But he was having fun with me right now, and while I wanted a good relationship with my students’ parents, I needed to sever the hand to save the arm.

I didn’t know what would happen if he saw me as anything other than Christian’s teacher, and that’s the only way he should see me.

“Mr. Marek.” I spoke calmly but firmly. “If you have no further questions, I’m sure your son is waiting for you. Again,” I added. “Perhaps you should make sure he’s okay.”

The hint of the smile in his eyes immediately disappeared, and I watched him straighten and his expression harden.

He was insulted. Good.

I glanced to the door and back to him. “Have a good evening.”

THREE

TYLER

“You’re smiling,” my brother, Jay, observed, sitting opposite me in the back of the Range Rover.

I ignored him as I watched the pedestrians race by, mostly joggers and some students carrying backpacks, as Patrick, my driver, took us home.

I wasn’t smiling.

I was insulted, amused, and intrigued, picturing her beautiful and flushed face in my head.

Her blouse, buttoned up to the neck¸ her tight red skirt and those heels accentuating her shapely calves, and her proper little attitude were so different from what I remembered from last Mardi Gras.

But they definitely weren’t a disappointment, either.

She’d been tough and sexy, almost untouchable, last winter, and she’d fascinated the hell out of me. She’d had a mouth on her that had amused me and had gotten me hard, and then she’d stunned me when she’d just up and left, not the slightest bit interested in making it easy for me.

But unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to find her after the Mardi Gras ball.

She hadn’t been on the guest list, which meant she’d come with someone, and I hadn’t wanted to go poking around and start people talking, so I’d let it go.

But now here she was, my kid’s teacher, dangerous and forbidden, which only increased her allure, and she’d been just as hot tonight as she’d been on that balcony all those months ago – the difference being now I couldn’t fucking touch her.

I loosened my tie, my neck sweating even though the AC was on full blast, and I looked over at my son, sitting in the seat next to me with his head buried in his phone.

It was going to be a long fucking year.

“Well, get ready for a kick in the nuts.” My brother leaned back in his seat, tapping his phone with its stylus. “Mason Blackwell just got a two-million-dollar donation from the Earhart Fellowship. They’re officially backing him for representing their high moral fiber.”

Mason Blackwell. My only real opponent for the Senate.

“High moral fiber,” I repeated under my breath. “While I eat babies and bathe in blood, right?”

Jay chuckled, finally looking up. “They don’t say that,” he assured. “Not exactly anyway. They really don’t say anything. You’re a mystery,” he chirped, his eyes condescending.

We’d had this conversation, but the issue was never settled for him. He just kept digging, hoping to wear me down, but there was no fucking way I was letting the press into my personal life. It was his responsibility to spin the media and keep the focus on what was important.

“This is your job,” I reminded him, hardening my eyes so he knew I meant business.

But he shook his head at me and leaned forward. “Tyler.” He’d lowered his voice to a whisper for my son’s sake. “I can feed the papers whatever you want, but in front of the cameras you’d better start coming up with some answers. It’s the twenty-first century, and people – voters,” he clarified, “want to know everything.”

“Things that aren’t any of their business,” I shot back in a low voice, hearing Christian’s game noises continue undisturbed.

I had nothing violent or illegal to hide, but they were starting to prod about my kid – wondering where I’ve been in his life, and they were getting nosy about my past relationships. Shit that wasn’t anyone’s business.

But Jay wanted me to be an open book.

He pulled away, crashing back into his seat. “Kim Kardashian Instagrams her ass,” he gritted out. “This is the world we live in, God help us, and I promise you, a little pic of what you had for breakfast would go viral more than any of your speeches or commercials. Get social. Twitter, Facebook —”

“You’ve got people handling that shi—” I halted, glancing at my son and then back to Jay. “Stuff,” I corrected, not wanting to swear in front of Christian.

It had been a hard habit to break, and since Christian had always – always – lived with his mother, my language had never been something I worried about in private. Now I just had to remember that being around my son was like being at a public function or in front of the cameras.

Your true self isn’t always the person people should see.

I had a team of employees to handle my website and social media, so I wouldn’t have to. It was one of the first things I’d put in place last winter when I’d decided to start preparing to run for the Senate. I hadn’t officially announced my candidacy, and the campaign wouldn’t start for another six months, but we were already laying the groundwork and preparing.

My brother nodded. “Yeah, we have people handling your social media, but it would be nice if you added some personality here and there. Share fatherhood stories, funny anecdotes, selfies… whatever.” He waved me off. “People are addicted to that stuff. They’ll eat it up.”