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Tucking a leg underneath me, I turn to face Dixon and almost forget to breathe when I see he’s sporting a pair of thick-rimmed, designer glasses. His incredibly blue eyes are now amplified, and the chic frames give him a sexy professor look.
“Okay, show me whatcha got,” he says, and I close my gaping mouth.
“Well, I’m having problems with autonomic pharmacology,” I reply, my fingers shaking as I flip open my book to chapter four.
Dixon shifts closer, looking at the open textbook I’m offering him. “This can definitely be a little overwhelming. What don’t you understand?”
“All of it,” I confess with a smile.
Dixon chuckles, and I ignore how the sound resonates throughout my entire body.
“Well, let’s start with the basics. There are four classes of medications. Some medications turn on the sympathetic nervous system. Then some medications turn off the sympathetic nervous system,” he explains, holding out his left hand.
Holding up his right hand, he then goes on to say, “There are medications that turn on the parasympathetic nervous system. And then some drugs turn off the parasympathetic nervous system.”
“Yeah, but how do you remember which do what?” I ask, reaching for my pen.
“You know the autonomic nervous system is responsible for fight or flight. And rest and digest, right?”
I nod because my autonomic nervous system is running haywire at the moment.
“Well, it’s easy. The sympathetic nervous system isn’t that sympathetic after all. Just imagine, it’s a beautiful, sunny day, and you’re taking a hike in the woods when suddenly, a bear…”
Forty-five minutes later, Dixon has managed to explain to me what my lecturer has failed to do all semester.
“Holy shit, that makes perfect sense!” I exclaim, madly writing out critical points as Dixon speaks.
“Of course it does,” he cockily scoffs. “Are you telling me you doubted my teaching skills?” he mocks, clutching his chest over his heart.
“Well…” I taunt, giving him a cheeky sideways glance.
“For your lack of belief, you now owe me two pieces of cheesecake,” he smugly states, taking off his glasses and rubbing his weary eyes.
“I think I can manage that,” I reply, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. However, I stop mid-stride and turn over my shoulder and ask, “So what do you know about adrenergic drugs?”
Three hours later, I know things I didn’t even know existed.
After I got over the fact that Dixon was in my house, sitting mere inches away from me, I actually learned stuff. He has turned out to be an incredible teacher, and it doesn’t hurt he’s pretty incredible to look at.
The way he spoke with excitement on topics he obviously felt passionate about just proved to me that I’m intrigued by all sides of him, which troubles me. I find myself easily slipping and forgetting that I’m in a relationship with David.
“Are you going to eat that?” Dixon asks.
“Huh?” I blurt out, his question disturbing my thoughts as I meet his amused eyes.
“That. Are you going to eat it?” he repeats, pointing at my cheesecake with his fork.
“Oh, no, you can have it,” I offer, handing my plate over to him.
He gratefully accepts, and I tell myself to stop staring at his lips as he takes a big bite. I obviously fail, however because Dixon grins.
“I love desserts.”
“Me too,” I reply, thankful he didn’t address my staring issue.
“Yeah, I blame it on growing up with an Italian mother,” he replies with a smirk, licking his fork clean.
“Oh, that’s right. You mentioned your parents were Italian,” I say, remembering our texting conversation where I avoided the topic of my family like the plague. “But Mathews isn’t Italian, is it?” I ask, feeling culturally uneducated. “And neither is Dixon.”
