Just Like This

By Cole McCade

Two teachers at odds at an elite boys academy must bury the hatchet to help a student in this contemporary gay romance by the author of Just Like That.

Rian Falwell has a problem. And his name is Damon Louis.

Rian’s life as the art teacher to a gaggle of displaced boys at Albin Academy should be smooth sailing—until the stubborn, grouchy football coach comes into his world like a lightning strike and ignites a heated conflict that would leave them sworn enemies if not for a common goal.

A student in peril. A troubling secret. And two men who are polar opposites but must work together to protect their charges.

They shouldn’t want each other. They shouldn’t even like each other.

Yet as they fight to save a young man from the edge, they discover more than they thought possible about each other—and about themselves.

In the space between hatred, they find love. And the lives they have always wanted . . .

Just like this.

Praise for Just Like This

“Scorching. . . . Achingly emotional sex scenes. The leads’ volatile emotions and the elusive mystery make for an un-put-downable gay romance.” —Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781488076930

Cole McCade

Cole McCade is a New Orleans-born Southern boy without the Southern accent, currently residing somewhere in Seattle. He spends his days as a suit-and-tie corporate consultant and business writer, and his nights writing contemporary romance and erotica that flirt with the edge of taboo--when he's not being tackled by two hyperactive cats.

Book preview

Chapter One

Rian Falwell had a problem.

And that problem was currently staring at him through a messy tangle of black hair, from beneath a brow dotted with gleaming beads of sweat that—beneath the glassy afternoon light streaming through the windows—turned to glistening motes of amber against dusky brown skin.

Honestly, if Damon Louis was going to come barging into Rian’s studio like this...

He could at least have the decency to wear a shirt.

The P.E. teacher took up far too much space inside the tiny cubicle of a studio, his shoulders so broad they had almost touched both sides of the door frame as he’d stalked inside. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of the gym, with his wide, sculpted, scar-rippled chest glazed in a sheen of sweat and a pair of loose black track pants hanging off his hips, the elastic waistband barely clinging to the narrow line cut below his iliac crest. His shoulder-length tumbles of dark hair clumped together, completely drenched, droplets dangling from the tips.

But as overheated as Damon looked?

His dark brown eyes were completely cold—glossed to reflective ice as he folded thick, brawny arms over his chest and took a slow look around the cluttered space of Rian’s studio.

Rian could track the line of his gaze—starting with the gloppy pile of clay on his pottery wheel; a pile that would eventually become a vase, but right now was just misshapen lumps of gray.

Then to the thin sheets of handmade papyrus parchment drying on a clothesline strung across the room, pulped and pressed from the fallen early autumn leaves of the trees around Albin Academy, an experiment Rian had been quite pleased with when it resulted in fine paper with a green-gold translucent fragility, flecked with bits of brown from the leaves’ veins and stems.

Next, the many half-finished canvases propped about on their easels, slashed with angry, bold strokes of paint in abstract designs.

The anatomical diagrams pinned to the walls.

And the extra large sketchbook left open on his worktable, displaying loose, light sketches of male bodies in motion, focused on capturing the flow of sinew in the turn of the waist, the tightening of an arm as it drew back, the extension of the body and curve of the spine during a long, lazy reach.

Damon’s eyes lingered longest on that one, his dark, expressive brows rising fractionally, almost mockingly—and Rian’s face burned.

All of these were his personal projects, all unfinished, but still things he put everything he had into.

So why was this stone-faced, unsmiling jerk standing here looking over them like he was about to assign Rian a failing score?

What was he even doing here at all?

Those dark brown eyes snapped back to him as if Damon had somehow heard the question snarling in the back of Rian’s mind.

