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She’s the student.
The end.
“Miss Lorak, is it?” I take a beat, picking up my glasses and clearing my mind as I slide them over my eyes.
I have no problems with boundaries. I’m just out of practice.
Her full, pink lips part in a smile revealing straight, white teeth. “You remembered my name.”
Of course, I did.“Did you need something?”
She’s holding a laptop, and her long hair is pulled over one shoulder. It’s shiny and straight with a slight wave near the bottom.
“I’m sorry…” She blinks long lashes onto her cheeks. “I’m a transfer student, so I wanted to meet all my professors.”
I give her a controlled smile. “In that case, welcome. It’s nice to meet you.”
Her forehead relaxes, and she exhales a laugh. “The truth is I’m a little worried about your class. I’m not from this country, and our laws are so different. I need to do well.”
“Where are you from?”
“Odesa. I lived with my father in a small house near the Black Sea… until he died.”
Her voice trails off, and empathy filters through my chest, lowering my guard. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a while ago, but it changed my life.” Her nose wrinkles, and she points to my face. “You wear glasses, but not in class?”
“Yes, actually.” I take them off, studying them in my hands. “I’m right on the border of not being able to see without them, so I can still get away with forgetting.”
“They look nice on you.” She blinks slowly.
Tension radiates across my shoulders like a warning. This conversation is becoming problematic. She speaks and carries herself in a way that feels more mature than a typical college student.
“How old are you, Miss Lorak?”
Her blue eyes sparkle up at me through dark lashes. “I’m twenty-two, but I thought it was rude to ask a woman her age.”
“Yes, sorry.” Clearing my throat, I adopt a detached, scholarly tone. “You were worried about the difference in our laws. The good news is we don’t go into law or anything like that. My course is about psychology. The focus will be on understanding how the criminal mind works.”
With a gentle nod, she steps closer. “Is it possible to understand such things?”
She’s directly in front of me, the heat from her skin vibrating in proximity to mine, and I can’t help thinking, if this were a different time or place, I’d suggest we go somewhere and have a drink, get to know each other better.
As it is, I’m her teacher. I’m in a position of trust, and I have no intention of abusing that trust. Taking a step away, I return to my leather chair, putting the enormous mahogany desk between us.
“If you’re so worried, it’s not too late to drop the course and take something more in your comfort zone.” The suggestion sticks in my throat, but I’m doing the right thing, giving her good advice.
More “first-year problems”—developing an immunity to attractive co-eds.
Her blue eyes blink up at me again, and her voice lowers. “What do you know about my comfort zone, Professor Winston?”
It feels like a taunt, and I shift in my seat. In the field with Hutch and Scar, I’m lethal. I’m not afraid to face down anyone or tell them where to go. Now, with this unarmed girl sitting across from me, a heavy mahogany desk as a shield, I’m second-guessing every word.
“You’re right. I should’ve said ‘something that would help you adjust more comfortably.’”
“I’m pretty comfortable with you.” She tilts her head to the side. “The truth is, since my father died, it’s been hard to feel comfortable with anyone. I’ve had to make a way for myself alone in the world. It’s why I need to do well in my classes.”
There it is—an obvious bid for me to give her a good grade because she’s a pretty girl alone in the world.
