Professor Love

by Nikky Kaye

  “At least I’m not asking you to put on historically accurate underwear.” She raised an eyebrow, curious if he even knew that would have entailed.

  Max glared at her, as if to say that he’d like to see her try it.

  She hung the suit back on the rack and walked towards the door. “The faster you put it on, the faster you can take it off,” she told him. The sudden vision of him peeling the breeches from his legs made her swallow tightly, and she strode out the door before he could see her blush. “I’ll just, uh, wait out in the hallway.” In the dark, behind the stage. Research, remember?

  Her ears pricked up at the sound of Max unzipping his pants and the muffled whoosh as they fell to the floor. Resisting the urge to clap her hands over her ears, Sophy hummed softly to herself, hoping that it would drown out the hushed sound of the material rasping over his skin and the soft sighs of exasperation bursting forth from Max’s lips as he clearly struggled with the costume.

  Soon the sound of his boot-clad feet stalking towards the door interrupted her mid-chorus, and she straightened from her leaning position against the wall. The door opened and the light from the wardrobe room streamed out into the dark hallway.

  “Well?”

  She squinted at him. Half his body was cast in shadow. “Let’s go out on stage where there’s better light,” she suggested.

  He pulled the cravat away from his neck in obvious discomfort.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, pointing towards the badly tied neckcloth. “I’ll fix that in a minute.”

  “Oh, great,” he replied dully.

  She maneuvered through the curtains and frog-marched him to centre stage. She had asked a tech earlier to throw on the lights for her, and a warm glow now enveloped the scuffed black platform punctuated with different colors of tape.

  Reaching up, she gently slapped his hands away as he tugged at the cravat again.

  “Alright, alright,” he grumbled.

  She retied the cloth into a perfect knot, definitely not noticing how his Adam’s apple pressed against it. Or how his throat looked when he swallowed. Or the scent of his… whatever it was. Splaying her fingers over his shoulders, she smoothed his coat down and flicked some dust from the soft wool.

  She stepped back a couple of feet and took in the effect of his powerful figure in the Regency costume. It was pretty impressive.

  The tan cutaway coat hugged his broad shoulders and shifted subtly with every frustrated sigh. She circled him slowly, her pulse leaping in tandem with the twitching of his shoulder blades underneath the linen shirt, waistcoat, and coat.

  While she was behind him, her gaze dragged down his back to admire the fit of the buckskin breeches. They dripped down his body like melted butter, revealing every muscular curve and the lean line of his legs.

  His backside wasn’t so bad either, she realized as she gently lifted the coat tails. Although it was always disconcerting to meet a man whose derriere appeared smaller and tighter than her own.

  “Hey, what are you doing under there?” His torso twisted a little.

  She dropped the tails and scooted away quickly. “Research.”

  His leather boots tapped an impatient tattoo on the stage and as he crossed his arms over his chest, the coat pulled over the breadth of his back.

  “Damn, this is tight,” Max grumbled.

  “Of course. That was the style then.” She moved around to face his scowl. “I just want to take a few pictures, and then we’ll be done. Just remember how happy you should be to be born in this era.” Sometimes she wished the opposite, wondering if her old-fashioned nature would be better suited to a time before… well, everything now.

  “I think I would have preferred the pirate costume.”

  She grinned and pointed her phone at him. “Don’t be too sure,” she said. “It comes with an eyepatch and a stuffed parrot pinned to your shoulder. Can you move a little more upstage? The light’s better. Yeah, just there. Perfect.”

  “How is this romantic?” Max flicked the silk cravat with his forefinger disdainfully.

  “It’s from a different era, where women were elegant and men were gentlemen.”

  “And uncomfortable. I’m surprised they could breathe in this get-up, much less seduce anyone. Seriously, what’s so great about this?”

  Sophy eyed the costume embracing his body. Suddenly her light silk sweater was feeling very very heavy. “It makes you look powerful.” She shrugged.

