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WORTHY OF LOVE
PAST
Abraham: Meet me where we had our first date.
Iroll my eyes at the message that I received last night, pulling at the thighs of my striped high waist pants that accentuate my long legs. I used to hate being so long, towering over the boys at school.
And then womanhood transformed my shape and I decided to be a fucking goddess instead of the giant the boys used to call me. Maybe I am still a giant to them. But I’ve always looked at it as, if my height bothers them, they’ve probably got a little dick anyway.
I approach the cinema, fidgeting slightly when I see him standing outside, his eyes on his phone. I shove my own phone into my bag and shake my hands to get rid of my nerves just as he glances up, catching the movement with those dark glittering eyes of his.
“You don’t need to be nervous,” he calls out, tucking his phone into his pocket. I admire the way he wears casual wear, the navy polo fitting him in a way that shows his physique underneath. Abraham isn’t a bulky man but the appearance of his chest under the fabric of his shirt suggests that he’s in amazing shape. I stop myself from checking out his bare arms, feeling his stare and not wanting to be caught ogling.
But he doesn’t give a fuck about being caught as his eyes scan me from head to toe. When his perusal pauses at the inch of bare skin showing between my waistband and tank top, I tilt my head to the side.
“I like when you look like this,” he supplies, his perusal moving to my hair. It’d taken me about an hour to curl it just to my liking.
“Like what?” I ask, curious as I stare into his eyes, wanting to catch every shift and flicker of meaning.
“Like you know you’re going to see me.”
“I see you three times a week,” I remind him, not wanting to share that I take a little more care with my appearance on those days.
“And tonight, you dressed foronlyme.”
He extends his hand and I shake my head, unable to commit to placing my hand in his.
“I don’t do public displays of affection,” I tell him, glancing down the other end of the street. “And what if someone sees us?”
Add in the fact that I’m not entirely sure what it is we’re doing here, and I refuse to have my head scrambled by some innocent handholding. I’ve given into temptation; I haven’t lost my fucking mind.
“How many people in this city know I am your professor? Or even care?” But he’s dropped his hand and gestures with it for me to walk with him.
“You should care more about your reputation,” I chide him, looking up for a moment and taking a deep breath. I can’t believe I’m here with him. And I can’t believe I’m the only one who understand the full gravity of this. He could lose his job. Not that he needs the money, I’m sure. But he is a well-respected director outside of this gig. He doesn’t need a scandal to taint his image. And I don’t need to lose the trajectory of my own future for a seemingly fleeting attraction.
“I think you caretoomuch,” is all he says in response and I peer over at him for a moment, catching the end of his shrug. Is he like this with others? Certainly not in the classroom setting. But I wonder if his previous conquests have seen this version of him: without the crease of frustration between his brows, his features relaxed, his lips slightly parted as we walk.
“We can agree to disagree,” I tell him, still keeping in step with him. “Where are we going?” The cinema is long forgotten behind us and we’re headed in a direction I’ve never been before.
“If it’s privacy you crave, I can think of no better location than my apartment.”
Can I handle privacy with Professor Pugliesi? If I’m being honest, it seems like Abraham and Professor Pugliesi are two completely different people. And it makes me wonder what Abraham Pugliesi is like as a director.
“How are you in a typical work environment?” I ask as if I’m trying to pass the time. Really, I just want to know him.
“I’ve had actors love me and some hate me.” There’s that shrug again. “I suppose it depends on who you ask.”
The back of his hand brushes against mine and I try not to react as he steps behind me, grabbing hold of my elbow.
He leads me across the street and stops in front of abodega. I learned that anything resembling a convenience store is called that in this city and I press my lips together as I wait for what comes next.
“Come on,” he says, reaching in his pocket for a loose key that he pulls out with a smile. He steps to the door just next to the store and I watch as he unlocks it before holding it open for me to go inside.
Surely he doesn’t livehere.
When I hesitate, he smiles and it’s a sight to behold. I haven’t seen an open smile from him since the night we met. Sexy grins and wicked little chuckles are all I’ve been graced with since then.
“You’re going to have to learn to trust me, Sabrina,” he says, still holding the door open. “You’re also going to have to hurry. I’m certain our food is getting cold.”
