Breaking Gravity (Fall Back Series #2)

by Autumn Grey

  “Yes, I do. Did.”

  My heart races, and I have to look away to prevent him from seeing what’s going on behind my eyes.

  It’d slipped my mind that my new professor would be replacing Professor Harris at the office, as well. I started working as her teacher’s assistant to earn credit toward my bachelor’s degree at the beginning of the fall semester last year. Before we left for the Christmas break, I was helping her with research and compiling notes on the History of Opera, as well as assisting her with the ensemble for first year class.

  Does it mean Professor Rowe will be taking over her work? The thought excites and scares me simultaneously.

  Shit. I feel as if the temperature in the room shot up a thousand degrees.

  I wipe my clammy hands on my shirt, silently commanding my body to calm down.

  “Miss Blake.” His voice now carries a softness that wasn’t there before, probably sensing my freak-out. I look up and shift on my feet. “I will need help in familiarizing myself with a few things in the office.”

  I swallow hard and nod. “Okay.”

  With a curt nod, he says, “I will see you at one o’clock.”

  Professor Harris must have informed him that one o’clock is the time when I usually start working. It’s also lunchtime on campus. But the thought of eating in the cafeteria with all the noise blaring around me makes me shudder. Plus, the cafeteria is just a place for gossiping, and I would rather eat alone than be a part of that. Why should I talk behind someone else’s back when my own life is far from perfect? Besides, I find my own company to be pretty awesome and I enjoy going unnoticed, preferring to watch people instead.

  I push the strap of my bag higher over my shoulder and clutch my cello tighter, then turn to leave but stop when I get to the door. I sneak a peek back and find him tracking me with those intense eyes.

  He glares through narrowed eyes. “No more sleeping in class either.”

  Fire spreads across my cheeks, feeling embarrassed. I nod and turn to leave.

  As long as you keep it entertaining. . .

  “Miss Blake?”

  I whirl around, frowning because what the hell does he want now?

  He arches one dark eyebrow. And did his lips twitch? I can’t be sure because he’s been so aloof since I woke up earlier and found him scowling down at me. He says—drawls actually, “I’ll make it my life’s mission to entertain you.”

  My eyes go so wide, they almost bulge out of my eye sockets. Way to go, Elon. Try to keep your thoughts to yourself next time.

  Before I can make an even bigger fool out of myself than I have already, I rush out of the room to the sound of a dark chuckle from behind me.

  Outside the hall and away from Professor Rowe’s overpowering presence, I slow down and take a deep breath while glancing around me. People continue with their business, laughing, talking, high-fiving each other. No one bothers to talk to me, which is normal, I guess.

  Normal life.

  Normal everything.

  Yet, here I am, a bundle of nerves.

  Mentally, I kick myself for making this larger than life. It’s just a new professor and my boss. My crush. No big deal, right?

  I wish my best friend, Amber, was here today. At least she’d give me a pep talk, and I’d calm the hell down and quit being a Nervous Nelly.

  I have a free period for the next hour, so I march down the hallway to one of the practice rooms, my mind wandering back to the moment Professor Rowe caught me staring at him.

  Darkness.

  His eyes were full of darkness, the kind where monsters live, greedily waiting to devour you when you let your guard down. I’d know it anywhere. It has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember.

  My childhood is scattered with painful memories of my father’s emotional and physical abuse, his mere presence terrorizing us. His family. He never laid a hand on me, but he made sure we never escaped his demeaning ways and abuse. Every time I looked into Nor and Mom’s eyes, I could see the darkness. Sometimes when I let my guard down, I see it staring back at me too.

  We all have our own monsters, some more vicious than others. Some choose to play nice, while others simply don’t care at all and play dirty if you let them.

  I wonder what kind of monsters live in Nathaniel Rowe’s darkness.

  And why am I even interested?

