Free Pinpoint (Point #4) by Olivia Luck Page B

arms, and smooth away all the worry, rejection—hell, anything bothering her.
    Where is that coming from? Typically, I run in the opposite direction of sadness or insecurity. I have no time in my life to analyze emotion. I bulldoze through anything that bothers me and move on to the next thing.
    My feet don’t get the memo. They carry me into the classroom and toward Iris. Before I know it, I’m a foot away from her, lightly touching her shoulder. I ignore the scent of sugar and vanilla that always surrounds this woman. I ignore the way my fingertips warm when my fingers meet her cotton-clad skin. “They’ll walk all over you if you don’t exert your authority.”
    She yelps and, I’m an idiot, it’s the cutest sound I’ve ever heard.
    What, did you lose your balls in the last two seconds?
    “What are you doing here?” she asks in astonishment.
    “I should probably be the one asking you that,” I say wryly. “I’ve been teaching with Mentoring Chicago for the past five years. You’re the new kid around here.” If possible, she looks even more forlorn at my words. In the past, I may have teased her, but there was never an intention to make her unhappy. Seeing her visible distress, I want to kick my own ass for causing Iris even a crumb of pain.
    “They hated me. Everything I said was wrong. The music I played was ‘corny.’ The recipe schedule is boring. None of them said good-bye or even looked at me when they ran out the door. Bruce said that they wanted to be here, but only one of the students showed the least bit of interest in what I saying. What did I do wrong?” Her expression is so mournful that I can’t restrain myself from tugging the rag from her hand, pushing it aside, and pulling her to my chest. Her scent is even more intoxicating when she’s flush against my body. For a moment, she resists, but then her arms slide around my waist, and she clings to me. Every soft curve molds to my body, and I’m instantly responding. Not wanting her to get a sense of my very obvious reaction, I carefully push her away. This innocent would probably not react well to feeling the impact she has on my body.
    Her smile is watery, but she doesn’t cry. Thankfully. I don’t have the slightest idea what to do with tears. “Look at me, I’m a blubbering mess. They didn’t warn me at orientation that the kids wouldn’t necessarily be thrilled to spend a few hours here.”
    “After doing this for five years, I can tell you that even if they want to be here, teenagers will walk all over you if you show them even a hint of weakness. Next week, you need to show them who is boss. Be firm. It sounds counterintuitive, but they appreciate the guidelines.”
    “Really?” When those navy doe eyes land on me, another surge of lust rips through my veins.
    “Also, you may want to let them choose the music.” Her eyes crinkle as she gives me the tiniest smile. My chest fills with pride. I was able to cheer her up.
    “You’re on to something there. I know my taste in music is retro.” She rolls her shoulders back and stands straighter. “Thanks, Oscar. I appreciate you talking me off the ledge.” To my regret, Iris moves around the kitchen, continuing to put the tools away and clean the counters. “If you’ve been volunteering here for five years, you must really like working with teenagers.”
    I rest my back against the kitchen island and watch Iris finish. She fiddles with the dishrag in her hands. I know I should go, but that’s the last thing I want to do. So I keep talking to her.
    “I’ll let you in on a secret. My first year was complete crap. The students didn’t care that I had just opened my second restaurant. They were tough as hell on me. By the end of it, I realized they weren’t looking for a friend.”
    “Treat them like kids?” Her nose wrinkles adorably in confusion.
    “Absolutely not. I try my damnedest not to even think of them as children, even though most of them are a few years shy