He cocks his head to the side. “Any particular reason why?”
“It gives an amazing view into human nature, it’s an incredible time in American history, and it is one of the best classic, tragic love stories.” I could go on and on aboutThe Great Gatsby, but if he didn’t enjoy it when he originally read it, I doubt he’ll enjoy it now. “And I think the true villain of the story is Daisy, yet not enough people recognize that,” I add, unable to help myself.
“Interesting,” he murmurs. “You don’t think it’s Gatsby himself?”
I scoff. “Compared to everything Daisy did?”
“One could argue that Gatsby was equally at fault.”
“Daisy is the most destructive character and the whole reason multiple people died,” I respond curtly. It isn’t until I catch a hint of a smile playing across his lips that I figure outhe’s playing with me. I close my eyes and let out a laugh, slightly embarrassed that he watched me get so worked up over a book. I’ve always loved discussing literature, but I rarely have the opportunity to do so.
He gives me an amused grin. “It’s sweet that you care so much.” I roll my eyes at him, and he continues. “I’m serious. Not many people your age care so deeply about literature.”
“Oh, God,” I snort. “Way to age yourself there.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets as I gently place the book back on the shelf. “You’re not going to get it?” he asks curiously.
I shake my head. “While I love this whole ‘special edition’ thing the book community has going on, I don’t have almost forty dollars to spend on a book I’ve already read multiple times.”
He glances back at the book before giving me a small smile. “Education should be free,” he muses.
“Preaching to the choir, my friend,” I huff out a laugh. I give the book one last longing look before turning toward the exit. “Well, I have some grocery shopping to do. It was nice running into you, Asher.” His smile falls at the sound of his name, and I want to smack myself upside the head. “Sorry, Professor Stirling.”
“Summer,” he starts hesitantly.
I stop him before this gets any more embarrassing for me. “Ms. Nyx is fine.” I clear my throat. “Have a nice day, Professor.” I dart away and can feel his gaze burning into my back all the way out of the store.
My phone rings once I’m out on the sidewalk, giving me an excuse not to look back over my shoulder to see if Asher tried to follow me.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Summer,” my mother’s voice greets me. “I was just calling to confirm our plans for Thanksgiving.”
I resist the urge to sigh. Of course, she’s trying to ensure I make it home. She has to confirm it multiple times, and over text simply wouldn’t do.
“Yes, Mom, I’m still planning on heading over on Wednesday, spending Thanksgiving dinner with you, and then heading home Friday or Saturday.” Friday, if she annoys the hell out of me, Saturday, if she can keep it all reigned in for a few days. “Speaking of Thanksgiving plans,” I continue before my mother can say anything. “Dinner will be just us, right? No surprise guests or last-minute add-ons?”
“Of course, Summer,” my mother responds. “That is what we discussed.”
I roll my eyes. “Just wanted to make sure.”
“The whole time will be just us two,” she reassures me.
“Thanks, Mom, I’m excited to spend some time with you,” I say, and am slightly surprised to realize that I really do mean it.
She continues to rattle on about the women in the neighborhood and all the gossip that’s happened since we last spoke—surprisingly, it’s a lot. I stroll around the block a few times, passing my car, so that I can spend more time talking to my mother. She’s simple, easy to understand. Predictable. Unlike other people…
The next day,I’m one of the last people out of Asher’s class, and he stops by my desk as I’m packing everything up. I don’t expect it. We’ve been trying to keep our distance from each other since the whole Halloween debacle. The short conversation atthe bookstore felt like a one-off. Either we’re trying to rip each other’s clothes off, or trying to resist yelling at each other.
I let my gaze drift slowly up his black slacks and dark green button-up—which he’s, of course, rolled to his forearms, revealing toned arms with corded muscle. His hair looks mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly, though I didn’t notice him doing it during class.
“You left this behind the other day,Ms. Nyx,” he murmurs, placing something on my desk and quickly walking back to the front of the classroom. His voice danced around my last name, teasing and obviously referring to when I corrected him yesterday.
I watch him, waiting for him to turn back toward me. He stops at his desk, his back still to me, muscles taught, as if he’s physically holding himself back from looking at me. He places his hands on the dark wood, digging his nails into the desk. He drops his head with a sigh, and it is going to take all my self-control not to check the desk for delicate crescent-shaped marks when everyone is gone.
Finally, he lifts his head as he loses the battle and turns.
I bite my lip as my gaze meets his vivid green eyes, which darken in response, trailing along my bottom lip caught between my teeth. He takes a step forward before another student crosses the classroom, getting his attention.