So, Damon drawled, and Rian realized this was the first time he’d actually heard Damon speak in his three years at Albin Academy, rather than noncommittal affirmative mutters during staff meetings. His voice was deep, raw, gritty, with a subtle pull to it that didn’t quite seem to echo typical New England accents around Massachusetts. I thought this was some kinda broom closet. Chambers and Walden know you’re using it for... He tilted his head. A damp ripple of hair fell across the refined sharpness of his cheekbone, the tip practically licking at the corner of his wide, full, stern-set mouth. "...this?"

Rian tensed.

More at the implied scorn dripping from this than at the fact he’d been...uh...

Caught using school grounds for unauthorized purposes.

He doubted Principal Chambers and Assistant Principal Walden would particularly care. Especially when Rian had been using the storeroom as a studio since he’d been hired, and no one had really noticed—though considering Lachlan Walden had only been hired last semester, the assistant principal had more things to worry about than one rogue art teacher moving a few brooms.

So Rian drew himself up, lifting his chin as he reached for the wet rag hanging from the edge of his wheel and began wiping the thick patina of clay from his hands, peeling off the cold, clinging layer.

"My broom closet, he said firmly. Attached to my classroom. I’m allowed to use it as I deem necessary as long as it’s for educational purposes."

This...counted...technically.

He was the art teacher.

He couldn’t exactly teach his students if he was out of practice himself, but there wasn’t space for a studio in the tiny shared faculty apartments—and considering he was expected to be on campus as an RA even when he wasn’t teaching, renting a studio down the hill in town wasn’t particularly optimal. Not...that he thought...a town as small as Omen would even have many spaces for rent, but...well...

He’d made do.

Especially since on top of being Walden’s subordinate?

Rian was also his roommate.

And Walden was a bit of a neat freak.

What business was it of Damon’s, anyway? Especially when the man was just looking at Rian, his lips twitching faintly as if Rian had said something absurdly funny. Rian scowled and turned away from the wheel to cross to the little janitorial sink against the wall, using the mostly-clean underside of his wrist to nudge the faucet on so he could thrust his fingers under the cold spray and scrub the last of the clay away.

Was there something you wanted to see me about, Mr. Louis? he threw over his shoulder. Or are you that interested in my working arrangements?

A derisive snort filled the tiny space. More interested in who you’re working, Damon said. I’m here about Chris.

Rian lifted his head, frowning, and shut the water off. Which Chris? He ripped a few paper towels off the wall-mounted holder, drying his fingers. We have at least seven on campus, and no less than three currently enrolled in my classes.

Don’t. Hard, cold, skeptical. You know who I’m talking about. Northcote.

...Christopher Northcote?

The sophomore in Rian’s afternoon class.

The extremely talented sophomore in Rian’s afternoon class, who looked as if he’d been made for brawling, sports, hard labor—but whose surprisingly delicate fingers had a talent for working with clay sculpture, as well as a sensitive touch with paints and colored pencils. He seemed to enjoy art for art’s sake, absorbing himself in every project and focusing on the most minute details with absolute concentration and a skill that seemed effortless for someone his age. In fact, one of his sculptures—a delicate rendering of a wisteria tree, realistic in its exacting detail—was currently drying on a table in the classroom adjacent to Rian’s studio, waiting to be properly fired. Chris had just put the finishing touches on it this afternoon.

Before realizing he was almost late for football practice, and dashing out the door in a breathless rush with his hands still covered in clay.

As if he was afraid of displeasing someone.

Afraid of drawing someone’s wrath.

Like the wrath of the massive, cold-eyed man currently taking up half the space in the room with his overwhelming presence.

Rian narrowed his eyes, turning to face Damon, meeting that frigid, demanding stare. "I’m sorry, was he five minutes late for practice today? Is that what’s got your hackles up, Coach Louis? Heaven forbid he not race headlong into a traumatic brain injury. I’ll make sure to rush him out the door tomorrow, if that’s what you command."

Honestly, the sheer arrogance—had Damon Louis really come, bold-as-you-please, into Rian’s studio to take him to task over a student being late?

Damon’s brows lowered thunderously. He didn’t show up for practice at all, and you damned well know why.

