Hissing out a breath, I slumped deeper into my seat. “So, what do I do with the theme of desperation then?”
Seemingly eager all the sudden, Dr. Kavanagh sat forward, her eyes lighting with an excited gleam. “Well, now is the easy part. You find a part in the story where someone feels desperate, on edge, as if nothing is under his or her own control. Explain why, then tell me how you understand this emotion and how you can relate to it by listing all the reasons you feel or have felt desperate, on edge, and like nothing is under your control.”
That should be easy. I felt that way most every day. About everything. Hell, I was feeling that way right now, about her. But still...
Closing my eyes, I whispered, “Christ.” The woman might as well ask me to bare my soul to her. Opening my lashes, I shot her a frown. “And you don’t have any qualms over the fact this assignment is utterly intrusive and infringes on a person’s privacy?”
She beamed. “None whatsoever.” Her bright smile threw me off guard. It was…lovely.
Hmm. Strange. Dr. Kavanagh had a lovely smile. It took my breath away and left me reeling.
I didn’t mean for it to happen, but my lips quirked in reluctant admiration. “You’re kind of evil, Professor.”
That seemed to please her. She straightened her back and preened. “Hey, I bet I just nudged you into writing the best damn paper you’ve ever written.”
Damn, I loved the way she said damn.
This time, I chuckled. I liked how she kept shocking me today. She acted so prim and proper in class, as if a curse word had never left her saintly lips.
“Maybe,” I murmured, looking at her in a new light. “We’ll see. How soon do you need it?”
“As soon as possible.”
I rolled my eyes. “No pressure or anything.” With a sigh, I pushed to my feet. “Okay, Dr. Kavanagh. I will have the best damn paper I’ve ever written in your hands as soon as possible.”
“Excellent.” She stood as well. “That’s all I ask.”
Jesus. She was a snarky little thing. I didn’t want to dig that. But I totally dug that.
I hesitated, and an awkward impasse passed between us. If she had been a man, I probably would’ve held out my hand to shake and thanked her for the second chance she’d just given me. Hell, if she’d been an older woman, or maybe just any other woman, I might’ve done the same thing. But with her, right then, it felt…forbidden. Naughty.
Hard-ass, straight-laced teacher or not, there was something about the soft curve of her porcelain pale face with an almost invisible splash of freckles dusting her cheeks and nose to go with her succulent lips that stirred me. I instinctively knew I should never touch her.
She must’ve sensed my unease because she shifted and cleared her throat, not making eye contact. “Well, then. I assume that’s all you need.”
“Yeah.” With a single bob of the head, I murmured, “Thanks.” I turned, but just before I left the small room crammed with shelves of books, I paused and glanced back. “And I’m, you know, sorry...about calling you a bitch earlier.”
This time, both of her trim, dark eyebrows lifted. She pressed a hand against the center of her chest. “What? You’re rescinding what might possibly be the nicest compliment I’ve received from a student all semester?”
I snorted out a laugh but nodded. “Yeah, I am. It was rude and undeserving. And I apologize.”
Her lashes responded by beating in overtime against the tops of her cheeks. When moisture glistened like a fine sheen over her green eyes, I panicked. Shit, I didn’t want to make her cry.
But wow. Who knew I could actually make the hard-ass, expressionless Dr. Kavanagh cry? She must not be nearly as tough as she put herself out there to be. It made me wonder just how soft she could get.
Which was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
She held it together, thank God, and nodded. “Apology accepted,” she murmured as she motioned toward the door to let me know I was excused.
Wavering another second, I studied her delicate features, still amazed she was old enough to be a college professor. If she didn’t act so hoity-toity and wore such frumpy clothes, I probably would’ve mistaken her for an underclassman and hit on her by now. I wouldn’t have stopped my pursuit either, not until she gave in and let me have a piece of her, because my type or not, there was something about her that drew me in.
“How old are you?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
Shit. Why had I just asked that? It made no difference what age my teacher was.
Lifting her eyebrows with what was either irritation or amusement—I couldn’t quite tell—she murmured, “None of your business,” in a low voice packed with heated sensuality.
It stirred every hormone inside me, even though I knew she hadn’t meant it to.
I shook myself free of the generating lust and muttered, “Right.” It was time to get out of here. Now.
***
“Quotable quotes are coins rubbed smooth by circulation.” - Louis Menand
***
ASPEN