  “Powerful?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “You almost done? I’ve got a wine and cheese to get to.” He sounded positively thrilled about it.

  “Almost,” she promised. “Need a date?” What? She’d said what?

  “Sure, why not,” he said, shocking her. “At least it won’t be boring then.”

  Was that a compliment or an insult? She couldn’t tell. “Hey, why did you go into psychology?” She hoped that by talking about himself she could get him to relax a little, so he wouldn’t look so stiff and uncomfortable. But the drama department had only provided the clothes, not the stick up his backside as well. Apparently he came armed with that already.

  “To find out what makes people like you tick. And then institutionalize you,” he muttered under his breath.

  Sophy rolled her eyes. How flattering. She was beginning to get the feeling he thought she was a complete fruitcake. It didn’t matter, though—it kept him on his toes. She lowered the phone and smiled politely. “No, really.”

  “Really? I’m not sure. I was always interested in it, even when I was a kid. Remember Linus’s psychiatry booth in Peanuts?”

  “It was Lucy,” Sophy corrected.

  “Okay. But you know what I’m talking about, right?”

  She nodded.

  “I thought that was a great idea, and when I was eight I put my own booth up on our front lawn. I was more of an entrepreneur than—”

  “Lucy.”

  “Right. I charged a buck a session instead of five cents.”

  She could just imagine an earnest young Max trying to convince neighbors that they were in need of psychiatric help. “Any customers?”

  He frowned. “No, not really. But a few people brought their pets to me. I spent six hours a day trying to analyze them until I realized I had just become a dogsitting service.”

  “Did you quit?”

  “No, I started charging more.”

  She raised her phone again, turning off the auto flash. Did she dare try a selfie with him in costume? “Did you have a picture of, uh, Freud in your locker at school?”

  “Jung,” Max replied absently, seemingly lost in his trip down amnesia lane and his previous life as Doctor Doolittle.

  Hmmm. Could her noble hero be a hot nerd? Sophy stepped around him and aimed the camera at his backside. Hey, it couldn’t hurt, she told herself.

  “Uh, Sophy?

  “Hmmm?” Her brow furrowed in concentration as she kneeled to capture his calf muscle.

  “I think these clothes are cutting off my circulation.”

  “Oh.” She put her phone down and stood up to see a distinctly uncomfortable expression on his face. “Okay, I’m done.”

  His shoulders slumped in the tight jacket, his relief evident.

  She stooped to retrieve her phone, her long flowered skirt billowing around her. When Max bent over beside her to tug on his pant leg, she put a hand on his arm and stopped him. “You’d better not do that,” she suggested.

  He frowned. “Why?”

  Sophy avoided his gaze and tried desperately not to blush. “You might split those breeches. They are pretty tight.”

  “Oh.” Max shot up, holding himself ramrod straight while she tried to hold in a giggle. “I’ll just go get changed,” he said stiffly.

  “Let me know if you need any help,” she called out after him. “I’m great at undoing buttons,” she murmured to the empty stage.

  She scrolled through the pictures. There were some great shots, and two that she knew would s
oon be wallpaper for inspiration. And maybe on Tumblr.

  Staring at her phone, she made her way backstage towards the wardrobe room.

  She didn’t see Max until she walked straight into him.

  His arms automatically flew up to steady her and his warm breath caressed her forehead. She felt the swift rise and fall of his chest and breathed in the spicy scent of his skin.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  His voice was low and dangerous in the shadows. “The wardrobe room is locked,” he ground out.

  She inhaled sharply. “Oh.” Her arms fell from their light hold on his waist. “I guess they locked everything up when we were out on the stage.”

  “My clothes are in there, Sophy.” His voice nearly cracked in the darkness and she peered up at him, her heart sinking. Uh oh.

  “Ah, right.”

  “Right.”

  Max’s grasp on her shoulders tightened and she looked up at him, trying not to laugh. “Uh, what about that wine and cheese?”

