The Dating Games Series Volume One

by T. K. Leigh

  “And if he learns you slept with your professor…,” Evie begins, putting the pieces together.

  “He’ll never think you earned this degree,” Nora finishes.

  “I know it sounds stupid, that it shouldn’t matter.”

  “We all want to make our parents happy.” With a smile, Evie places her hand over mine, squeezing. “Or we want to prove them wrong.”

  “And I’d love to prove my father wrong, make him see I’m not a failure.”

  “So if you’re keeping it a secret,” Nora begins after a brief pause, “will your advisor agree to an independent study?”

  “All I can do is hope she does.”

  “If she doesn’t? Do you think you’ll be able to handle him teaching the class?” she asks in all seriousness. “I mean without picturing him naked every time he talks about briefs, or penal violations, or getting a client off.”

  I lift my eyes, staring at her for a protracted moment, then burst out laughing, grateful for the break in the tension. It’s a relief, especially after the day I’ve had.

  I fidget with the stem of my martini glass, a pang squeezing my heart as I watch a couple walk into the bar holding hands, an obvious affection between them.

  “Actually, I don’t think I’ll be able to deal with it, so I’ll just pray my advisor is on my side and allows me to do an independent study.” I swallow thickly. “Then I can forget about Lincoln Moore.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  My stomach roils as I look up at the journalism building on campus, the structure feeling more like an unwelcome fortress than a place of higher learning. A chill washes over me, having nothing to do with the frigid January temperature and everything to do with what awaits me inside those doors. The last thing I want to do is walk into this building and sit through class with Lincoln — Professor Moore. But I no longer have an option. Not if I want to graduate this semester.

  Because I’d taken this class twice before with less than stellar results, thanks to problems with my mother, my advisor refused to sign off on an independent study. I’d considered withdrawing from the class altogether, but like Izzy reminded me, it’s my last one. There’s no guarantee someone different will teach it next semester, either, so I may as well get it over with.

  Spine straight, I summon the determination to walk into the lobby, my steps quickening when I see the elevator doors begin to shut. Thankfully, someone notices me and places their hand on the door.

  “Thank you,” I say breathlessly as I sneak inside, keeping my head lowered.

  “You’re welcome.”

  As the doors close, my breath catches, every muscle becoming rigid. I fling my eyes to my left to see Lincoln standing there, all poised and confident.

  It’s official. The universe is out to get me. I wrack my brain to think of what I could have done to piss it off this much. I consider finding the nearest Catholic church, despite not being religious, just to go to confession. Then again, I doubt any priest would be prepared to listen to the number of sins I’ve committed. He’ll probably say a plethora of Our Fathers and Hail Marys to cleanse my soul, too.

  “Professor Moore.” I stare ahead, pretending this isn’t anything more than a teacher and student sharing an elevator. It’s not the first time I’ve shared one with a professor of mine. But they weren’t Lincoln.

  “Chloe.” When he says my name, it’s soft, compassionate, endearing.

  “Don’t,” I snap, refusing to so much as glance at him.

  In the silence, I can sense his turmoil. Sense he wants to say something but doesn’t know what. I doubt they teach this kind of thing in whatever law school he attended. Probably Harvard, just like my father. Another reason this is for the best. Lincoln would turn out just like him — in love with his career and nothing else. Better to cut my losses now.

  “For the record,” he states as the elevator slows to a stop on our floor, “I’m sorry things had to end this way.”

  The sincerity in his voice forces my eyes to his, and I look at him. Actually look at him. I’m not sure what I expected to see. Maybe the same demeanor I’ve come to expect from him — self-assured, bold, a hint of arrogance. But that’s not what I see at all.

  The way his sad eyes trace over my face with longing is all the proof I need that this has been as difficult for him as it has for me. The green is lackluster, the circles under his eyes evidencing lack of sleep. It could be due to having to pull extra hours at work, but the wistful expression as he focuses on my lips makes me think he’s been tossing and turning at night, cursing fate, just like me.

  The doors open, breaking our moment, and he scurries off. I watch his long strides as he continues down the hall, turning into the faculty wing just as I whisper, “Me, too.”

  Pulling myself together, I shake off the interaction and head toward the classroom. It’s relatively empty when I arrive, a handful of ambitious students discussing the assigned reading.

  I assume the same seat in the middle of the lecture hall and pull out the few notes I jotted down as I attempted to absorb this week’s material. It turned out to be a lost cause. Whenever I tried, all I could think of was Lincoln. I fear I’ll be faced with the same problem every time I open the textbook. I pray Lincoln won’t be cruel enough to call on me to discuss the reading. I can only hope he’ll avoid bringing attention to me these first few weeks while we attempt to find a new normal in this strange dynamic.

  “Is all this legal talk as much a foreign language to you as it is to me?” a smooth voice asks after several minutes.

  I glance to my right as a man I estimate to be in his thirties sits down in the empty chair beside me. I thought I was one of the oldest students in the department, considering most everyone else isn’t even able to legally drink yet. How did I not notice him last week? Oh, yeah. Because I was dealing with the fact that I’d been fucking my college professor. Another day in the life of Chloe Davenport.