Then you’ll have to forgive me for asking you to enlighten me, Rian bit off. Because I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about.

You don’t— Damon let out a snarl that made Rian think of deep tectonic plates grinding together, low and slow. The hell you don’t. What the fuck kind of game are you playing, Falwell? He failing, or there some other reason you’re pulling this shit?

Rian balled up his fists until the paper towel in his palm compacted down into a knot scraping against his skin. Good afternoon, Mr. Falwell, he seethed. "I’ve got something I’d like to talk to you about, Mr. Falwell. A concern with one of your students, Mr. Falwell. Really, one of my football players might not be doing so well in one of your classes, Mr. Falwell."

A slow blink lowered Damon’s lashes—drawing attention to their lush, thick black curves, the way they shaded his eyes until they looked languid and calm and thoughtful even when he stared at Rian as if he’d started speaking some alien language.

You wanna start that over? Damon said. This time maybe making some fucking sense?

Oh, I’m sorry, Rian spat. "I thought we were flinging accusations at each other without explaining what the hell we’re talking about. And since you decided to come stalking into your colleague’s space and loom at me without even the slightest preamble, I thought I’d show you what courtesy looks like."

Courtesy— With an incredulous sound, Damon strangled off, eyes slitting in a glare. The fuck is wrong with you?

Why you—you—

Rian spluttered.

Balled up his fists even tighter.

Then flung the scrunched-up wad of paper in his palm at Damon, snapping his hand out sharply and sending the paper towel arcing across the room.

Damon didn’t even move.

He just watched, deadpan, as the paper ball sailed right at him.

And bounced square off the center of his forehead.

His brows rose slo-o-o-wly, one fraction at a time, his coldly irritated expression never wavering from its dry displeasure.

Feel better? he asked sardonically.

"No," Rian muttered and folded his arms over his chest, looking away sharply and glaring across the room. Really, that had been rather childish of him, but this—this asshole just—ooh! "I just thought, since you scoffed at courtesy, I’d try to match you in being rude."

Damon let out a long, drawn-out, impatient sigh. "You want courtesy, Falwell, you can do me the fucking courtesy of telling me why the hell you’re making Northcote skip football practice."

"I’ll do that once you do me the courtesy of telling me why you think I’m making Christopher do anything, Rian flung back. Skip practice? He dashes out of here at last bell like his bottom’s on fire every day. Like you’ve put the fear of God into him."

Or something else.

Like the irritation sparking in that dark gaze, embers scorching against that ice to make them smolder. Don’t fuck with me. Chris hasn’t been to practice in almost a week. Says he’s staying after class to work on your projects. Looks goddamned miserable, too. So what the hell’s going on? He failing, and you’re making him do extra credit?

"Failing? He’s the top student in the class, he—wait. Stop. Back up. Rian eyed Damon warily. Mr. Louis, he’s not staying in my class after school. I’m not keeping him. I thought he was with you. So if he’s not with me, and not at practice..."

Damon went still—an odd quiet falling over him, a certain arresting motionlessness that made him seem like a living statue, a thing of strange-sculpted art in tones of bronze and copper and gold and deepest iron black.

Before he groaned, tilting his head back, baring the strong lines of his throat. He swiped a hand back through his hair, pushing it back from his face and shaking a few droplets of sweat free to patter down on his shoulders like raindrops falling from tree branches after a storm.

"Mother fuck, he said. I think Northcote’s been lying to us fucking both."

---

Damon Louis couldn’t quite believe Rian Falwell had just thrown a fucking balled-up paper towel at his head, like they were in grade school trading spitballs.

But then he couldn’t believe Falwell was staring at him like he’d happily gut Damon, too, his imperious little pale mouth twisted in a knot and his previously bone-white cheeks flushed with anger that reflected in glittering hazel eyes.

People didn’t glare at Damon.

They didn’t even make eye contact.

