Page 2 of The Professor's Wife

My eyes watered. Emotion slammed into me like a punch to the chest. I opened my eyes, lost in the moment and so painfully alone.

No one looked over to witness my distress. Everyone was quiet, enraptured by the singer sitting on a simple patio chair with a guitar in his hands and a microphone inches from his mouth.

I finally looked at him.

He was young, though not boyish, and unruly-looking in a simple pair of jeans and a loose white shirt. He held a rugged sort of beauty. Blond hair a few inches too long fell over his forehead. He had stubble, but it didn’t hide his impressive cheekbones or take away from his full pink lips.

My gaze traveled over his strong hands—one pressing chords along the neck of his guitar, the other sweeping powerfully across the strings above the sound hole.

He had nice hands.

Big hands.

They were tanned and dusted with light hair.

Women sat close to the stage, smiling widely at him, dazed and silent. But I wouldn’t stare. No way. I wouldn’t let his beauty distract me from what his voice was doing to the song.

I closed my eyes again, falling deeper into it.

It was easy to get choked up. I was vulnerable. My world had crashed and burned, and everything inside me felt exposed. I was drunk on emotion, drawing it from his voice and from the meaning behind the words he sang.

I kept thinking about everything I had lost. The life that existed before this one. The version of myself I would never get back.

The pain of its permanence never ebbed away.

I opened my eyes again, tearful. I looked first at the musician’s hands—strong and steady—and then up at his face.

I stilled.

My heart jumped because his gaze was latched onto mine, unwavering. I didn’t know how long he had been watching me, but as he sang, he didn’t look away.

His voice wrapped around every note like silk over skin, pouring emotion into each one.

It wasn’t just singing.

It was something deeper.

He was fucking the song with his voice, and he was staring at me while he did it.

The moment felt too intimate. Too raw.

My cheeks burned as I waited—desperately—for him to look away.

And when he finally did, the warmth vanished.

It was just me again.

After the song ended and cheers erupted for the young singer, I returned to the pub. My solitary table had been claimed by a lovey-dovey couple who looked as though they were still in the honeymoon stage, so I carried my untouched water to the bar.

I tried to absorb my surroundings, but I kept watching the clock. The glass gave my hands something to do and made it look as though I belonged there. To me, it also represented a choice. I could order something stronger if I wanted. I could leave if I wanted. I could sit there all night and drink nothing at all.

Like a centerpiece, it decorated my view, its symbolism lost to everyone but me.

I wanted the night to end so I could lie in bed and tell myself I had done it. I had gone out alone. I hadn’t needed company or someone to guide me through it. I had been present and comfortable in my own skin.

But that was rubbish.

I was lying to myself. I felt awkward and exposed, and being alone out in the open was hard for me.