Page 13 of Even Werewolves Learn

I hate the fact that my heart skips a beat at his offer.

I hate it because my mind knows this would be the worst idea on earth, but my body didn’t get the memo and seems to think meeting with him outside of school would be damn tempting.

“Yet,” is the only word Louis says in answer, and I almost believe I imagined it when he stays put, looking at me like he didn’t just say something completely irrational.

“Are you done here?” I ask him, hoping it’ll get him going, and he’ll let me work in peace again.

Because he’s not just early, he’s very early. My first year class is supposed to start at four in the afternoon, and there’s more than twenty minutes left before the next bell.

“How did you become a teacher of a language everyone seems to think is dead?” he asks me instead of answering my own question.

Is he trying to get a rise out of me? Joke’s on him, though. I get that question so often that I’ve become proficient at explaining my point.

It’s also another confirmation that he’s indeed one of my shifter students.

“Have you walked Paris’ streets? Or any city, town, or village in France? Have you looked at the buildings, at the monuments? Did you see anything written in English there? Did you see anything written in anything other than French? You can read those. You know what they mean. You’ve said the words. So how can you say it’s dead, if every day of your life you’ve been reading or even saying those street names, those building names? You’re part of what makes this language still alive, and you don’t even realize it.”

I take a deep breath after my monologue, and I’m greeted with silence.

It only lasts a few seconds, though.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re beautiful when you get mad, Miss Constance?” Louis says as he leans back and props himself with both arms on my desk.

He’s completely unbothered by the fact that he’s in a classroom and anyone could enter and find him relaxing where he shouldn’t be.

I am very much bothered, though.

“You can’t say that to me,” I tell him, feeling myself getting flustered. I want to fan myself, but I can’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the effect he just had on me.

“Why not? It’s true. Your eyes sparkle, and your cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink that makes your freckles stand out a bit more,” he says with a shrug. “You’re beautiful when you get mad.”

What am I supposed to answer to that? Thanks?

“I’m your teacher,” I tell him, and that should be explanation enough.

“And?” he asks, shifting to only one arm—the closest to me—to face me better. “That doesn’t change the way you look.”

He lifts his free arm, and for a second, I think he’s going to touch the side of my arm, and my breath catches.

Instead, he just passes his fingers through his hair, ruffling his already messy strands, and now I want to do the same and discover if it’s as soft as it looks.

No. This is not okay. I can’t start thinking like this.

He’s my student.

He’s too young.

I’m too old.

I shouldn’t have these kinds of ideas even if he tells me I’m beautiful.

“And you’re not supposed to tell me that,” I sputter, outraged even if I still feel flattered—and maybe a tiny bit intrigued.

8

Louis

I’m not sure the red on Constance’s cheek is still due to her rant about French not being a dead language.