  I meet my fellow classmate’s eyes. They’re a dull combination of brown and green, completely uninspiring. “You have no idea.”

  “That’s a relief.” He pretends to swipe sweat from his brow, his smile comforting. “After the last class, I thought I was the only one who felt lost.”

  “I barely retained anything.” It’s not a complete lie. I couldn’t tell him a single thing that was discussed last week.

  “Right? I get that all this First Amendment stuff is important as a journalist, but can’t they teach it to us in simpler terms?”

  I smile politely. While I find it difficult to concentrate on the material because of who is teaching it, it is fascinating. I can understand why my father chose the path he did. Spending your time ensuring people’s First Amendment rights aren’t infringed unnecessarily is certainly admirable. Why couldn’t he exhibit that kind of enthusiasm toward his family?

  “I’m Owen,” he says, extending his hand toward me.

  I eye it before placing mine in it. “Chloe.”

  “Nice to meet you, Chloe.” He keeps his grip firm on my hand, holding it a little longer than socially appropriate. When he finally lets go, my skin tingles with his phantom touch.

  Part of me wants to feel something — desire, craving, lust. Owen is an attractive guy. Sandy hair with hints of copper. Deep-set eyes. Full lips. Clean-shaven jawline. I estimate he’s about six feet tall, and based on the muscled forearms I see, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, I assume he has a nice physique.

  Regardless, my body has no reaction to him. Almost like my ten days with Lincoln have now ruined me for any man who’s to come after him.

  “You, too,” I say, although it’s more of a polite formality than a truthful statement.

  “So, what’s your story?” he asks as I turn my attention back to my notes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The usual. What do you do for a living? Why are you studying journalism? What’s your favorite sexual position?”

  I dart my wide eyes to his, unsure how to respon
d to this inquiry.

  “You know. Those usual ice-breaker questions people don’t give two shits about but ask each other in an attempt to make inane conversation.” He winks, his smile growing wide.

  I don’t know what it is, but something about his cavalier attitude is refreshing. He does have a point.

  “Well, since you’re not going to pay attention anyway,” I begin with a grin, “I work at a magazine as a celebrity news columnist. Started as a receptionist just trying to make a living wage and worked my way into the newsroom. So I guess that’s why I’m studying it. I’ve got a foot in the door of an industry that’s notoriously exclusive. I figure having a degree will only help me move on to something bigger and better.”

  “You mean you don’t enjoy reporting on what celebrities had for lunch or whether they’re good tippers?” He looks at me aghast, a playfulness about him.

  I chuckle, tension rolling off me. Maybe having a friend in this class is exactly what I need. If nothing else, Owen makes me laugh, something I haven’t done in days.

  “Shocking, I know. So, how about you?”

  “Oh, I’m not too complicated. I tend to follow my partner’s lead.”

  I furrow my brow.

  “Favorite sexual position,” he clarifies, his tone light. “Whatever my girl wants, my girl gets.”

  I stare at him, assessing. If some random guy at a bar said that to me within seconds of learning my name, I’d write him off. But something about Owen’s good-natured demeanor makes it more than clear he’s using humor to break the ice. So, instead of being turned off by his statement and doing everything to avoid him in the future, I laugh, the sound carrying through the room, echoing against the walls. I don’t even care that I’m drawing attention to myself.

  Until a loud, booming voice cuts through.

  “Miss Davenport!”

  I fling my gaze to the front, seeing Lincoln standing there, his arms crossed, stance wide, expression severe.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ve called class to order. Or is your conversation more important than the First Amendment?”

  I blink, my heart caught in my throat. I consider arguing that I was exercising my own First Amendment right, but decide against it. “Of course not. I apologize.”

  Several protracted moments pass as he stares at me, making me feel small and insignificant. Then he flits his glare to Owen, his jaw clenching as he does so. To anyone else, his actions wouldn’t be seen as anything other than a silent warning to him, as well. But I know Lincoln. There’s jealousy in those green eyes.

  Finally, he breaks his attention from us and turns toward the whiteboard.

  Owen leans close, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

  I nod, but remain silent, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself.

  “And for what it’s worth...,” Owen adds. I glance at him as he passes me an encouraging look. “You have a beautiful laugh.”

  I smile. It doesn’t reach my eyes, but it’s something. “Thanks.”

  “You bet.” He winks, and I feel the tiniest flutter in my chest.

  If nothing else, Owen could serve as a very welcome distraction. Maybe this class won’t be so bad after all.

  Chapter Twenty

  “God, I hate the suburbs,” I exhale as the Uber driver comes to a stop in front of a well-maintained three-story house in an upper middle-class neighborhood in Greenwich. A thick layer of snow covers the front lawn, making the property look even more picturesque. Even more perfect. Even more idealistic. The quintessential place to raise a family.

  I should know. It was once my home.

  Until my father realized he didn’t get it quite right the first time around and started over again from scratch. New wife. New kids. Kept the house. At least he got that right.

  Prick.

