As I approached the funeral home I hadn’t even known was there, I actually realized where I was.
A few years earlier, there’d been a huge drive in the area to save Our Lady of Loreto—a Roman Catholic Church that was over a century old. I’d found it pretty sad at the time, but Enid had been distraught over the loss of the parish.
Now, affordable housing was being constructed in the area—not that I could afford it. When the city council tried to make stuff affordable, who was it affordable for?
As I asked myself the question, Scottie tugged so hard on the scarf around my throat that I almost choked. Wheezing as I laughed, we both engaged in a tug of war over the fabric that I won.
I bopped him on the nose with my lips as I headed into the funeral home. I was, all told, surprised when I learned Mrs. Linden had opted for cremation. She’d been a traditionalist in many ways, but I’d expected there’d be more of a service than there was. Especially since she was Catholic.
When I headed into the room where Mrs. Linden, who’d yet to be cremated, was resting in a closed casket, my heart wouldn’t let me walk over to where she lay.
She wasn’t in there.
She wasn’t.
I refused to believe it.
She’d live on through Scottie and me, and I’d make sure of that.
There were a few people milling around the room, drinking the cold tea that was supposed to be warm, and small glasses of sherry. It felt wrong. Weird. There was a dead body in the room, and it was like…
I sighed.
Overthinking this would get me nowhere.
I settled Scottie on my hip and sunk into the background. A priest came and went around the room, talking to people, and I sank deeper into the shadows, not wanting to see him. I’d never liked Father O’Neill, and avoiding him was a top priority.
Perching on the windowsill, I let the hours drift by. I stayed until the end, until the people who owned the funeral home asked me to leave.
Begrudgingly, I did, and was both relieved and disconcerted to know that Mrs. Linden had given them my contact details to collect her ashes when they were ready.
Wondering what I’d do with them, where I’d spread them that would mean something to her, I headed out, my thoughts elsewhere.
When, on the path outside, I found Professor Maclean waiting on me, my eyes widened in surprise.
“What are you doing here?”
His mouth pulled taut. “You told Jose at the coffee shop a Mrs. Linden had died. It didn’t take much to find out where her funeral was.”
He’d gone to that much effort for me?
For a second, I just gaped at him, then Scottie blew a raspberry on my cheek and slapped the other, which told me I’d been gaping for a lot longer than I’d meant to.
Clearing my throat, I muttered, “This is my brother, Scott.”
Maclean blinked at my brother, then stared at me. “You have the same hair.”
My lips curved. “Yeah.” I stared down at the curly mop on Scottie’s head, one that matched my own. My hair was a pretty nice color, but it was the mass of curls and waves that set it apart.
Maclean cleared his throat. “I wondered if you’d like to go for lunch.”
I frowned at him. “Why?”
“Because you’ve just been in there.” He grimaced as he motioned at the funeral home. “Hardly the nicest way to spend your morning.”
“Enid deserved my time. I just wish I’d…” I didn’t finish the sentence.
“I’m sure she understood,” he said softly, and I knew he was right, but that didn’t make me feel any better about the situation.
“She’s the first person who’s close to me that has—”
“Died?” he supplied, shoving his hands into his pants.
I nodded as I stared at him, miserably wondering if God was playing a joke on me. In his jeans and sweater, he was wearing normal clothes, and yet managed to look like a dark angel as he stared at me. His perpetual scowl wasn’t in the picture for once, and that was why I wondered if God had a hand in this, because that had to be a miracle, right?
Maclean and his scowl went together better than candy and Halloween.
When I stared at him, eying that luscious blond hair that my fingers itched to touch, he murmured, “Lunch?”
“Please.” My voice was hoarse with emotion and really, the last thing I should be doing was inviting company, especially his. But I had to eat, and I’d prefer eating with him than alone.
If I was alone, I’d think about Enid, and one thing Maclean had shown me was that he was good at distracting me.
“Do you want anything in particular?” he asked, and I heard a hint of awkwardness in his voice, one that made me wonder if I’d misheard it because this walking specimen of perfection couldn’t be awkward around little old me, surely? “For the child?”
I shrugged but found myself amused and touched that he thought about Scottie’s needs. “I’ll try anything once. Something light? I’m not really that hungry.”
He hummed and motioned for me to step by his side so we could walk together. When his hand came to my elbow, like something from an old-fashioned movie, I felt my cheeks burn with heat and was grateful that Scottie was a distraction. He used his hold on me to guide me down the sidewalk and over the crosswalks, and though it could have been a demeaning move, I knew he was trying to be nice to me so didn’t take it as him thinking I couldn’t walk without help.
It was to my shame that my brother was so goggle-eyed about the city. I never got much of a chance to take him out, and Enid hadn’t been able to manage the stairs all that often, so he was inside most of the time.
The traffic, the people, the restaurants and shop fronts, kept him occupied as we walked in a strained silence. At least, it felt strained to me. I wasn’t sure why he was here, or what he wanted from me. Just that he wanted something… The devil didn’t come bearing gifts without a price in mind.
