Star-Crossed Read Online Free Page A

look like he was in need of some air. Not surprising, given that the sardine-packed nature of these events could make even the strongest pair of lungs gasp for oxygen. I wondered if I looked the same; if my hair was just as matted or my mascara running beneath the mask that hid what he couldn't see.
    I wondered what his eyes looked like.
    “Me too,” I said. “I mean, I needed some air, too.”
    The man nodded, scratching his head and moving just slightly closer. We looked at each other, my head craning to meet his covered gaze due to his ridiculous stature. The top of my head, if I were to be gracious, just brushed against his shoulder. He leaned down like he wanted to really memorize my face, and I envisioned him pressing my back against the wall, his entire torso against mine, and kissing me so gently that it would barely be considered a kiss at all.
    “You're British,” I choked out, immediately hating myself. But it was the only comment that I thought would take the heat from his eyes. Blatant stupidity has a way of turning people off in an immediate, fast-acting kind of way.
    It worked. He straightened up, clearing his throat before speaking again.
    “You're American,” he grinned. “And very observant.”
    “No, I'm just an idiot. I'm sorry.”
    I sighed heavily, and the man was quiet for a few seconds before starting to lightly chuckle. He was laughing at me.
    “What's your name?” he asked after an unknown period. I looked up at him, still wearing the mask that only covered his eyes but still covered so much, and contemplated dropping mine.
    “Kaitlyn,” I said. “What about you?”
    “Will,” he replied. “My name's Will.”
    We shook hands. A proper greeting. He seemed hesitant to say what came next.
    “I'll be teaching Classic Literature this semester at Trinity,” he added. “And managing the theater production.”
    Will beamed, obviously and understandably proud. Instructor positions at my coveted academy did not come easily, and I could only assume that William Tennant must have had a list of impressive accolades - or connections.
    “Between you and me, I am most excited about getting back on stage. It's been awhile.”
    I fell silent. Not by his confession, but by the fact that I was, for the first time, potentially standing face-to-face with the man who would be teaching my Literature class.
    I looked him over again; dark features, fair skin, pouty lips. Everything was a clash of perfectly-ironed shirts and vagabond eyes.
    “What's your last name?” I asked.
    “Tennant,” he replied.
    It was him. Something, of course, I had no knowledge of when my eyes first skimmed the patchy, smeared name that was typed in ink on a paper schedule. He was just a series of letters.
    Pressing his lips together, Will cast a look in the direction of the faint, tinkering music. The piano still lulled, distant and dubious to the two of us standing in a shadowy hallway, only inches apart. It was like our own, personal soundtrack.
    “Would you care to dance?” he asked. “Just one dance. I won't keep you from your friends.”
    “I'm in no rush,” I told him. “Besides, you seem worth a dance.”
    Translation: I have no friends waiting for me.
    If I had cut open Will's skull, I'm certain that I would have seen a mess of wheels turning. We had only just met, and already I wasn't sure if I should be looking at him; standing in an empty hallway with him. Dancing with him.
    But it was just a dance. I had seen students dance with teachers at my Junior Prom, and adults dance with the younger crowd at Cotillion gatherings.
    I swear, it was just a dance.
    He took my hand, an action that sent an immediate jolt of electricity up my spine, and the two of us came together in the most innocent of ways, I think, that two people could. We moved to the sounds of piano currents, drifting in and out until it reached the point where the sounds and melodies really didn't matter anymore. We kept it chaste; hands interlaced