Forbidden Professor

by R. S. Elliot

  So what if those desires have nothing to do with realistic expectations? What if what I want is a man who infuriates me with one poorly inflected sentence? I can’t get him out of my mind, and what’s worse is I don’t want to either. I’ve spent too long shoving my emotions deep down inside of me, pretending like they don’t matter.

  You’ll have time for dating later, I tell myself. But if I live by that philosophy, what are my chances of ever changing it?

  He’s never going to show up again. You completely insulted the man.

  Insulted men don’t try to kiss you.

  No. Crazy people try to kiss strangers they’ve only known for a matter of minutes. In their workplace, no less.

  Crazy people and insanely hot guys.

  I’m the one who’s going crazy. Now, I’m arguing with myself? I need to just go out with Lyndsey one night, completely throw caution to the wind and find a guy who is nothing like the sun-kissed Adonis that I will likely never see again.

  “There you are.”

  My heart stops. A chill replaces the space where my heart once beat. I’m dead. This is what death feels like, I think. Cold, shock, confusion, I could see this being the end. I’m even hallucinating, hearing voices that belong to a man with a mouth I’ve only dreamt about tasting.

  I try to breathe. Nothing.

  Nope, it’s death. He’s come for me. Well, we had a good run, Aly, but I suppose it was inevitable.

  “It’s Alyson, right?” the man behind me says.

  Death knows my name.

  I turn around to face him. The same flood of sensations emerges at the sight of him, and I suck in a gasp of breath to steady my nerves.

  So not dead. Only stunned.

  Lucky me.

  “Yes.” I nod. “That’s me. Are you having trouble finding your order?”

  His lips curl at one end, revealing a pair of straight white teeth. He casts his eyes downward and rubs the back of his neck. The motion pulls his sleeve taut around his arm, revealing the muscular definition beneath his sweater.

  The frigid space in my heart quickly thaws, replaced with a peal of thunder that echos in my ear. My chest tightens. Every breath is practically a gasp. I sound like I’ve just completed a marathon. And that I’m horribly out of shape. I coach myself to take small breaths, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth without looking as foolish as I feel.

  “I was looking for you actually,” he says finally. “I wanted to apologize.”

  Oh my lord! My dream. It’s coming true. It wasn’t wish-fulfillment; it was a premonition! “You want to apologize to me?”

  “Well, yeah, I just felt like-”

  “You don’t have to apologize for anything.” I interrupt him.

  I don’t want to hear the heartwarming things he had planned to say, or even the arrogant fumblings he might have stumbled through either. Especially when he wasn’t the one out of line. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. It wasn’t my place. And you’re right. Something is always better than nothing.”

  He groans and tosses his head back. “God, it sounds even worse when you repeat it.”

  The sincerity in his features confuses me. Is he really trying to make an earnest apology? Could what I said have had that much of an impact on him? I wouldn’t have imagined he even gave me a second thought. While I, on the other hand, was up into the late hours of the night having naughty dreams about the things his hands could do.

  Heat rises to my cheeks, and I immediately look away.

  Why can’t I forget those stupid dreams? That’s right! More than one. Because my subconscious is okay with getting laid, but this girl can’t even breathe when a man gets too close.

  “You were right,” he says, carrying on with his heartfelt apology. “I used to do more. I loved it, actually. I just don’t know when it all came to an end.”

  Omigosh! What is wrong with me? The man is trying to make an emotional connection with me, and all I can think about is what he looks like naked.

  I’m acting like a man.

  I focus on a small brick on the floor, anything to keep my mind off of what he looks like.

  “Hey,” he says gently, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand tenderly grips my arm. Instantly, the flesh beneath his touch burns, but I am too mesmerized to pull away. He tugs me toward him, facing him. “Are you ok?”

  He lets me go, but I am still forced to look him in the eye. I stiffen my jaw and straighten my back. I can do this. I can look him in the eye and treat him just like any other customer.

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  He watches me, questioning, unsure whether to really believe me or not. He shakes his head and adds, “Anyway, I shouldn’t have answered the way I did. I think years of being disillusioned have just made me cynical.”

  I stare at him. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

  Why is it so important for me to know this? Why does he care what someone like me even thinks?

  His eyes wander across my face. He appears to be seriously contemplating that answer. “I don’t know.” His voice is raspy, low.

  It strikes a nerve deep in the center of my chest. Like a fissure of electricity shattering, enveloping me. He looks hypnotized, captivated. Not by me. It couldn’t be. Yet he is leaning toward me once again.

  This time is different. This time the feral hunger is replaced by something kinder. Something tender.

  “Would you...” he hesitates.

  Oh no. Is he trying to do what I think he is? My body stiffens. I’m not sure how to respond to anything. He hasn’t even asked me the question, and I am already shutting down.

  “Have you picked up your order yet?” I ask him, distracting him with questions that actually suit our roles as customer and store employee. I move toward the counter, pushing down the flood of thoughts that emerge. “I can call someone to get them ready for you and bring them out to your car.”

