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“Ms. Summerlin.” My professor calls me out in front of everyone. “Why don’t you share with the class what you find so funny about the preservation of cadavers?”
I look up from my phone and the text from Harbor asking me out for Saturday night. “Um . . .there’s nothing funny about cadavers—”
“Correct!” Professor Brown says, pointing the marker in his hand at me and causing me to jump in my seat. “There is nothing funny about cadavers. The donors deserve respect for the sacrifice they’ve made to science.”
“My apologies,” I say about ready to kill Harbor for texting me in class.He’s bad for me.That’s all there is to it. Yet he’s so darn irresistible. My lips still tingle from kissing him.
Glancing back down at the screen again, I smile.
“Ms. Summerlin, bring me your phone. Apparently, it’s too much of a distraction today. I have you for ninety minutes, and your shenanigans have cost the class five of them. We won’t lose any more to your screen addiction.”
My hands begin to tremble. I’ve never been in trouble in my life.
“I think we should keep going with the lesson,” Harbor says from where he’s seated. I glance back along with the entire class.
The professor replies, “That’s what I want to hear, Mr. Westcott. Eager minds create great doctors, but thorough research should always be your guide.”
Harbor is gifted. Trying to save me just earned him brownie points with our hard-ass professor.Impressive.
Then Professor Brown says, “I’m going to give you two options, Ms. Summerlin. Bring me the phone or leave my class.”
I hoped this would go differently, but no luck. Still debating if I should swing my backpack over my shoulder and leave in shame, I choose option one and start down the row toward the center aisle of the auditorium. My throat is dry as I tell people to excuse me, not daring to glance back at where Harbor is sitting.
When I reach the front of the room, Professor Brown says, “Show me what you were looking at.”
Wait, what?Oh no. “I thought you were just going to confiscate it until the end of class?”
“No. I could use a good laugh, though.” I knew I should have chosen option two.
He’s waiting for me to show him the screen. I take a shaky and just do it to get it over with. His eyes roll across the screen and then looks up in the auditorium and finds where Harbor is sitting.
Slumped in his seat.
Cocky smirk on his lips.
Eyes glaring back at the professor.
Lowering his glasses, the professor says, “A lot more makes sense now.” Looking at me, he keeps his voice low. “Return to your seat, and like the cadavers, please give me the respect I’ve earned during our ninety minutes together.”
“Yes, sir.”
My body feels like fire as heated embarrassment consumes me whole. I return to my seat, sinking into it while wishing it had a hole I could disappear into forever. The girl beside me whispers, “Don’t worry about him. He’ll forget all about it soon enough when someone else pisses him off. Just lay low until then.” She leans back in her seat.
“I will.”Oh trust me, I will.“Thanks.”
Suddenly, she leans over again, and whispers, “And quite the coup scoring a date with a Westcott.” She wags her brow once. I’m about to ask her how she knew, but she points at my phone. “Couldn’t help but see the text.”
“Ah. Gotcha.” Note to self: everyone can see everything in this auditorium.
A text comes in . . . from Harbor again:You okay?
I debate if I should reply just in case I get caught again. The professor is caught up in writing a timeline across the whiteboard that I remember reading about online. So I text:Sorry, I can’t reply. I’ve died from a peculiar strain of mortificationitis.
He texts a reply:I know just the cure for that.
My fingers slide against the screen:Oh yeah?
The next text reads:It’s a cure-all. Trust me.