  Shaking my head to disperse those thoughts, I walk inside the practice room, unlock my cello case and pull one of the chairs that are scattered around the room and sit down. I dig out the music sheets of the classical music pieces we will be playing at the charity fundraising ball in the last week of February. It’s organized by WAV—Women Against Violence, a non-profit organization—and my cello tutor, Professor Masters. One month ago, she approached Alex and me, and we jumped at the opportunity to play with other well-known professionals. Adjusting my weight on the seat, I position the cello between my legs and then spend the next sixty minutes practicing the songs. I mess up the notes and have to restart seven times when my thoughts stagger back to my new professor.

  By the end of the hour, I want to punch something. Tension has taken up residence in my muscles. The mere thought of seeing Professor Rowe again has my heart racing and my stupid hands shaking with nerves and reluctant excitement.

  Shiiit.

  ONE O’CLOCK FINDS ME DASHING from Brown Hall, where most of the classes take place. With my cello case bouncing against my butt, I sprint across the quad, past the bubbling water fountain, as fast as my legs can carry me. I’m heading to the Constantine Building, where the administrative offices are housed, while trying to pull my jacket together to defend myself from the January chill nipping at my flesh.

  My English Lit class went longer than usual, and I kept squirming in my seat the entire time, the image of a scowling Professor Rowe flashing through my head.

  I burst through the door, breathless, panting, sweating, and rush to my desk. The door to Professor Harris’s—now Professor Rowe’s—office is slightly open. I toss my bag on the floor, prop my cello case against the corner next to the desk and power up my laptop, before shrugging my jacket off. I hang it on the back of my seat, pat down the creases, then sit down. A pungent smell wafts up from the area around my armpits. I lift my arms and sniff. And choke.

  Shit. I was such a mess this morning, I forgot to put on deodorant. All this nervousness and sweating isn’t doing me any favors.

  Ugh.

  I freeze when I hear a low murmur coming from Nate’s office. His voice travels through the small, open space at the door. If my guess is correct, he’s talking to someone on the phone.

  “You mentioned there was another option?” he asks, sounding annoyed. There is a small pause, then, “So, you’re not even sure if this is going to work? I’m not ready to undergo the whole process again if there is no guarantee that it will work.” More silence. “Call me if you come up with a more definite solution.”

  What was that all about?

  “Fuck!” The word is whispered in a sharp tone of voice, followed by a loud thud.

  I leave my desk, cautiously approach the open door, and duck my head inside his office.

  “Professor—”

  He swings his head up and directs a fiery glare at me, and I stumble back to escape the force of that look.

  He drops the hand massaging his shoulder and snaps, “It’s about time you showed up, Miss Blake.”

  “My class ran a bit late, so I couldn’t get here on time.”

  The glare deepens to a scowl, that muscle ticking furiously in his jaw. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Anger begins to simmer in my veins, and for just a moment, the thought of lifting my arms and letting him choke on my deodorantless armpits fleetingly crosses my mind. I roll my eyes at my childish thoughts.

  Is he mad at me for being a few minutes late? It wasn’t even my fault. What the hell is wrong with this guy?

  I’m about to open my mouth to say something when I
see him flex his right hand, wincing. Veins line his forearms and hands, and I can’t look away. Who knew vein lines could be so distracting?

  He reaches forward and pulls the laptop toward him with his left hand.

  “Have you had lunch yet?”

  That question catches me off guard, and I snap my gaze to his face.

  “Um. . . not yet.”

  He lifts those flint-colored eyes from his laptop screen and looks at me. “Go ahead and eat first. We can do this once you’ve had some food.”

  Okay. Now I’m confused about this sudden change of course. And worse, my body feels as confused as my thoughts. Every time he looks at me, I feel warmth trickle down my spine. His expression tells me he’s really looking at me and not through me like everyone else seems to do. When he centers his gaze on me, I feel it down to my bones.

  It’s very distracting.

  When I don’t make a point of moving, he nods his head toward the door, his features softening. I stop breathing, taking in the stress-free look on his face.

  “Go ahead, Miss Blake.”

  I exhale and nod, still confused by this man’s mercurial mood. “Okay.” I leave the room, feeling his eyes on me.

  After grabbing the files along with a few urgent documents that Professor Harris was supposed to read through, I dig my Nutella sandwich and a bottle of water out of my bag, then return to Professor Rowe’s office and take a seat right across from him.

