She smoothed her skirt down and patted her braided bun, making certain that every skinny plait was in place. “How do I look?”

He buried the animal inside his chest; the one who was really doing all of the growling. It ordered him to never let her go. John ignored it and swallowed before answering her. “Beautiful.”

“Thank you, John,” she said, planting her hands on his chest and standing on her tiptoes. She kissed his lips, softly and sweetly, the warmth of her breath fanning across his face. “And thank you for doing this.”

He pulled his own reins and stopped himself from sipping any more of her nectar. “It’s my pleasure,” he whispered.

As she settled back on her heels, her chin dipped until all he could see was the fluttering fringe of her lashes. “I mean it. I don’t know how many men—” her voice caught in her throat.

Taking her by the chin, John tilted her face upward. “—would promise you a sordid affair?”

Her dark gaze flitted from his eyes to his mouth. He could tell the wheels were turning in her head as she regarded him. “Right...that.”

He didn’t get it exactly right though, did he? Something else hung in the air; something on the tip of her tongue. “Thank you,” she said for a final time before stepping away. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Sure.” John watched her walk around the corner. When the door in the other room closed, he realized how empty and lonely this glass building was. Earlier Victoria had mentioned the greenhouse’s calming effect. He doubted she could come back to this place without a vivid reminder of their passionate union. A few moments passed before John pulled on his jacket and made his exit. The cold October winds shocked him back to reality and forced him to continue his comparatively ordinary day.

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Victoria glanced at her notes while she scribbled a portion of her lesson on the whiteboard. “Okay,” she said in a loud voice. “Now let’s talk about Frederick Douglass’s Narrative and its rhetorical prowess compared to... Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” Once she finished writing, she turned around and faced her students. Some of them furiously flipped through their textbooks, evidence they may not have read the night before. “Both of them are trying to address something, they’re trying to fix a huge social problem. Tell me what Douglass has that Stowe doesn’t?”

Several hands flew up.

“Hannah?”

The young woman near the back of the classroom referred to her notebook before answering. “One obvious thing that separates them is Douglass’s firsthand knowledge. He was a slave on a plantation and he witnessed the horrors.”