered me a handshake. Did you want me to be rude?”
“Yes,” I growled. “Don’t touch Ms Morgan again.”
She was mine. Mine and mine alone.
All weekend, I’d run through possibilities after Grammy spilled the beans about her life—poor child, as Grammy put it. I’d even scaled her apartment block and found her bathroom latch ajar. I may have tampered with it so she couldn’t lock it. After my morning at the diner, I’d sat waiting for that yellow rust bucket to reappear.
I followed her to work. Part of me needed to see that she was safe, and the other part just needed to see her.
She saw me.
And I saw her.
I saw through the clothes and glasses she hid behind.
I saw what she’d left behind to start a new life.
“Did she say why she’s here?” I asked.
Carlton frowned as he sat up. “She wants to lodge a complaint but said it was a ‘delicate matter’ and wanted to speak to someone in charge.”
I smiled and cracked my neck, twisting to work out the tension.
“Where is she?”
“The waiting room.”
“Send her through—and close my door on the way out.” I sat back down and turned my chair to the window.
Even better: she’d come to me to complain about me.
I chuckled.
A few moments later, there was a light knock at the door.
“Come in.”
The door opened, but I didn’t turn. I waited until it clicked shut again and she spoke.