  I hand him the first document. “This is the list of students that have applied for the one-week course in the spring.”

  Picking up a pair of glasses from the desk, he slips them on. My jaw drops as I gawk shamelessly.

  Whoa!

  He looks nerdy, hot and brooding, completely oblivious to the effect he has on me.

  He takes the document from me, and for just a second, I wonder how that piece of paper must feel in his large, capable hands.

  Biting back a sigh, I grab my lunch from the table, carefully unwrap the Saran Wrap from it and take a bite. Unable to help my curiosity, I steal a glance at Professor Rowe, feeling my fascination for this man creeping up again. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and his index finger is rubbing his bottom lip. Such an innocent act, and yet, I can’t rip my eyes away from it.

  Or maybe I’m just allowing the enthrallment I felt for him, before I actually met his moody ass, to blind me.

  He drops the document on his desk and catches me staring at him. He leans forward, his eyes on my hand in a questioning stare.

  “I need the sugar rush,” I say, taking a huge bite from my sandwich.

  His lips twitch like they did before, the only sign that shows he’s at least slightly amused.

  He clears his throat, staring at me intently, making me squirm under his scrutiny.

  “I want to apologize for being a total ass today.”

  I blink in surprise, caught off guard by his words. “Okay.”

  “I was having a rough morning. It wasn’t right of me to take it out on you like that. I’m in no way excusing myself for behaving the way I did.”

  I take him in, the way his body is angled forward toward me, his expression sincere, and I nod, offering him a quick smile. “Apology accepted.”

  He sits back in his chair, his shoulders loosening a bit like a weight has been lifted off him. I notice his fingers spasm on the desk, and he winces, readjusting his right arm and finally sighs in relief.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  His face shuts down, his expression reverting to inscrutable. He nods at the rest of the documents in front of me, and I have a feeling that little moment we shared is over.

  I’m still surprised he apologized, and that alone makes me realize he’s not the ogre he’d appeared to be earlier on today.

  Over the next forty-five minutes, I continue catching him up on everything Professor Harris had been working on while I finish my sandwich, and he proceeds to send me terse glances from across his desk. His questions are direct, his answers are mono-syllabled. But by the end of my office hour, as I sling my bag over my shoulder and make my way to my next class, I think to myself, that could have gone much worse. I can’t help but wonder how tomorrow will be.

  RIGHT AFTER WORK, I DROP my car off at Antonio’s Garage for repairs, then catch a cab to Reed’s Restaurant & Lounge. As soon as I walk inside the VIP lounge on the second floor my brother-in-law, Bennett Reed, flashes me his trademark smile, bright against his brown skin.

  “How was your first day, Teach?” Bennett asks.

  I walk over to an empty seat, sink into it, lean back and look out the window. The Jacksonville skyline is reflected on the St. John’s River a few feet away, the orange, gold and yellow of the setting sun splashed across the sky.

  After arriving back in Florida last year, I was lucky enough that Bennett informed me there was a vacant apartment for sale in a nearby building on the fifteenth floor.

  I relax into the seat, turning to face him. “Good.”

  “Yeah? We should celebrate then.”

  “Fuck, yeah. A shot of Macallan 18.”

  His brows shoot up. “Think you can tone down that order, bro?”

  I smirk. “So, no lottery win yet?”

  “Fuck you.” He laughs. “Cheap Scotch?”

  “Water’s fine.”

  He gives me a disgusted look. “Really? You disappoint me.”

  Grumbling inaudibly under his breath, he pulls a phone from the front pocket of his white button-down shirt and punches in a few digits before pressing it to his ear.

  Ordering water instead of Scotch is beyond lame. But my shoulder is killing me, and I’m not about to mix pain medication with alcohol. That would be careless and stupid. I might be dependent on my medication, but it doesn’t mean I have a death wish.

  After shooting off an order for drinks, Bennett tucks the phone back in his pocket and settles back in his seat. I catch him up on my day, including that prick who was driving the Toyota.

  “Are you going to take the job at Rushmore?” he asks.

