Page 9 of Read With Your Heart

“For a notebook?” His smile becomes blinding. “Pink is my color,” he continues to jest, holding the notebook up against his abdomen. “But today I think I prefer green.” He tips his head, eyes focusing on my face. “Or is it brown?”

I glare back at him. “Those sound like drab colors,” I mock, wondering why we are discussing colors when he still hasn’t explained how he got in this classroom.

“They might be the most beautiful color combination I’ve ever seen. ‘For she had eyes and chose me.’” His lip slowly crooks up in the corner with a sexy smirk. Or is it a sly smile? A dimple forms, and my insides double dribble. My mouth dries. Why is he looking at me like that, and why does he have to have a damn dimple by his lips? Lips that I notice are slightly plump and soft pink, and I wonder how they’d feel against mine.

I . . . what?

The crooked smile grows, one side higher than the other as if he’s teasing me in some manner.

“How did you get in here again?” I ask, suddenly warm, and I tug at my collar. I’m wearing a light dress for the early September temperature, but I’m overheating in it.

“I’m not going to answer that question,” he states. “But I’d like to know if I may be dismissed from class?” He winks at me—actually winks.

“You aren’t a student,” I remind him, which is obvious, and now I look even more foolish than I already have.

“No, but if I were, I’d want you to teach me a lesson or two,” he says, his voice dropping as he steps closer to me.

More heat radiates from him—or maybe it’s just coming off me—and I’m breaking into a sweat with his proximity. It’s not so much my earlier reaction at him touching me, but more so his general nearness. So close.

Would you like him to be closer? The thought startles me.

“I-I’m certain there’s nothing I could ever teach you,” I stammer. My voice comes out in a strained whisper. Where is this quietness coming from? Why is he unsettling me?

“Oh, pretty lady, the ways you could instruct me are numerous.”

My mouth falls open, and with that, his smile turns full wattage. Curved lips. White teeth. Deeper dimple. With a sexily sinister gleam to his eyes, he spins, like a pivot in basketball, and slips through the open door behind me.

I’d like to say I followed him, but I needed a moment to gather my wits. I’d just been schooled by a very hot man stealing a pink notebook from a classroom. And I never even asked him who his sister is.

+ + +

Sitting on my bed later that evening, I’m distracted for the hundredth time from reading through the essays. We hit the ground running with papers due on the students’ summer reading. It’s mainly a way to assess their writing ability, and I’ve been staring at the same one for ten minutes. She didn’t do the assignment. Just wrote her name on the top of the paper and left the rest of the page blank.

What is this? I question again.

Who was he? I answer because I can’t concentrate.

Was I overreacting a bit, thinking I’d call security? Probably. Then again, there was something in his eyes and the way he asked me not to do it that didn’t register until later. I can’t say he appeared afraid because if anything, he was the frightening one, but still, something in his tone was a plea for understanding.

Then there was his comment about colors. Green and brown. Drab and dark. What were his words about eyes and choosing him? I look up and into the mirror across my room, catching my own reflection.

It’s the prettiest color combination I’ve ever seen.

Wait. After his comment about color, was he quoting . . . Shakespeare?

What a flirt. What a tease, actually, because he couldn’t have been flirting with me. He had to have been mocking me.

I shake my head and turn in the direction of the house next door. It’s annoying that my neighbor never pulls down his shade. Tonight, he’s walking around with only a towel wrapped around his waist. For some reason, I sit up straighter. My fingers shake as I slowly reach toward the lamp on my bedside table. The sharp click of the switch makes me jump even though I’m the one who turned it off, and a giggle escapes me. I don’t want to get caught doing what I’m doing, which is watching him.

I’ve been unable to get a clear view of his face from this distance. He’s been in profile every time I’ve seen him. My eyes are drawn to his sleek body, which I imagine is still damp from a shower, hence the towel at his waist. I round his bare shoulders and slip down his firm chest. His muscles have muscles, and it’s almost unfair how fit he looks even from a distance. His head tilts, and something about the movement seems familiar, but I can’t place it. He rubs a hand back and forth over his short, dark head of hair, shaking out the excess water, and I almost feel the spray of it, like kisses against my skin. I exhale with the notion.

I shouldn’t be watching him.

Only, my eyes refuse to pull away. He’s pacing around the room, and then he closes his door, pausing a moment near it. He crosses back to the window, and I lean back as if he can see me, which is ridiculous. My room is dark. I swallow as I watch him loosen the towel, and then it disappears as if it fell to the floor. One arm reaches up for the window frame, and his body turns in profile, as if that arm holds him upright and the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. His other hand comes to the top of his legs.

Is he . . . he isn’t . . . is he?

I watch as his arm moves forward and back, tugging at something I can’t quite make out but can imagine. I envision it matching the rest of his body—long and lean and muscular. His arm moves faster. His head tips forward. His hips thrust a bit, and heat pools between my thighs.