I shake my head. “Just studying.” My plan was to retreat to my assigned dorm on campus and spend the weekend relaxing and reading. Romain is a local boy, so surely he goes home on weekends.
Mr. Glover shakes his head as he walks to the door to leave. “Honestly, too much work will drive you crazy. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the local watering hole.”
“I really shouldn’t, Mr. Glover.”
“Sam, please. And it’s Friday. You need to have at least one drink to get over the pain of this place. The others will tell you when we get there.”
After the week I’ve had, I could do with letting loose. One drink wouldn’t hurt. I stare at Sam. He’s not bad-looking. He’s handsome if you like the weathered type of look. I don’t know about his family or his money, but if I’m to have a husband by the time I’m thirty, I don’t have time to be picky.
“Alright.” I grab my satchel from under the desk and walk with the other teacher to the gates. Every male student who walks past is Romain to me, making me tense, even when I see the color of their hair.
“Where are you from, Arabella?”
I glance at Mr. Glover, Sam. He seems genuinely nice, but part of me is still sensitive to the topic of my past.
“I’m from London,” I say with a slight smile. It’s not an outright lie. I went to university there. I can’t say I live around here. He’ll ask me where and then he might twig who my stepfather is.
“Ah, the Big Smoke. I must say I don’t miss the city. I’m a country boy at heart.”
Sam Glover continues to chatter away. I half-listen, nodding when appropriate. Balmy fall weather is lingering in the late afternoon, making the walk pleasant and the problem with Romain a distant memory.
Maybe he won’t say anything about us?
The pub on the green is more of a beer garden looking over the cricket grounds. It’s packed with locals on round iron tables with parasols keeping the sun off faces as they imbibe a pint or two. Students, mostly girls, not in the pub but just outside the ivy-covered trellis marking the edge of the property, have taken to putting their blazers on the grass. As they lounge on them in rolled-up skirts and pulled-out shirts, their cardigans around their waist, they drink bottles of what appear to be alcopops.
Sam catches me staring as he leads me inside to the bar. “What?”
I shoot a look at him. “Aren’t they underage to be drinking?”
Sam laughs, corners of his eyes creasing up. “Who gives a fuck? It’s Friday.” He orders for me and hands me half a bitter shandy when it comes. “We’re not on duty anymore.”
I hate beer, but I don’t say anything as I take it. Outside, the sun is glaring even though there’s a chill in the air. I pop on a pair of sunglasses as we leave the gloom of the pub.
“Ah, my table is free. This is the best table in the house for watching the cricket,” he says, leading me with a hand on the small of my back to an empty table near the green. There are no other teachers here, as I assumed. It’s just the two of us. I would have preferred to sit inside where it’s warmer.
“Cold?” Glover asks, reaching over to rub a hand on my bare knee. I grit my teeth, faking a smile at his touch, and pull back so he can’t reach.
“No, I’m just….” Coming here was a mistake. Sam is nice, but he’s a lot older.
Give him a chance, Bella.
That’s what Blake would say. I never give anyone a chance. Blake always makes sex out to be something fun and casual. Not since my twenty-fifth birthday has it been like that.
After what I did.
I suck in a breath, trying not to shiver.
“I’m fine,” I say, taking my jacket from my bag and putting over my lap. “Let’s just watch the game.”
Some of the students sitting on the grass on the other side of the divider see us and snigger. They’re from Reynard. I recognize the uniform. Both of the girls are wearing black leather chokers. It seems to be a trend around the school—a strange trend if you ask me.
“On a date, are we Mr. Glover?” one of the girls asks.
I wince, hidden behind my shades. Hopefully, they don’t recognize me.
“Why don’t you all fuck off?” Sam says, grinning.
The girls burst into laughter, sipping from their bright-colored bottles. “Not fucking likely, Sir,” says one with bunches in her hair. She side-eyes me, lips cherry red from drinking her alcoholic pop. “They’re playing today.”