But Falwell didn’t have the slightest qualms about glaring at him, standing there like the lord of his five by five domain, slender presence bristling fit to fill the tiny cubicle he’d commandeered as his... Damon didn’t even know what to call it. Studio. Workroom. Junk closet. Dumpster. Especially when Falwell had cluttered it wall to wall with kitsch, this kind of...whirlwind of clay and paint and pictures and delicate bits of papercraft that fit together in a bizarre aesthetic chaos, where it all coalesced in an esoteric pattern like some strange art installation in and of itself.

While Rian himself was part of it, lit in white and amber by the single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling and the golden sunlight falling like pale whiskey through the narrow, long bank of windows bumping up against the ceiling on one wall.

The whole room was too warm, as if it had marinated in that sunlight and Rian’s body heat until Damon couldn’t even tell it was autumn, despite the fact that the drafty halls of the ancient wood-slat building were always chilly.

And it smelled like earthy, cool clay in here.

Clay, and something else.

Something rich, sweet, soft.

Candied, like molasses.

For a moment, he wondered if that scent came from Rian himself.

Damon had never really paid much attention to Rian Falwell over the last few years. He vaguely remembered the day he’d noticed a new hire at the table in faculty meetings, mostly caught by the startling fountain of rippling black hair that fell over the man’s body like a shawl and trailed to his hips—but he couldn’t say if that had been Falwell’s first day there, or if he’d been there for weeks before Damon had finally glanced up to notice the way he smiled like a store mannequin, frozen and fake and empty. Shallow. Distant. That had been Damon’s first thought, before he’d stopped thinking about the new art teacher at all and only absently noted his presence in subsequent meetings.

They were technically in the same department for athletics and recreation, since Falwell taught a dance class for the teenaged monsters who didn’t want to take mandatory P.E. credits, but that was about the closest they’d ever come to overlapping. Rian was the art teacher. Damon was the football coach. Something something something, never the twain shall meet.

Except they were meeting right now.

Because Damon’s star quarterback hadn’t been to practice in nearly a week.

Until about thirty seconds ago, Damon had thought the slim wisp of a man in front of him was the cause.

And now—now, well, he really didn’t know what to think.

Because if Chris Northcote had been lying to both of them, assuming they wouldn’t talk...

Well, that was a problem.

Especially when Damon didn’t think Chris would lie without cause. He was a good kid. Almost too good. Straight A student, nice to every damned body. Honest to a fault. Thought he was everyone’s meat shield.

So if he was lying, it had to be for a pretty fucking good reason.

Which meant, in every mind except that of a desperate sixteen-year-old, it was probably a pretty fucking bad reason.

While Damon turned that over, Rian worked his mouth, wrinkling his thin, straight nose, before letting out a rather dramatic sigh and slumping his narrow shoulders. He was almost as tall as Damon, maybe an inch or two below Damon’s six foot four, but he looked like he weighed maybe half as much soaking wet—although the airy voluminous flow of his layered, taper-sleeved linen tunics in deepening shades of ivory, sand, and gold paired with wide-legged linen trousers obscured all but the vaguest outlines of his shape. With his skinny, bangle-draped wrists and delicate movements, he made Damon think of a butterfly, the drape and fall of his crinkle-edged tunics like the subtle twitch of a butterfly’s wings at rest. He carried himself with a certain elegance that reflected in even his smallest of motions, and it just made Damon grit his teeth.

Because it looked so damned affected, like he’d practiced the poise of some kind of Bohemian SoHo hippie princess but just came out looking...looking...

Stuck up.

But Falwell sounded less stuck up and more plaintively confused when he just let out a single soft, almost hurt, "Why?"

Damon shrugged. Now that the realization had slapped the damned temper right out of him, he—well, fuck. He didn’t have words, and he sure as hell didn’t know how to answer that question.

