He makes a motion as if he’s zipping his mouth, locking his lips, and throwing the key over his shoulder. “Won’t tell a soul.”
Even if he did, I’d deny, deny, deny. That’s the beauty of being thought of as virtuous. No one would believe him over me. With my head held high, I take off with Hannah, feeling him watch me as I go.
Chapter 3
In my opinion, Vandeveer University has one of the most beautiful campuses in the world. I think it has something to do with the live oaks set against backdrops of perfectly proportioned Georgian-style buildings. Or maybe the constant stream of wealth keeps everything in such tip-top condition, it’s difficult to spy a flaw. I’d be hard-pressed to find a crack in the sidewalk my feet march over at this very moment.
Most wealthy families in Texas send their kids to Vandeveer in defiance of the Ivies. It’s a Texas pride thing. The school makes sure to live up to Ivy League standards by hiring elite staff and top professors. Vandeveer has turned out more Texas Governors, CEOs, and wealthy entrepreneurs than any other university in the state. I consider myself lucky that I attend here.
It’s the first day of summer session, and I head toward the south entrance of Murral Hall. The building’s the home of the English department and also the stomping ground of a man named Philosopher Dan. Supposedly in the late seventies, he’d been a student in this very building. Something loosened a few marbles, and now he spends his days spewing wisdom at passing students.
This morning is no exception. Dan’s standing by a light post, his black skin shimmering with a fine dew of sweat. He has on jeans he’s probably owned for three decades and a plain white T-shirt that yellowed beneath the armpits. He’s also wearing the brightest smile I’ve ever seen, the kind that leaves lines around your mouth even when you’re not grinning. That’s his way. He’s always deliriously happy despite the offering cup he holds out.
A gangly guy walks by, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He drops in a few coins, and they clang on the bottom of the cup.
Philosopher Dan nods to him. “Thank you, sir.” As the student walks away, Dan studies him as if he’s reading his soul. In a loud, theatrical voice, Dan says, “There ain’t no substitute for passion, young man. There’s always gonna be someone smarter and better than you, but if you’re passionate ‘bout what you do, you’ll always work the hardest. That’s what’ll set you apart.”
The gangly guy whirls on his heels and stares at Dan, mouth agape.
Dan just laughs in his good-humored way. “You do what you’re passionate about, not what Ma and Pa want you doin’.”
The student blinks at Dan as though he’s just answered a question that’s been plaguing the poor guy for eternity. “Thanks.” He scratches his head. With his lips tipped up and his brow furrowed, he turns back around and strides away with more purpose than when he first crossed Dan’s path.
As I walk by, I dig in my backpack for a couple of dollars and drop them in Dan’s mug.
He bows his head toward me, revealing a shiny round patch of skin in the middle of his gray hair. “Bless you, pretty girl.”
I smile at him and stroll away.
When my foot hits the first step leading up to the front door of Murral Hall, Dan says, “You always going to be concerned with love, pretty girl.”
I stop climbing and peer over my shoulder at him. Great, just what I need. Love advice for the girl who’s swearing off men. I try to keep my face relaxed, but I feel my eyes narrowing, a warning to Dan to leave me alone.
His grin grows wider. “Just remember, love ain’t nothing but a dirty trick makin’ sure we continue the species.”
I tilt my chin up and laugh. “Amen, Dan. Amen.”
God bless the man for not spewing love and loss poetry at me. With a smile, I dart up the stairs and into the building. A few wrong turns later, I finally find the technical writing classroom. There are about twenty people sitting at desks already, most of them guys.
I’m hunting for an empty chair when I hear a familiar voice say, “Hey, girrrl!”
I turn to see Freddy waving me down, and I can’t help but break out in the biggest grin I own. Freddy’s a fellow math major, and we’ve been best school buds since we accidentally set fire to a pad of PH strips in our chemistry lab freshman year. He’s about six-two, black, and though I’d never call him fat, he’s a little fluffy around the middle. He’s also gay, but either he doesn’t know it yet or he’s too religious to confess.
“Saved a seat for you,” he says, removing his book bag from the chair next to him.
I settle into the seat and lean in close. “How’s summer treating you so far?”
He cringes, scrunching up his nose. “My mama cried when I told her I was staying in Lakewater to take classes. You would’ve thought she was planning my funeral the way she carried on.” In a mock feminine voice, he says, “My baby’s leaving me!” He presses a hand to his chest and with the other, wipes away a pretend tear. “He’s rippin’ my heart out!”