  You’d think Tiffany, my father’s new wife, would have wanted to move, start their lives in a new house where they could make memories of their own. That didn’t seem to matter to her. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she’d insisted he keep the house just to be able to gloat that she took my mother’s place.

  “You’re doing this for Midge,” Izzy reminds me.

  I float my eyes to her and nod.

  Midge, my half-sister, is the youngest of the four children Tiffany pushed out after marrying my father fifteen years ago. The first one appeared less than nine months after my parents separated, so it didn’t take a genius to solve that little mystery. But one kid wasn’t enough. So they kept having them. I thought they were trying to form their own basketball team. It seemed like every time I saw them, Tiffany was pregnant. In the end, she simply wanted a girl.

  It must drive her crazy that the girl she so desperately wanted looks up to me. It’s a mystery how the little pipsqueak formed an attachment to me, but when I show up for holidays and parties, she shoves everyone aside, clinging to me as if I pushed her out of my hoo-ha. It’s probably the only reason I was invited today. Probably the only reason I’m ever invited.

  “But if it’ll help, we can make a pit stop at my parents’ house and sneak some of the liquor bottles my mother stole from the airline.” She waggles her brows.

  “Iz, didn’t she quit the airline, like, ten years ago?”

  “Fifteen, but last I checked, she still has those mini bottles.”

  A horrified expression crosses my face at the idea of drinking anything that’s been sitting in a plastic bottle that long. “Gross.” I try not to gag. “That stuff wasn’t good when it was fresh. Can you imagine how disgusting it would taste now? Not to mention…” I gesture toward the house. “My father has a very well-stocked bar.” I slide out of the back seat of the Uber and step onto the street, meeting Izzy as we walk up the driveway together, the March air crisp on my cheeks. “Sharing his DNA has its benefits, like being able to steal some of the thirty-year-old scotch he keeps hidden away for special occasions.”

  “And you just so happen to know his hiding spot?”

  I pass her a mischievous look as we approach the front porch, the sounds of children laughing and screaming filtering out, as I suspected it would. “His youngest daughter’s sixth birthday should be a reason to celebrate. Don’t you think?”

  “I suppose you’re right.” About to open the door, she pauses, looking to me, silently asking if I’m ready.

  I nod, steeling myself. At least Izzy agreed to come with me, since she knows how uneasy being in this house makes me. She was there when I learned my parents were separating. When I packed up my room. When I got into my mother’s car and left this neighborhood behind. Regardless of the months that would sometimes pass without speaking to each other, our connection has remained strong. She’ll always put her life on hold to help me out, especially when it involves my father.

  We walk into the house, my eyes immediately going to a series of framed photos on the entryway table showcasing my father and his new family. I can’t remember ever seeing a photo of my parents and me. Sure, there are photos of my mother and me, as well as some of my father and me. But I don’t think there’s anything in existence of the three of us, like we never were a family.

  “Chloe!” an excited voice calls out, followed by two small arms flinging around my mid-section, squeezing me tightly. “I was worried you weren’t going to make it!”

  I briefly close my eyes, relishing in Midge’s unbiased love. Regardless of her mother’s feelings toward me, it hasn’t rubbed off on her. I wish she could stay this innocent the rest of her life. It’s only a matter of time until she picks up on her mother’s animosity. After all, we’re not born programmed to hate. We’re taught that. And I know her mother will eventually teach her to despise me, even if she doesn’t do it deliberately. All I can do is savor the fact that Midge hasn’t learned to hate me yet.

  “I wouldn’t miss this party for anything. It’s not every day my favorite sister turns six.” I tousle her perfect blonde curls as she releases her hold, looking up at me.

  “I’m your only siste
r.”

  “But you’d still be my favorite,” I sing.

  “Midge, sweetie,” a high-pitched voice calls out, the sound of heels clicking against the hardwood growing closer. “Where did you—”

  Tiffany stops in her tracks when she sees Izzy and me in the foyer. Her dyed blonde hair doesn’t have a single strand out of place. I imagine she went to the salon early this morning to have it styled and her makeup applied so she’d look impeccable in the presence of all the other house vultures she invited.

  “Oh… Chloe. You made it.”

  She leans in, pretending to kiss both my cheeks before pulling back. It must kill her to have to be nice to me because of Midge.

  “Unfortunately, you missed all the cake and presents. Perhaps we should start telling you to be here an hour earlier so you’ll show up on time.”

  For Midge’s sake, I bite my tongue at her passive-aggressive statement. “I’d figure it out, then show up two hours after you said it started.” I look down at Midge, handing her the gift bag. “Happy birthday, pipsqueak.”

  Tiffany huffs, crossing her arms in front of her chest. She’s made it more than clear she doesn’t believe in pet names for her children. But I do.

  “Is this for me?”

  “Of course it is, silly.”

  “Can I open it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  With pure joy in her eyes, Midge plops onto the floor and tears at all the tissue packed inside the bag. She shrieks as she pulls out her gift. I steal a glimpse at Tiffany, who feigns enthusiasm. I saw the wish list she put together for Midge’s birthday. Books about important figures in history. Educational toys. Computer programs to help her learn a foreign language. Nothing any young girl would be remotely excited about.