Your guess is as good as mine, he forced out. He sure as shit can’t afford to miss practice. Too much longer and I won’t have a choice but to report it. Participation’s part of his scholarship. He gets seven days without a doctor’s note. He’s on four.

Rian’s brows wrinkled. His gaze slid off Damon, flitting over the room, before settling on him again. Those hazel eyes didn’t look shallow now; instead they looked troubled, the set of his mouth pensive. I wasn’t aware Christopher was on a scholarship.

Rich private schools operate a lot like universities. Damon snorted. Most of the kids here are rich. We got a few, though. Academic and sports scholarships. Though Chris’s family’s pretty set, so don’t know why he even needs it, but he’s gonna lose it if he doesn’t stop skipping out.

So you’re worried about more than your code of discipline, then? Rian tripped out flippantly, his velvet tenor lilting. I suppose I’ll forgive your rather presumptuous intrusion.

What fucking code of discipline? You—

Damon stopped himself short.

God damn, he wished he could’ve gone another three or thirty or three hundred years without being more than peripherally aware of this snotty little man’s existence.

Because Rian Falwell was getting on his goddamned nerves.

Look, Damon growled. "I don’t give a fuck what you think of me or my reasons. What I care about is that kid fucking up his academic year. And since he always looked like a fucking kicked puppy when he said he was staying after, I had my reasons for thinking something bad was going down. And if he’s lying to both of us, something bad probably is. So..."

Rian jutted his stubborn lower lip out, his brows loftily arched. "So?"

So what the hell are we going to do about it?

"We? Hazel eyes snapped. As if I would ever—I—oh hell." Rian sighed, bowing his head, one slim hand coming up to press his fingertips to the indentations on either side of his nose, just inside the corners of his eyes. His skin was so pale that his hands were white as the iridescent edges of oyster shells save for the very tips of his fingers, the knobs of his bony knuckles, and a crescent moon curve at the heels of his palms, flushed pink as if all the blood in that translucent flesh had gathered there; Damon wondered if he knew what the sun outside even looked like. ... I suppose we’ve got a responsibility, don’t we?

You sound so goddamn excited about doing your job.

It’s not my job that’s the problem, Rian muttered, almost under his breath. "It’s you."

Trust me, the feeling’s mutual.

At least we agree on something. With a thoughtful sound, Rian clasped his palms together as if praying, tilting them against his nose and lips until they bisected his face, his eyes unfocused. "What can we do? Even if we’re assigned as the boys’ primary caretakers, there are limits. Legal limits. Unless he’s involved in something illegal or life-threatening, there’s not much we can do if he’s not breaking the rules. Technically, skipping an extracurricular isn’t breaking the rules."

Damon frowned, rubbing his forefinger and thumb along his chin and jaw, until he could press along the tendons over his temporomandibular joints, squeezing at them to relax a bit of the tension making his head and neck kink up in irritating knots. Unfortunately, Rian had a point.

That didn’t mean there was nothing they could do about it.

He tossed his head, turning in the cramped space—and trying his damnedest not to bump up against something that looked like a department store mannequin made out of barbed wire, and something else that looked like...he didn’t know, but it seemed fragile and he’d probably break it. C’mon.

What? drifted after him. Why? Where are we going?

To talk to Walden, Damon said grimly, ducking through the door and into the broader, neater space of the art classroom, long wooden worktables arranged in ordered rows and dotted with various student projects in progress. And get to the bottom of this.

As he threaded through the tables toward the classroom door, though, the faint sound of soft sandaled footsteps followed, then the creak of the workroom door closing, before Rian’s thrumming voice called his name softly, almost too sweetly.

Damon?

Damon stopped, keeping his back to Rian. Something about his name in that luring, richly enticing voice was even more irritating than the haughty, scathing sarcasm.

And he didn’t want to look at him while Rian said his name that way.

What? he asked, clipping the word through his teeth, then snapping his mouth shut.

...could you put a shirt on first, please? Rian asked in that same beguiling tone, and Damon snarled.

