Page 2 of XOXO, Valentina
Gabi
I wore my favorite outfit to fire Mr. Morales.
It was a Diane von Furstenberg knock off, which was still a splurge at half the cost of the real thing. But a good wrap dress never went out of style, so I’d justified the purchase. The dress was emerald green—my favorite color—with a frilly hemline perfect for salsa dancing.
I wasn’t planning on salsa dancing my way down the halls of Pinewood Elementary School anytime soon.
In fact, I hardly ever wore dresses to work. They weren’t practical for an elementary school principal. But I needed the extra boost of confidence my favorite dress gave me to fire Mr. Morales.
Not only was he the best Spanish teacher PES had ever had, he was also, quite possibly, the hottest man on the planet. My tongue tied in knots when I was around Mr. Morales. If I caught his eye during the weekly staff meeting, I would forget everything I’d planned to say.
Tall, dark, and always smiling, Mr. Morales had the same effect on women of all ages. He proved swooning was a real thing, and it happened outside of historical romance novels.
Since I’d hired him, there had been an uptick in parent-teacher conferences. I suspected the sudden spike in requests had more to do with Mr. Morales’s sexy accent and dazzling good looks than underperforming students.
Firing him was going to be one of the most difficult things I’d had to do in my career. I hated firing people in general, but firing Mr. Morales was going to be extra hard because I’d have to give the reason. I’d have to tell him what I’d seen.
My cheeks burned when I passed his classroom, a.k.a the scene of the crime.
I hurried down the hall before visions of Mr. Morales half naked invaded my thoughts. Again.
Usually, this was my favorite time of day. In the quiet moments before children filled the halls, I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment. But all I felt was dread.
I passed the teacher’s lounge and glimpsed Mr. Morales talking with some of the other teachers who were crowded around a box of pastries. The pastries were probably homemade, which was against policy.
He looked good enough to eat in a button-down shirt and fitted slacks. My pulse quickened when I imagined what he looked like underneath his clothes.
“Good morning, Mrs. Salinger.”
The office door hit me in the back as I froze in the doorway. “Oh!” My heart leaped to my throat. “I didn’t see you there, Mr. Collins.”
My assistant popped up from behind the front desk, his face bright with a smile. “Here are this morning’s messages. I marked them in order of importance.”
Of course he had. Mr. Collins was ever the eager one. Always arriving before me. Always leaving after. But Mr. Collins didn’t have a fourteen-year-old son who slept through his snooze alarm and needed a ride to tutoring after school like I did.
I took the messages and flipped through them, noting that Chelsea Taylor wanted to see me again regarding her daughter Kaylee. That message went to the bottom of the pile. I was 99 percent sure Kaylee Taylor wasn’t being bullied. It was more likelyshewas the one doing the bullying. The little girl was cute as a button, but also a troublemaker. I would deal with Ms. Taylor later.
“Did you decide on the theme for spirit week yet?” Mr. Collins asked.
Spirit week wasn’t until next month. Surely it wasn’t top priority. “Not yet.” I focused on my enthusiastic assistant. “Were those muffins I saw in the teacher’s lounge again?”
Color stained Mr. Collins’s round cheeks, and he dropped his gaze. “I’m not sure.”
Last month, someone had brought in some banana walnut muffins, and they’d caused the technologies teacher to swell up like a science experiment gone wrong.
No one had owned up to being the baker, but I had my suspicions about Mr. Collins. With his plump tummy, he was likely the muffin man.
I upped the intensity of my glare until beads of sweat popped out on his prominent forehead. “We wouldn’t want Mrs. Pfeiffer to have another reaction,” I said.
His chin trembled. “Certainly not.”
I let him quiver under my disapproving stare for another moment before I turned to hang my coat on the rack. “Include a reminder of the new lost-and-found policy in the morning announcement,” I said.
Mr. Collins made a strangled sound from behind his desk, and I gathered he didn’t approve of my new rule to enforce silent lunch after multiple lost sweatshirt violations.
I swiveled to face him. “Is there a problem?”
Mr. Collins’s cheeks blazed brightly. “No, ma’am.”
