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Zara
So…there was this man…okay, wait, isn’t that how all the love stories start? There’s a man a girl is head over heels for and she can’t stop talking or thinking about him, right? Ugh. So cliché. But that’s how my story goes.
Anyway, this man was so charming and sexy, and whenever I saw him, he made my heart gallop like a racehorse. Any time he looked my way, every part of me internally squealed for him. He was perfection, a little older, with a build like a god and a smile that could make women weep.
I know what you’re thinking: if I was so attracted to him, why didn’t I just go out with him already? Well, see, that’s the thing about this man. He was my college English professor, Cole Grant.
I didn’t want to say it was love at first sight when I laid eyes on him, but my heart definitely did somersaults and I was practically speechless when I met him.
I didn’t meet him at school though. No. I bumped into him at a coffee shop near campus, two days prior to classes starting. And when I say bumped, I mean literally bumped into him.
Mr. Grant was coming out of the coffee shop, and I was fishing around in my tote bag for my wallet as I made my way toward the door. It swung open and I slammed right into him as he stepped out, and thank goodness there wasn’t piping hot coffee in his cup because it would have burned both of us. I watched amber liquid spill on the white cotton of his shirt and instantly cling to his skin.
“Shit! I’m so sorry!” I yelled. The tea was all over his crisp white button-down shirt. I brought my attention to his face and wanted to say more, but my jaw suddenly felt too heavy to move. This man was handsome as hell. He was tall, his hair a smoky chestnut color, and his jawline—though it was ticking repeatedly with what seemed to be irritation—was chiseled perfection. His lips were full and pink, and his eyelashes were so long they brushed his cheeks whenever he happened to look down.
He trained his eyes on me. “You know what? It’s okay. Don’t worry. Accidents like this happen all the time.”
“I—” I cringed. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I rushed into the coffee shop and snatched a handful of napkins from the counter before running back and shoving them into his hand.
He immediately started wiping at his shirt, but there was no use. The shirt was stained, and it appeared he had somewhere very important to be by the way he was dressed in tailored pants and a fitted shirt.
I felt awful. If he didn’t have a spare shirt around, he was going to have to either buy a new shirt or go to his home and change if it was close enough. Both were inconveniences, I was sure.
“I’m so, so sorry. Can I buy you another drink?” I offered.
He tossed some of the napkins in the trash bin. “Actually, I’d better get going.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”
“Seriously, don’t worry. I took a sip of that drink—hated it. Just thought I’d be hip for once and give this place a try.” I huffed a laugh, and he gave me a warm smile. “But be careful next time, yeah? No good comes from looking down while you walk.”
“Right.” I tucked my thumb between the strap of my tote bag and my shoulder and watched him saunter away. Even as I stood in line, I watched him. He was standing by his car—a black Audi with shiny black rims—and casually unbuttoning his shirt. I cleared my throat and forced myself to look away, but it was impossible not to steal another glance. He was peeling his way out of the damp shirt, revealing tan skin and beautifully sculpted arms. I worked hard to swallow, watching as he opened one of the back doors of his car, bent down to lean inside, and then came back out with another shirt.
As he slid his arms into it, his head turned my way, and I snatched my gaze away quickly, facing forward and moving with the line.
When I looked back again, he was climbing into his car and then driving away.
I thought surely I’d never see him again—in all actuality, I hoped I would never see him again after being such a klutz—but it was just my luck that two days after the embarrassing encounter, I attended my first college English class and he was my professor.
“Oh, hey! It’s you, Coffee Shop Girl!” he called out when he saw me, and I wished the floor would turn into a gaping hole and swallow me whole. Eventually, he did stop calling me that and referred to me by my real name, and as even more time passed, it seemed he’d forgotten about the coffee shop incident altogether. But even if he’d forgotten, I hadn’t.