"Why?"

... I live with Walden. I know what he’s like. And this time there was no mistaking that sweet, bewitching tone for anything but what it was: lightly mocking laughter, as Rian breezed past Damon with an arch sidelong look, hazel eyes sly beneath raised brows, glowing in their frame of smoky black eyeliner. Just put a shirt on, Mr. Louis. Trust me.

Not as far as I could throw you, Damon thought, but just let out a noncommittal sound.

Before reluctantly following Rian from the room, and wondering just what it was about the man that just...just...

Royally pissed Damon off. More than he had any right to be. Especially when if he’d admit it out loud...

He’d been in the wrong.

Goddammit.

Walden first. Apologies later.

Even if he wasn’t quite sure which one he was dreading more.

But, well...

Some things just had to be dealt with.

And Rian Falwell was apparently one of them.

Chapter Two

Rian supposed he’d give Damon Louis a touch of credit in that he did, in fact, put a shirt on before they reconvened outside Assistant Principal Lachlan Walden’s second floor office.

The problem was...it was hard to really call that scrap of white fabric a shirt when it was thinner than gauze, and Damon must have used it as a towel to absorb the sweat filming his body; the shirt clung to his torso in a wet-soaked, translucent layer, molding to the tight flow of an athlete’s honed muscles.

As Damon approached down the narrow hallway in a casual, graceful jog, the only spot of color against gray-worn wood, his body pulled and flowed like a piece of powerful machinery moving in time to music, and Rian caught himself picking out the sketch lines in his body: where he would overlap lines for the obliques, how he might taper the line weight to indicate depth and motion, how he would shade the joining of the anterior head muscles to the pectorals, and how the stark crease between them tightened and relaxed in and out of focus with each flex of Damon’s shoulders in rhythm with his strides.

But as he drew to a halt on the opposite side of the doorway marked Assistant Principal L. Walden, Damon scowled, swiping his still-damp hair out of his face. What? Why are you looking at me like that? I put on a fucking shirt.

...what?

Oh.

He had been staring, hadn’t he?

And he...he really didn’t know why.

Clearing his throat, Rian looked away, lifting his chin and thinning his lips—and only hoped his face didn’t look as red as it felt. I meant something a little more presentable than a T-shirt.

I haven’t fucked with a dress code since the Navy, and I’m not about to start now.

That probably explained the scars: thick corded ridges visible even underneath the shirt, when the soaked white fabric let the deep, tawny brown of Damon’s skin show through, and brought out the lighter lines of scar tissue making furrows and puckers against his flesh, things that whispered of bullet wounds and worse.

And Rian wasn’t curious about Damon damned Louis, or what had sent him from the Navy to a secluded hole in the wall like Omen, Massachusetts, hidden away in a private boys’ boarding school most people didn’t even know existed unless they had the right connections, knew the right people, or had the kind of wayward sons many wealthy families liked to disavow responsibility for.

You’re fucking staring at me again, Damon grit out, one eye twitching.

Rian caught himself, retreating a step, then huffed and looked away. Excuse me.

You got that much of a problem with my damned shirt?

Why would I?

A flat stare fixed on Rian. You seem to have a problem with everything else about me.

Just your breathing, Rian thought, suppressing a growl. Can we talk to Walden and get this over with?

Damon made a thickly disgusted sound and leaned over Rian—so close that in proximity, without the heavy smell of fresh clay drowning it out, Rian could smell the heat and sweat of his body, a darkly musky warmth—to thump the heel of his palm against Walden’s door. Be my fucking guest.

"If the two of you are quite done with your rather loud bickering, drifted through the door, commanding and cold and ever-so-slightly irritable as always, you may enter. You have ten minutes."

With one last glare, Rian cleared his throat and tore his gaze away from Damon yet again.

God, that man annoyed the hell out of him.