Still, the feel of his hand on my elbow sent heat billowing through me, warming me up from the inside out.
When we reached a vegetarian restaurant, I was surprised when he walked me inside and we took a seat. It was a small place, all whites and creams with scrubbed wooden tables. On the back wall, there was a mural of a jungle scene that fascinated Scottie.
As we were seated, a server came out from the back and, spotting the baby, dragged a highchair over. I settled Scottie in it after shooting the waitress a smile of thanks, and noticed the professor’s gaze settle repeatedly on it—not Scottie. But the high seat.
Weird.
But then, what wasn’t weird about Professor Maclean?
“I have a little girl about that age,” she said with a smile, and I didn’t correct her assumption that Scottie was my son.
“He’s almost a year old,” I replied, aware of how proud I sounded. Like I’d had a hand in the passage of time. But, and it was a huge but, without me, I had no idea what would have happened to him. Not with my mother as a parent.
I’d already endured her proficiency at motherhood, so I was grateful he wouldn’t have to as well.
The waitress and I made small talk about babies for a few minutes until she handed us the menu, took our drink orders, then retreated to serve us. As she went, I looked at Maclean, aware he’d been studying me throughout the conversation.
“What is it?”
He shrugged.
Well, this was going to be a great meal if that was the level of chat he was capable of.
And I wasn’t wrong. We were silent as our drinks arrived, the waitress took our orders, and onto her serving the meal.
He just stared at me and did this thing with his hands. Tapping them against the table in a way that could have indicated boredom but seemed more like a ritual of some kind.
Because I was embarrassed as hell, I played with Scottie and kept him occupied with the small rounds of bread the server had given him to gnaw on.
“What are you doing about his care now that
your friend has passed away?”
The question startled me because he’d been so silent, it had been easy to think he was just bored and regretting his decision to be a decent human being for once.
“Her neighbor is looking after him for the moment.”
“I thought she charged?”
His cocked brow had me wincing. “She does, but Enid left me a few things.”
“Like what?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I didn’t steal—”
He raised a hand. “Did I say anything about stealing?”
“No, but I wanted to preempt you before you did.” My jaw clenched. “She was looking out for me, and because of her, I at least don’t have to worry about Scottie for a little while.”
“Is it sustainable? A few of my friends are parents and they always complain about the cost of childcare.”
Were we really having this conversation?
“I don’t think I have much choice,” I said stiffly.
“Why doesn’t your mother take responsibility?”
“She’s an alcoholic.” I blew out a breath as I tried to force some enthusiasm for the salad I’d ordered—he’d already accused me of being well-fed once, so I didn’t want to give him ammunition a second time.
He grunted. “I see.”
“I doubt it,” I retorted shortly.
“What did Enid leave you?”
I wondered if my pain was visible on my features. “A set of Rolexes. I had to pawn them. But they were enough to help me get through college, so that’s something. After I graduate, I can hopefully get a better job.” I blew out a breath, feeling stupid for having such limited plans. “I guess you’re used to people knowing what they want to do with their lives.”
“Not everyone can afford ambition,” was all he said, and even though his tone was cool, I actually appreciated the words.
“No,” I agreed. “You’re right. We can’t all go where the wind takes us on a whim.”
“That’s probably one of the most fanciful things I’ve heard from you.” He rubbed his chin. “And I’ve graded a lot of your papers.”
Given me shitty grades on them too.
Not that I said that aloud.
“Even this realist is capable of whimsy,” I mocked, spearing the lettuce leaf on my plate like I had a personal vendetta against it. And I didn’t. I loved fresh vegetables because I rarely got a chance to indulge in them.
“Where would you let the wind take you?”
I snorted. “Why would I tell you? You’d just mock me.”
He shrugged. “I’ll tell you where I’d let it take me.”
My eyes widened, and even though it was stupid, I fell for the bait.
Hook.
Line.
And sinker.
“Where?”
“France. I used to dream of owning a vineyard there.”
“Why?” I questioned quietly, bewildered by the softening of his features as he stared down at the table.
“It was just a dream, now it isn’t, but I’d still like to live there.”
“Why France in particular?”
“I visited when I was a boy. My parents took me. We went to Paris, headed down to the South of France and attended a couple of the showings at Cannes… It’s a memory that always stuck with me.”
If I’d needed a dose of reality, I had it then.
That kind of vacation spoke of money. Not that I hadn’t realized that. Everything Maclean wore showed wealth, and his office at the university was the same. Filled with furniture that had a sheen to it, a gloss of money.
If I’d needed a reminder that I was nothing more than a toy to this man, I’d had it.
“Well? What about you?”
Could I tell him? Should I?
He’d probably just scoff.
I stared down at my plate, uncertain and nervous, terrified even of his mockery.
He’d done nothing but hurt me and humiliate me, so why I wanted his approval in this when I knew I wouldn’t get it, was beyond me.
“I’d like to write romance.”
His facial expression didn’t alter. “That isn’t a place.”
So literal.
I sighed. “No. But you can write from wherever, can’t you?”