  * * *

  He was going to kill her. That was all there was to it. It wouldn’t take much, just a swift twist of his hands around her neck. It was Friday—they probably wouldn’t even discover her body until Monday morning. And by that time he could be over at least three state lines. It was a tempting thought.

  Sophy bent over, her arms wrapped around her stomach. Her body shook with silent laughter and her head bobbed near his groin.

  “This isn’t funny,” he told her.

  She nodded wordlessly and sniffed in the darkness. Then burst into a giggle fit.

  Max wasn’t amused. He was already late for the compulsory department reception, and he looked like a stranded extra from Pride and Prejudice.

  “Are you done?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Do you have time to go home and change?” she asked, swiping at the corner of her eyes.

  “No. I’m late as it is.” Then he realized something. “I think I have an extra jacket in my office. We’ll go there first.” Her pulse thudded beneath his fingers as he wrapped them around her wrist, and tugged on her arm. “Let’s go.”

  She tugged back. “Uh, maybe it would be better if I didn’t…”

  “No way, Miss Honeypot.” He took her hand and pressed it against his ridiculous brass-buttoned chest. “If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me.”

  * * *

  It only took them seven minutes to mince across campus to his office. It would have taken less, but Max’s skintight outfit slowed him down, and Sophy’s wedge sandals weren’t built for footraces.

  Thankfully the building wasn’t closed yet and they took the elevator up. He didn’t trust these stupid pants not to split if he tried to vault up the stairs. When they reached the Psychology department, he paused and pulled her back.

  “Wait a minute,” he ordered in a low voice. If any of his colleagues were around, he wasn’t taking any chances of them seeing him like this. Flattening himself against the wall, he dragged his hand through his hair nervously and tilted his head back.

  He poked his head around the corner and surveyed the empty corridor. “Okay.” Interlocking his fingers with hers, he pulled her down the hallway to his cubbyhole of an office. Only when he shut the door behind them did he exhale in relief.

  “Where’s the jacket?” she asked.

  “You don’t need to whisper now.” He glanced towards the corner. “And it’s right over there.” He let go of her hand and walked over to the coat rack. He tugged impatiently at the buttons on the costume and swore softly.

  “Here, let me help.” Sophy stepped towards him. Her small fingers moved nimbly over the buttons and Max hoped that she couldn’t feel his heart careening wildly in his chest. It was probably just protesting the restraints on his circulation. “There, all done.” She pulled back the lapels of the jacket and helped him out of it.

  The knock at the door startled them both.

  “You in there, Wright?”

  Max put a finger over Sophy’s lips and shot her a warning look. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re coming to the wine and cheese, right?” Dr. Chapaty asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Max glanced down at Sophy, who glared at him in silent protest at his hand clamped over her mouth. He suddenly realized he had another good opportunity to kiss her, but then he wouldn’t be able to answer Chapaty. “I’m even bringing a date,” he called out.

  “Excellent.”

  “We’ll be along in a minute, sir.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” Chapaty’s footsteps faded as he walked away, and Max dropped his hand from Sophy’s mouth. She grinned at him and he opened his mouth to say something, then closed it rapidly.

  Max turned his back on her as he shrugged off the coat and reached for the old tweed jacket hanging on the rack. It was a total cliché but for some reason he was attached to it. The elbow patches were softened with age, and the wool was slightly musty. He got it as a lame, last-minute Halloween costume and now it was his “emergency” jacket, stashed in his office. If this didn’t count as an emergency, he didn’t know what would.

  He wished that he could just skip the wine and cheese, but Dr. Chapaty was expecting them, and although the requisite schmoozing turned Max’s stomach, he had to do it if he wanted to get along with anybody in the department.

  He buttoned up the blazer and reached inside to smooth the linen blouse down over his chest and shoulders. Turning back to Sophy, he raised an eyebrow. “How do I look?”

  Her gaze swept over his body and if he had the time, he would have been embarrassed by the intensity in her eyes.