He distracted himself by pushing the door of Walden’s office open. He’d probably seen Lachlan Walden in the office more than in their shared suite—where, the few times Rian had caught a glimpse past the firmly closed door of Walden’s bedroom, the space had been just as spartanly neat and organized as his office, furniture so minimalist that the cubicle looked much more expansive than it was.

Most faculty and staff offices were cramped, a hazard of an extremely old building designed in different times, and by someone with a penchant for small spaces; Rian had once heard—and maybe dug up in the dusty, crumbling library archives—that the sprawling main building had originally been constructed in the eighteen hundreds by an eccentric, wealthy family with the intent of housing multiple generations, from the closest brothers to the most distant cousins. But some unspeakable and thus unspoken tragedy had emptied the halls and begun the first rumors of hauntings and curses before, decades later, the manor had been bought, restored, and repurposed as a boarding house for laborers working the river industries on the Mystic. More tales; more histories imprinted the weathered boards, before time and changes in local business left more empty halls, more ghosts.

Until, around the early twentieth century, the estate had been bought one last time and remodeled into a boarding school for boys; some whispered the first founder, Marietta Albin, had established the school as a place to exile her own delinquent sons to shape them up into proper responsible adults, and it had grown from there.

Into what it was today: a secret haven for the rich and spoiled.

Where Lachlan Walden seemed to be having a touch of trouble fitting in, because he seemed even more harried and stressed than usual when he glanced up over his rimless glasses, the glint of frost-blue eyes just as sharp as the precision-cut edges of his lenses. Walden’s navy blue suit was perfectly pressed, his platinum blond hair swept back with such neatness it bordered on militant and was most certainly TRESemmé. But a subtle jumping tic in his clenched jaw gave him away—paired with an echoing twitch of one eye, giving him a skeptical look as he studied them both.

Before letting out an exasperated sound and gesturing to the two simple hardbacked chairs opposite his plain wooden desk. Sit. Talk. Which student?

Rian slid into the room quickly—and told himself it wasn’t to get away from the oppressive heat of Damon filling the space so close to his body. You’re that certain we’re here about a student?

"There is absolutely zero reason for both of you to be in my office if it isn’t about a mutual student. Lachlan folded his hands together atop the open file folder on his desk. I said sit. And close the door behind you."

Rian expected Damon to snarl at the assistant principal the same way he snarled at Rian.

But instead, while Rian claimed the chair farthest from the door and crossed his legs, folding his hands... Damon just stepped quietly inside, pulling the door closed before levering himself down in the other chair. He sat with his legs spread wide, a casual slouch of masculine arrogance, and propped his elbows on his thighs, looking at Lachlan steadily over his laced knuckles.

His hands were so large, Rian thought absently. Perhaps proportionate to his body, but it was still jarring to realize how thick and square his fingers were, blunt, the nails clipped short, the creases in the knuckles deep; Rian found his own fingers itching for a sketchpad and a pencil, and curled them tighter in his lap against the urge to steal a pen from the holder on Lachlan’s desk.

He had a feeling that might get him fired.

Or possibly murdered.

Staring at me again, Damon drawled, almost under his breath, then launched on before Rian could let out more than a strangled, embarrassed noise, his pulse skipping. We’re here about Chris Northcote.

Ah. Our sophomore football virtuoso, is he not? Walden swiveled his office chair toward the laptop perched to one side of his desk; he tapped over the keyboard with swift precision, his spine perfectly straight. No detentions. No behavioral demerits. Grades in order. No violations of the residential code. What is the problem with young Mr. Northcote, then?

Damon didn’t say anything, and Rian realized he was waiting for Rian to fill in.

So Rian took a deep breath—why did he feel like he was in trouble, called into the principal’s office for playground brawls?—and said, He’s been missing football practice. Which is strange enough in itself, but when last bell sounds he tells me he has to run or he’ll be late for practice; practice he never attends. And when questioned about it, he told Mr. Louis he’s been staying late to work on art projects. Except he hasn’t. I’m in the art room well into the evening. Chris is never present.