  I pick up the phone and start to dial.

  Smooth, Aly. Just completely shut him down before even giving the man a chance.

  Chapter Six

  Zach

  I know what she’s doing.

  She’s stammering through her sentences. She can barely even look me in the eyes. And when it sounds like I’m about to ask her out, she focuses the conversation back on work.

  Well, were you going to ask her out?

  I wince. Do people do that in these kinds of situations? Isn’t there some unwritten rule against asking out women when you meet them in a customer-client capacity? I wouldn’t want to cross it anyway. But damn, what else am I supposed to do?

  I feel a rush of panic settle in as she punches the number into her phone, paging whoever is on the opposite end of the store to come and haul me away. It can’t be what she really wants. She has to know as well as I do that there is something going on between us.

  Somehow. Something.

  Not like I even know what that is though.

  “Actually.” I stop her, an idea striking me instantly. “I need to pick out some flowers.”

  Her eyes assess me, suspicious. I guess I’d be suspicious of me too at this point. The last time we were alone together I tried to kiss her. Right there in the middle of the lumber aisle. And today, I tracked her down with some lame excuse of apologizing.

  Great. I sound like some creepy stalker. We’re off to an excellent start.

  “Flowers?” she asks.

  “Well, plants,” I explain. “You know, all kinds of plants, really. We’re thinking about putting in a garden for some sustainable living.”

  Her dainty little nose twitches in amusement. “Sustainable living in the city of Oakland?”

  “People can tend to gardens almost anywhere. They could plant maybe one or two staple veggies, and they’d be giving their families access to important nutrients.”

  Wow. Did you read that off of a poster somewhere?

  What the hell is wrong with me? She isn’t the first attractive female I’ve ever me
t. So why am I acting like I’ve just spent the past ten years in a state penitentiary?

  “And the flowers?” she asks. Her thin auburn brow tilts upward. There’s a hint of humor in her face, almost as if she’s teasing me.

  “Purely for show.” I sweep an elaborate gesture in front of me. “It’s just to get a rough idea.”

  “Well, there are a few ideas I could at least get you started with,” she says and makes her way down one of the aisles. I follow behind her, trying not to notice how the drawstring on the lower back of her apron draws the eyes downward. “Depending on the type of community you’re building for, you may have a lot of working families. Which means the less maintenance the better.”

  She stops before a small partition and reaches for a packet of seeds. “If you want to start a family off with a vegetable garden, leafy greens like lettuce, spinach, are going to be the best ones to start off with. You can do peppers or green beans, but then you start getting into things like trellises and fertilizer. It just depends on what you want.”

  What I want. A dangerous thought to linger over.

  I open my mouth to speak, but she takes back off down the aisle. “If you want flowers, you have to be careful about what we plant here in California. The heat, you know?”

  She bends down before a bundle of delicate pink flowers. The color illuminates the lovely undertones in her cheeks, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

  Damn, she’s beautiful.

  Her fiery red hair tumbles down her back in soft waves. Like bands of fire streaming across the midnight blue of her sweater. She has it up in some messy ponytail configuration that starts at the base of her crown. I follow the length of it, trying to imagine where it actually falls when it’s down, what it might look like splayed across the pillows in my bed.

  I fight back a groan. This is torture, being so close to her.

  “Do you have any preferences?” she asks, rising up from the bundle of flowers that started all of this.

  I shake my head.

  My throat is suddenly too dry to form words. She flitters from flower to flower like some high-energy hummingbird, stopping periodically to tell me some obscure history about each one and the best reasons to plant them. I’m once again overcome by her sense of passion. Clearly, her love of community is not the only thing she cherishes, and I have an incessant desire to understand why.

  “How do you know all this stuff?” I ask.

  Her smile drops, and the light in her soft blue eyes dim to a dying glow. I’m almost sorry I asked.

  She peers up at the large flower bush behind her. Gardenias, like the ones my mother plants. The softness in her features returns when she looks at them, a semblance of pure innocence and admiration that touches my soul.

  “My father,” she says finally. “He loved gardening. It was always something we did together.”

  Her fingertips caress the petals, cupping one large white flower in her palms. “It reminds me of him.”

  Don’t ask.

  I tell myself. This isn’t the conversation of acquaintances. But every instinct urges me to reach for her, to soothe the shadow of sadness wriggling beneath the surface. I can’t sit here and just watch her. I can’t pretend to be unmoved by the raw emotions she’s displaying for me now, and then casually move onto the next patch of flowers. My feet take a step toward her. My hands pin themselves to my sides.

  “What happened?” I hear the question cross my lips. At least I’m not touching her.

  She hesitates. Though her smile quickly returns, every sentence is choked on a shaky breath. “He died. Six years ago. Of cancer.”

  Again, there comes that ache. Telling me to comfort her with every last shred of compassion I have. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s ok.” She shakes her head, waving off the flood of emotions warming her cheeks. “It’s been six years, so...I’m used to it by now.”