  “Not sure yet. I’ll see how this week goes.”

  Rushmore’s Head of School, President Sara Bowman, called me last week before school re-opened and informed me that Professor Harris resigned from her post and her position was available. She went ahead and offered me the job as associate professor. I declined the offer. I wasn’t in the mood to be reminded of my shortcomings every single day. I hadn’t played cello for three years, and my damn shoulder didn’t seem to be healing the way it should. Even after explaining my case to Mrs. Bowman, she changed tactics and convinced me the Department of Music Theory was in dire need of professors. Eventually she wore me down, and I accepted to step in to teach Professor Harris’s class on a temporary basis. What I didn’t count on was how much teaching seemed to pull my head out of my own problems, reminding me how rewarding it was teaching eager minds willing to learn. After feeling like I’ve been living in stasis for a long time, I felt useful. At least my family would back off and hopefully stop worrying about me most of the time.

  The conversation with Bennett shifts to his plans to open another restaurant in Miami after the baby comes. He and Izzy seem to be on a mission to fill the earth, which is fine by me. At least it will keep my mother off my back about finding a girl and settling down. Since I moved back home, her efforts have doubled, dropping hints every now and then.

  The door opens and a blonde waitress carrying a tray of drinks walks in. She sets down a bottle of water in front of me and a tumbler of Scotch in front of Bennett, then turns to leave, tossing a coy look at me over her shoulder. I give her a fleeting stare before turning to face my brother-in-law who’s smirking at me.

  “She likes you.”

  “Who?”

  He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “You know who.”

  “Not interested.”

  “When was the last time you got laid?”

  Sending him a scathing glare, I ignore him, picking up my bottle of wate
r and bringing it to my lips to take a long pull.

  “She’s hot,” he says, bringing the tumbler to his lips and tipping it up.

  “Are you a fucking matchmaker now?” I snarl.

  “If the shoe fits.” He grins, unperturbed by my tone, and puts the glass on the table, then slouches back in his seat, holding my challenging gaze. “Just looking out for you, Nate.” Despite the nonchalant attitude, I see concern in his eyes and I fucking hate it. And he knows it.

  “Well, stop it.” Shoving my hands in my pockets, I pull out a bottle of pain pills from my jacket and pop off the lid. I toss one in my mouth and chase it down with water. I’ve been holding off on taking my normal dose of medication during the day because my concentration would be shot.

  Bennett’s grin disappears as he assesses me silently, his eyes lingering on my shoulder. “Don’t tell me you held off until now. Christ, Nate. Are you made of stone?”

  I close my eyes and ignore his words as I let the medication do its job.

  “Any news from the doctor?”

  I subtly shake my head.

  We fall quiet for a short while. When I open my eyes, Bennett is staring at me with a worried look.

  “She’d want you to move on. Cam—”

  “Don’t.”

  “You still blame yourself, but—”

  “Fuck, stop.”

  “Nate—”

  “Shut up, Bennett. Just because you’re my sister’s husband doesn’t mean you can go around poking your nose in my business.”

  “Don’t forget, I’m also your best friend.”

  I glare at him, inwardly begging him to press on, then I’d have a reason to plant a fist in his face for reminding me how much of a failure I am. For three years, I’ve lived with the fact that I couldn’t protect her and ended up breaking my promise.

  As if sensing I’m spoiling for a fight, Bennett just sighs and reaches for his Scotch.

  Tightening my jaw, I curl my right hand into a fist until I feel a burning pain in my shoulder, giving me a short reprieve from the guilt which has made a home in my chest.

  Remembering I was supposed to call Izzy after my classes, I flex my fingers and pull out my phone from my pants pocket and power it on. I forgot to switch it back on after my class was over. A series of beeps echo around the enclosed space. Tiny envelopes pop up on the screen. I click the top one and bite back a groan as I read Izzy’s message. I have a feeling all the other unopened messages are from her as well. I know this because the number of people who have my number is limited to only five: my mother, Izzy, Bennett, my friend, Wade Brass, and Dr. Rosenburg, my doctor in Chicago.