Walden’s typing stopped. He flicked them both a look over the top of the laptop. Has he missed any assignments? Performed poorly in any classes?

Rian faltered, then shook his head. He’s doing fine in art.

Fine in gym, Damon said after a moment—slow, reluctant. He’ll probably be fine on the team if he starts showing up before we really get past pregame season and into the first matchups.

So... Lachlan drew the word out with icy impatience, as if highlighting every second of his time wasted. You’re here because a student decided he didn’t want to participate in optional extracurricular activities, and wasn’t honest about it. It’s not affecting his grades, or his eligibility for AP college credits in his advanced classes. In other words, your pride is wounded that your prize student isn’t as interested in being your pet project as you are in having him.

Rian spluttered. That’s not it at all!

Don’t be a jackass, Walden, Damon grunted—and Rian tried to suppress his faint flush of pleasure. At least they were on the same page with this. You know he’s here on scholarship. He fucks up in football, that’s his funding yanked.

That’s a problem for him, his parents, and the finance department, Walden retorted. Gentlemen, are you aware of what sort of school this is?

Last I checked, it was the hallowed halls of privileged horseshit, Damon growled.

And if you don’t like it, Lachlan Walden replied without missing a beat, you are free to find a job anywhere else.

He swiveled away from the laptop to face them once more, steepling his fingers into points, staring at them with the unblinking gaze of a serpent over their tips.

At Albin Academy, we are not like other schools, he bit off—every word a drop of ice, frozen precision with razor edges. "The parents of the boys we teach have very exacting demands of us. Don’t damage their precious sons...and don’t let their precious sons damage their reputations. There is a reason hardly anyone has heard of this school, and we prefer to keep it that way in the interests of respecting parents’ privacy. That means if— he folded his fingers back, leaving only one sharp index finger extended, but it sure as hell felt like a middle finger, —you have a problem with one of the students, particularly one that could impact his eligibility to attend, you find me evidence that an infraction has been committed so that we can bring it to his parents. Please keep in mind that most

Reviews for Just Like This

[MA · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Childhood trauma and a love hate relationship that turns into support and mutual respect. I felt this could have done with some tighter editing to it the novel length by 30% or so, but the protagonists lovely sentiments were captured otherwise.

[cathygeha · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Just Like This by Cole McCadeAlbin Academy #2Opposites attract…sometimes… When sparks are ignited negatively it often means something positive soon might transpire and so it happened for Rian Falwell and Damon Louis. One man is artistic and the other a jock. Both have back stories that have formed them and come into their relationship with chips, of a sort, on their shoulders. Both also have a deep desire to help the boys at the academy and in so doing, while working together, forge a bond strong enough to see them to a HEA that brings them both a whole lot of just what they both have always wanted. What I liked: * Rian: ethereal with a core of steel, soft hearted but firm, wears a smile for a mask, artistic dablber – I really liked him and the growth he showed in the book. * Damon: conflicted, looking for his roots, closed off, wary, strong, warm, complicated – I liked him and was glad he was able to open up. * Chris: young, good, helper, kind, caring, great potential – so glad his situation worked out eventually. * Wondering about Walden – assistant principal. I am guessing he might get his own HEA, too. * The premises for the story and its location – a boy’s school has potential for romance among staff and students but not between the two…probably.* The emphasis on the students and what was best rather than on the rules alone* The mention of how adoption and not knowing one’s roots can impact a person even though they may grow up in a loving supportive family.* That there was a HEA for Rian and DamonWhat I didn’t like: * At times I felt the characters were stereotypical/predictable, but I liked them anyway. * Knowing that bullying and exploitation takes place even though I wish it did not.Did I like this book? YesWould I read more by this author? I think soThank you to NetGalley and Carina Adores for the ARC – This is my honest review.3-4 Stars