“I suppose,” he replied stiffly, like he was fighting hard not to respond to me.
God, did he want to laugh but was trying to be kind because of Enid?
Mortification welled inside me, and I was relieved when Scottie squawked loud enough to make me jump.
I hauled him out of the highchair and bounced him on my knee for a second, and then I said, “I should go.”
His smile was tight. “Is it customary for you to leave before you or the person who invited you for lunch has finished eating?”
He wasn’t wrong, and yet, I didn’t know if I could stay here much longer.
“Why did you bring me here?” I whispered, staring down at Scottie’s hands that were tearing into a piece of bread.
“Because you needed to eat.” He gritted his teeth, then slipped a hand into his pocket. When he retrieved a piece of paper, I stared at it and frowned at the words.
“What is it?”
“A friend of mine is looking for someone to transcribe her notes.” He cleared his throat. “She works through this site. Maybe you could build up a clientele so you could work from home.”
Whatever I’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that.
I stared at the paper, then back up at him. “Thank you,” I whispered.
His mouth twisted in that way I recognized, but although I expected some cutting remark, he merely answered, “You’re welcome.”
And because of that, I didn’t try to leave again.
❖
I gulped when Professor Maclean had me stand up in class.
I hated when he did this.
Since when was Creative Writing the equivalent of Amateur Dramatics?
When I clambered down the stairs to the base of the auditorium where he loomed over his desk, looking like Pluto reborn with the command he had of the platform, four of us all stood there, awkward as fuck. It was a stunning contrast to his confidence, and made me all the more aware of the man’s power.
I was ninety-nine percent sure that he did this to make us miserable, and because I was getting to know him, even if it was obliquely, I figured I wasn’t wrong.
Though his face was always stern and expressionless, his eyes held a wicked intent that reminded me of those moments after I came when his eyes would catch mine and I’d be left gasping like a fish speared on a hook. Great imagery there, but yeah. He looked like sin incarnate, and I looked like a dying fish.
Yup, sounded about right.
What made this worse, of course, was the text I’d received this morning.
Maclean: Remember, no panties. Wear the vibe.
No ‘good morning,’ just an orgasm as a threat. Go me.
“I want you to think about the importance of italics and why overusing them can be irritating,” he stated, his voice toneless as he intruded my thoughts, but hell, I was sure he was messing with us.
Mostly because I knew I used a lot of italics in my work.
Was this his way of getting back at me?
When I looked at the piece we were reading, I frowned at it. It was by ‘unknown,’ which didn’t put me at ease as I scanned through the text that was littered with italics.
“Ms. Whitehouse, I think you should start, followed by Mr. Hudson as Jericho, Ms. Lewis as Holly, and Mr. Markham as Johnson.”
Was it just me? Was I the only one who heard the croon in his voice when he said my name? That dangerous purr that put me on edge? He didn’t caress the others’ names, only mine, and fuck, it made me feel alight with the way he put extra emphasis on mine.
Some days, he did this. Made me feel like I was the only person in his world.
Then others, I felt like the nobody I was to him. The non-entity that a person like me was to
someone of his stature—because I didn’t give a damn what anyone said. Professor Maclean was more than just a professor. He had money. It was evident in every move he made, every syllable he uttered, and in the things he wore.
He reeked of it.
Nervously, I swallowed and when I tried to speak and failed, I cleared my throat, knowing full well that he’d never let me get out of this, and of course, the second I opened my mouth, he did it.
The bastard.
He turned on the vibrator.
I wanted to glower at him. Wanted to kill him with the death rays that were attached to my eyes, but I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
Which left me with a huge problem.
The setting was on one of the highest, and my body was already pumped from the way he’d been using it off and on in class.
He didn’t do it often, but occasionally, I’d get the command in a text before class, and I knew to prepare myself for the misery.
I hated that he was sporadic with it. Some days, when he texted me, he wouldn’t use it. Others, he’d overuse it. Leaving me totally hanging, unsure of his intentions. Of course, that was exactly what he got a kick out of.
My uncertainty.
My inability to plan what he was doing.
Bastard.
Sure, he’d been nicer since Mrs. Linden’s funeral, but nice and Professor Maclean weren’t words that went together often.
“The truth is, Jane deserves to die.” The words were pretty strong for an opening line, and the use of two italics definitely made it weirder when I said them aloud.
“Nobody deserves to die, Jericho,” the guy next to me said.
“Everybody does something in their lives that is worthy of the final punishment.”
I winced at how many damn italics there were and how, in the running of the dialogue, it sounded even funkier.
But of course, that wasn’t the whole reason for my wincing and flinching. I wasn’t sure what song he set the vibrator to, but the heavy bass killed me. In fact, nope, that was too simple a word. It didn’t just kill me, it annihilated me. Blasted my nerve endings like an atomic bomb, making it impossible to stand upright, to focus on the text in front of me.
When it was my turn, my voice was reed thin as I stated, “I think you shouldn’t be talking about such matters. It isn’t a servant’s place to do so.”
The Professor: A Standalone Novel Page 9