  “Fine,” she finally said, her eyes fixed to the breeches hugging his lower body. “You just look like an English country gentleman, out riding or something.”

  “Well, there’s not much we can do about it now,” Max remarked wryly. “You owe me big time.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  He stepped towards her and her gaze flew up to meet his. “Don’t think I won’t forget,” he warned, his imagination momentarily drifting of ways she could repay him. Not now.

  When they walked into the function room, half a dozen heads swivelled to stare at him. The department secretary, positioned near the door, grinned and curtsied gracefully.

  “My lord.”

  Max shot her a threatening look, then glanced at Sophy. Her lips twitched but she focused straight ahead at the crowd in front of them.

  “Ah, Dr. Wright.” Chapaty sauntered toward them, a slender dark-haired woman in tow. “I’d like you to meet my wife. Anita, this is the new professor I was telling you about.”

  She stuck out her hand and smiled brilliantly. “You’re doing the romance study.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Anita Chapaty shifted her smile to take in Sophy, standing silently beside Max. “And this must be the reason,” she said.

  “Not exactly.” Damn, how was he going to do this? “Dr. Chapaty, Mrs. Chapaty, I’d like you to meet Sophy Hadden.”

  Sophy shook their respective hands and smiled politely. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Anita’s kohl-rimmed eyes widened. “My god, you’re Violet Honeypot. I just saw your Facebook ad!”

  Her husband frowned. Max’s heart sank into his stomach. So much for a low profile.

  Sophy’s smile softened. “Yes, I am.”

  Anita pumped her hand up and down again, and Max saw Sophy wince out of the corner of his eyes. “I had no idea you lived here! I’ve read all your books.”

  “I’ve only written a couple.” Sophy tried to extricate her hand, beginning to look embarrassed. Max grinned at her discomfort. “It’s been lovely meeting you, but we should really mingle some more.” She turned to Max.

  “Huh?” He was enjoying this.

  Sophy shifted her weight to her other hip and suddenly Max felt a stabbing pain in his foot. She beamed at him solicitously. “Shouldn’t we?” She ground her heel into his toes again and he winced.

  “Oh, yeah. Sure.
You’ll excuse us?” He laced his fingers through Sophy’s and pulled her away, limping towards the cheese table.

  “I’ll get you for that.”

  She nodded and smiled at a nearby colleague of his. Her lips barely moved as she replied under her breath, “I’m terrified. What about wine?” she asked.

  “I don’t even want to imagine what damage you could do to my reputation if you’ve been drinking.” He snorted.

  “Hey!”

  Max dropped her hand so that he could load a cracker with cheese. As he replaced the knife on the table, his coat sleeve brushed against the tray of assorted crackers and a few skidded off the table and onto the floor. He bent over quickly to retrieve them...

  “Max, wait!” hissed Sophy.

  It was too late. The stark and unmistakable sound of fabric ripping echoed in his ears. He felt a sudden draft on his backside.

  What he had neglected to tell Sophy before was that the pile of clothes currently locked in the wardrobe room included his underwear. There was no way he could put on breeches this tight with his boxer shorts on, so he had removed them.

  He had never regretted anything more in his life at that moment.

  Except possibly asking Sophy for her help. Somehow he was getting the feeling that she was benefiting more from their little arrangement than he was. Especially right now. At the very least, she was probably getting a good view of his heroic attributes.

  His thighs were starting to throb from the awkward position, and he pivoted on one heel so that his back was against a wall, and slowly slid up it to a standing position. Sophy stared at him, her expression unreadable.

  “Don’t even think about laughing. Or making me laugh,” he warned her.

  She bit her lip and blinked. “Is it that bad?”

  Max flinched as cool air rushed through the split in the breeches. Clenching his jaw, he replied, “Yes.”

  “Have you ever seen Bringing Up Baby?”

  “What?”

  “Old movie. Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn. 1938.” He looked blankly at her and she nodded solemnly. “Great movie,” she assured him.