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Whitney
PROFESSOR ELLIS.
I leaned back in my chair and watched as he got straight to business. A presentation flared across the drop-down projector screen, casting a blue-hued glow across the rows and rows of stadium-like seating. He didn’t use the podium or microphone. No, he didn’t need to. His voice carried through the lecture hall with ease, his thick accent cutting through the shocked haze I fought to claw my way out of.
There had to be some mistake. This man couldn’t have been more than thirty. I narrowed my eyes on him as he walked back and forth, talking about what we should expect to cover during the semester.
No way. No freaking way. I’d heard about Professor Ellis. I’d read his research papers on interpretive sociology and his published opinions on the philosophic beginnings of culture, gender, and art. I knew he’d be teaching this class this year. But I’d never seen a picture of him. I’d imagined him old and gray with a long beard and bottle-cap glasses, sitting behind a cluttered dusk in a study tucked on some remote, wind-blown island.
Not this.
Dark, slightly curly brown hair fell over his ears. He kept it ruffled, not bothering to sweep it back from his face. His jaw was wide and sharp, exquisitely chiseled and shaded by a five o’clock shadow like he hadn’t bothered to shave this morning. Tall and well built, he had broad shoulders and a tapered waist. Dressed in a cream-colored button-down and dark brown trousers, it was impossible to not notice the way the fabric hugged the muscles beneath.
He was tan like he’d spent a great deal of time in the sun this summer, and freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and high cheekbones.
But what was most startling were his eyes—a bright, bluish hazel fanned by dark lashes above a sharp nose and wide mouth.
He wore glasses, which only added to his features. I couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment longer before snapping back to reality and trying hard to stifle my blush.
I glanced to my right and noticed similar looks of shock and awe on the faces of my classmates, all of them just as enraptured as I was.
Sighing, I pulled out my laptop and opened it with dramatic flair.
Well, I couldn’t spend the entire semester drooling over him. I could look him up in the privacy of my bedroom and scour the Internet for any mention of him without him having the satisfaction of catching me in the act of doubting his qualifications to teach a master’s level class such as this. But for now, I needed to pay attention to the screen and not to how well his trousers fit.
What was wrong with me? I’ve had countless professors, some of them incredibly handsome and charming, and never felt myself taken aback and off-kilter like this. Something about Professor Ellis’ sharp tone as he introduced himself and the way his muscles strained in his button-down shirt had me curling my toes and finding it hard to stay focused.
Finally, class drew to a close. Like the rest of my classes today, we’d only covered the syllabus, which had been excessively extensive. Professor Ellis knew his stuff and wanted us to know that. He specifically wanted me to know that based on the sidelong glances he cast in my direction throughout the two-hour long lecture.
I walked right past him and out of the lecture hall without a look in his direction.
The rain from earlier in the day hadn’t let up as I crossed the courtyard and beelined toward the commons. A steady stream of students flowed between and around the stone buildings with their stained glass windows and the dense vines that snaked up the gray stones. It was a gloomy day, everything cast in a dreary silver glow. The only pops of color came from those smart enough to carry their umbrellas from class to class, their heads bent and hoods snug against their ears as the wind picked up and swept the rain in a myriad of different directions.
I cursed under my breath as I sidestepped the groups of students milling about in the covered entrance to the commons. My jacket was soaked through from my short walk beneath the sycamore trees that surrounded the courtyard. I had approximately one hour until my next class, and I was starving by the time I found a quiet corner table tucked against one of the ancient stained glass windows. I set down my textbooks and shook out my tired arms, then shrugged off my jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. The cafeteria in the commons was not nearly as busy as I expected it to be, and I found my way to the salad bar without running into anyone I knew well enough to stop and get into a conversation with, much to my relief.
Grabbing one of the bowls at the end of the buffet, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding since Professor Ellis walked into the lecture hall.
But then I sucked it back in and yelped in surprise as bulky hands clasped around my middle and spun me in an awkward circle. The salad I’d just put in my bowl landed in my lap and dusted the floor when my assailant finally put me down and let me go.
Christian roped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me into his chest, placing a sloppy kiss on my hairline. “Let go of me, Christian!” I hissed, having to duck out of his grasp. Muffled laughter split the air around me as I bent to pick up the fallen pieces of spinach now scattered around my feet. My cheeks burned with a heated, angry blush.
“Come on, Whit. Don’t be like that!”
“Don’t manhandle me in public,” I said with as much calm as I could muster. I straightened up and stepped around him, dumping the floor salad into the trash can at the end of the buffet and setting my now dirty bowl in the dish container.
“So serious all the time,” he chided. I could hear the fact he was rolling his eyes even though I had my back turned to him. His friends—the little posse of jocks and frat brothers he ran with on campus year after year—snickered at my expense as he continued, “I haven’t seen her in ages. You’d think I’d be the one having to pry her hands off of me.”
My blush deepened, and I kept my back turned to the group, grabbing a fresh bowl from the pile and beginning my second attempt at a quick lunch.
Christian continued talking as if I wasn’t there. “She’s just playing hard to get. You know how those intellectuals are.”
I tightened my grip on my salad bowl and moved down the buffet.
“Our kids are going to be so lucky to have such a smart mom at home. They’ll be a shoe-in for Radcliff Academy if she’s the one writing their preschool entrance letters.”
I was almost to the end of the buffet and reaching for a bottle of dressing when he grabbed me from behind a second time. The salad bowl clattered to the floor as Christian smooched my cheek, his rough blond stubble scratching my sensitive skin. He patted my ass possessively, saying, “See you at the party tonight, babe. Don’t be late. Just because you’re a big, bad graduate student now doesn’t mean I don’t expect you in a tight dress and on my arm while I play beer pong.”
He let me go and walked off, laughing with his mindless friends, while I stared down at the mess I’d just made. The mess I’d been living in and allowing to continue for three years.
