Page 34 of Teach Me Your Ways

15

GRADY

Afew weeks had slipped by since the semester began. The unspoken tension between Cece and me had settled into a simmering undercurrent. We maintained a professional distance, exchanging only the necessary words during classes. Yet, every time she entered the room, my eyes betrayed me, drawn to her presence despite my best efforts to remain composed.

The staff lounge coffee was shit, but it was free and strong enough to wake the dead. I’d learned to appreciate both qualities during my first year at Zebulon when my salary barely covered rent, let alone decent caffeine. Now, four years later, I still found myself snagging the free coffee most mornings, partly out of habit and partly because Felix made a point of holding court at the corner table, dissecting departmental politics with surgical precision. It was the place to be. It was where all the gossip happened.

The lounge was empty that day, though. I was doctoring my cup with enough sugar to mask the burnt taste when I heard the click of heels on linoleum behind me.

“Professor Stone.”

I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Dean Carver had a voice that could make my balls shrivel. Hell, it did make my balls shrivel. I couldn’t explain what it was about her, but the woman got on my last nerve. I sensed it was a mutual feeling. She didn’t like me any more than I liked her. I just didn’t know why. What the hell did I do to her?

“Morning, Dean,” I said, not bothering to face her as I stirred my coffee. Maybe if I avoided eye contact, she wouldn’t attack.

“I was hoping we could have a word.” She stepped closer, close enough that I caught a whiff of her perfume. Something expensive and cloying that made my nose itch. It made her smell like an old woman. I remembered going to church with my grandmother. Sitting among the old ladies with their white hair felt like being in an actual perfume bottle. It was suffocating.

I finally turned, plastering on my most professional smile. “Of course. What can I do for you?”

Carver was one of those women who’d probably been stunning twenty years ago and was fighting tooth and nail against the passage of time. Everything about her was doctored. There was nothing natural about her—except the wrinkles around her eyes. No laugh lines. I didn’t think she ever laughed or smiled. Her navy suit had been tailored to within an inch of its life. Maybe buy another one a size up?

“I wanted to discuss your teaching assistants,” she said, her eyes studying my face like she was looking for cracks in a foundation. “How are they working out?”

I took a sip of coffee, buying myself time. It felt like a trap, though I couldn’t figure out what kind yet. “Fine. Both are capable students.”

“Mmm.” She tilted her head, a gesture that might have been flirtatious if it didn’t feel so calculated. “I’m particularly interested in your assessment of Ms. Monroe. Her academic performance, her… dedication to the program.”

The way she said Cece’s name made something cold settle in my stomach. “She’s one of the strongest graduate students I’ve worked with. Bright, hardworking, asks the right questions.”

“I see.” Carver stepped closer, ostensibly reaching for the coffee pot, but the movement brought her shoulder against my arm. “And personally? How do you find her?”

Every alarm bell in my head started ringing. This was definitely a trap, though I still couldn’t see the shape of it. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Her smile was razor thin. “You’re an attractive man, Grady. And Ms. Monroe is… well, she’s quite striking.”

My jaw tightened. This was exactly the kind of conversation that could end careers, and Carver knew it. She was fishing, casting her line and waiting to see what she could drag up from the murky depths.

“I don’t assess my students based on their appearance, Dean Carver,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I evaluate them on their academic merit and professional conduct. Frankly, I think it’s inappropriate that you mention it at all to me.”

Her smile didn’t waver, but something flickered behind her eyes. Disappointment? “Of course. How professional of you.” She paused, refilling her coffee cup with deliberate slowness. “And what about Ms. Reese? I understand her mother is quite concerned about her progress.”

There it was. The real reason for this fishing expedition. Lina’s mother Seraphina. Major donor. Woman who could make my life hell with a single phone call. She wanted a progress report. And Carver was her messenger. Obviously, they were expecting a glowing report. Her mother would not be happy if I said anything negative. She was looking for the bumper sticker. The one that said her kid was on the honor roll or whatever the grad school equivalent was. Never mind the fact that her family was what bought the honor roll.

“Lina is adjusting to the demands of graduate-level work,” I said carefully. It was the most diplomatic way I could think of to say she spent more time on her phone than her coursework. That she ogled me like I was a prime cut of beef she was trying to decide how to eat. That Lina brushed her tits against my arm or chest or back anytime she could make it look accidental.

“Her mother mentioned she’s been putting in extra hours. Late nights at the library, additional study sessions.” Carver’s eyes never left my face. “She’s quite dedicated, apparently. She’s really enjoying your class, according to her mother.”

Late nights at the library my ass. The girl couldn’t find the library with GPS and a sherpa. But I wasn’t about to say that to the dean, not when Lina’s mother could smite my career like a vengeful god.

“She’s certainly enthusiastic about the subject matter,” I managed.

“Wonderful. Her mother will be so pleased to hear it.” Carver took a sip of her coffee, grimacing slightly at the taste. “You know, Stone, I’ve always admired your dedication to mentoring young minds. So hands-on in your approach. Your students always have nice things to say about you. I swear, you would think you were personally teaching each of them. They all say they appreciate the one-on-one time with you.”

The way she said it made my skin crawl. Everything about this conversation felt wrong, like she was trying to lead me somewhere I didn’t want to go. I didn’t do any one-on-one time. I was required to hold office hours per my teaching contract. Students did come in, but that was part of the job.

“I’m glad the students appreciate my class,” I said, setting my cup down harder than necessary.

Carver’s voice dropped to what I suspected she thought was a sultry whisper. “You’re so good with your hands, aren’t you? All that fieldwork experience.”