  I know better. I’ve done enough counseling for teenagers and adults alike to know it never gets better. Not when you lose a parent that young.

  “So.” She perks up. “About those flowers. I have one last section to show you, and you can make your selection based on that.”

  I smile. Business as usual, I suppose. She’s a tough little nut, I’ll give her that.

  She continues her spiel about the best flowers for the various conditions, leading me down an aisle with yard equipment. We cross by a section of rakes and carelessly placed stepping stones when she loses her footing.

  Instinctively, I catch her arm, yanking her back before she can collide with the stone floor beneath our feet. She slams into my chest, the force of her body against mine propelling the air from my lungs. I’m not entirely sure what just happened. All I know is the woman I have been fantasizing about for the last three days is suddenly in my arms. And she is giving no indication of wanting me to let her go.

  Instead, she presses her forehead against my chest. Her slim fingers form fists around my shirt as she tugs me closer. I lean against the large shelving unit behind us, propping myself up with one hand and holding her to me with the other.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine,” she whispers. The vibration of her words runs down my chest, and I have to shift to avoid the oncoming erection. “I’m just embarrassed.”

  “Ah,” I say, disappointed by the gravelly tone of my voice. I lean my head forward.

  My lips brush against her temple as I speak. “It was an accident. Believe it or not, even I’ve tripped on occasion or two.”

  She laughs, a motion that thrusts her breasts harder against my chest. All the blood in my brain has started to retreat. I’m not sure how much longer I can make rational decisions.

  She raises her face to meet mine, and something deep within my chest gives way.

  It’s her, that small voice within me says, making declarations it has no intention of seeing through.

  She’s the one.

  All the pleasure coursing through me subsides. There’s that irrational thought process taking hold of me already. The one that acknowledges such things as fate and love. Talk like that leads to other foolish notions.

  Like marriage.

  I slip my arm from around her, propping her back up against the frame of the shelving. “Are you going to be ok?”

  She nods. “I’m fine. Really. I think my shift is about over anyway.”

  She’s still noticeably shaken. My hand slides down her shoulder to her arm. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “No. I can walk myself.” She moves out of my hold and places several feet of distance between us. “You should get what you came here for.”

  I’m trying. But she keeps putting up these walls.

  An idea strikes me. I dig into my pocket and remove Marianne’s business card from my wallet. I always keep a few extras with me to pass out to potential volunteers. “Take this.”

  She glares at the small card as though I were handing her a writhing python. “I don’t think-”

  “It’s not mine,” I assure her. “It’s Marianne’s. She’s the one who runs the center. You talk to her about the flowers. She’s been looking for some volunteers. Maybe you can show the others the ropes.”

  She stares down at the card in her hands. A smile plays at her lips, and I secretly deem this a victory. Her hand thrusts outward. “Aly.”

  I clamp down the grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. My hand claims hers. I ignore the powerful current of energy flowing from the meeting point of our palms. “Zach.”

  Progress.

  Chapter Seven

  Aly

  I stare up at the tall building leading into the lecture hall.

  It’s at least three stories high, and I feel so minuscule in comparison. It’s stupid to compare myself to a building, to compare myself to Jackson Riley even. But this meeting with my advisor has my stomach, and my brain, all twisted in knots.

  I swear I’ve headed down the existentialist plight of, “Why am I here? Why
are any of us here?”, at least three times. Not to mention, I booked it through several sequences of a nervous breakdown before eventually transitioning through the five stages of grief.

  This professor is supposed to be a nightmare. I thought Lyndsey was making it all up, but apparently, stories run rampant about him all throughout campus.

  He is a perfectionist, one student claimed before shoving their headphones back over their ears and ignoring my existence. Likely to avoid answering any more questions about the man rumored to collect the souls of his students.

  You’ll learn a lot, another student added, just as shifty-eyed and visibly broken as the first. What was that even supposed to mean? Weren’t all professors supposed to teach you things?

  Thirty minutes before my class with him starts, and I am still no closer to understanding the character behind the man who holds my future in his hands. I will meet him for the first time once this class starts, seeing him face-to-face once and for all. Then directly after the class is my appointment.

  The toughest two hours of my day all jam-packed into one.

  Jackson had already had his interview, wasting no time to carry on about the glowing review he had received from Professor Hawthorne.

  Minimal revisions and brilliant execution of citations.

  All bull, if you ask me. But it would just sound like sour grapes.

  I take a seat at one of the picnic tables outside, relishing the last days of nice weather for as long as I can. Lyndsey appears on the opposite side of the walking path. She’s stopping by for one last “hurrah” speech before I dive into the void.

  “Are you ready?” she asks, setting down her yoga mat on the table.

  “No.” I shake my head. “But does it matter anyway?”

  “You’ll be fine. If Jackson can get a glowing review, then yours will be blinding!”

  “I’m not sure if that metaphor tracks.”

  “Stop overthinking things.” Lyndsey straddles the bench and scoots closer to me. “If you don’t get a good review, then just know that Jackson lied to save face.”