Freddy’s always been a little diva-ish, so it doesn’t surprise me that his mom is too. “Wow. That’s a wee bit dramatic.”
“Not even close. She didn’t hit the throes of drama until I pulled out of the driveway.” He sighs and shakes his head. “She threw herself on my car.”
I scoff. “She did not.”
“Oh yes, she did. You should have seen her at Uncle Wayne’s funeral last month. She dove into the casket during the wake. Took four men to get her out.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh. Finding humor in his poor uncle’s tragedy and his mom’s unwillingness to accept it is probably rude. “Maybe she just loves deeply. Besides, having a mom who loves you that much has to be better than having a parent who doesn’t care.”
“Oh, I have one of those too. My dad danced a little jig when he found out I wouldn’t be around this summer. Said he’s bringing all his weight equipment from the garage to my room.”
“Now you’re being dramatic.” I rifle through my backpack, still chortling as I pull out a notebook.
“I hear Dr. Dunbar grades ridiculously hard,” Freddy says.
I nod. I’ve heard the same thing, and since he’s the only professor who teaches technical writing, that was a big factor in my decision to take this class over the summer. I don’t want to ignore my core classes to work on this class, and I want to ensure I can focus enough to get an A. The only reason I can afford Vandeveer University is because of a generous scholarship. If I lost that funding due to a bad grade in a non-core class, I’m pretty sure I’d never forgive myself. I might even join Dan and stake out my own lamppost. I’d become the rapping Cassie or help freshmen with college algebra.
Freddy pulls out a pen and scribbles the date on the first page of his notebook. He’s zoned out, so I scan the room. About twenty-five students fill the small classroom, slipping notebooks out of their bags or fiddling with pens and paper. Some are chatting with friends while others bury their noses in the Technical Writing book. I recognize a few of them from other classes, but most I’ve never seen before.
I check the clock. Ten a.m. Right on time, the professor walks in, and I do a double take. Not only is he not Dr. Dunbar, I doubt he’s a professor at all. He can’t be older than twenty-five, and he has the good looks that’d make a Ralph Lauren model shudder with envy. Every girl in the class—all three of us—are rendered slack-jawed.
“I should have been an English major,” I whisper.
Freddy looks up from his syllabus and lets out a low whistle. “Mmhmm.” His eyes heat as much as the ladies’. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him size up a good-looking man with a gaze that could steam water.
The teacher drops his leather satchel on the floor next to the podium. His skin is fair and without blemish. I think his eyes are green, but it’s hard to tell behind the wire-rim glasses. He wears a gray fedora—Indiana Jones style—and a black button-up sweater vest over a white, long-sleeve dress shirt. It’s a hot outfit
to wear in the summer, but the air-conditioning’s cranked on high and the room borders on chilly. His gray slacks are perfectly pressed, and his shoes polished to a shine. He looks like someone out of a mobster movie, and I’m completely incapable of doing anything but drool.
Freddy nudges my arm. “Close your mouth.”
“I can’t.” I watch our teacher pull out a laptop and hook it to the overhead projector. From the corner of my eye, I see Freddy twist to survey the rest of the class.
He snorts. “You and every other girl in here.”
No kidding. That man is dangerous, with his stunning good looks and snazzy clothes. He’s the kind of guy who could lay waste to my plan of not dating. Not that he’d be interested in me—he’s my teacher. But that’s not the point. What he represents scares me. Temptation of the worst kind—give up my soul for a kiss kind. Or in my case, give up my scholarship for a kiss.
He turns toward the class, and my breath catches when I take in the masculine planes of his face. My jaw goes slack as he scans the room. His gaze rests on each student, one by one, and I come to my senses. No point in making a bad first impression by letting him see my lolling tongue. I’m in the process of closing my mouth when he smiles, and it drops open again. His beautiful grin makes his eyes light up, and it softens the sharp angles of his jaw and cheeks. It’s like watching a tiger, dangerous and unpredictable, turn into a stuffed animal begging for a cuddle. I want to wrap my arms around him and listen to him purr.
“Good morning, class,” he says in an English accent.
It’s official; I’m a goner. My stomach knots up so tight I can hardly breathe, and I swear I hear a collective feminine sigh.
“Right then,” he continues, “I’ll start with a proper introduction. I’m Aiden Westbrook, your teacher for technical writing. You may call me Mr. Westbrook.”
One guy hops out of his seat, arms wrapped around his backpack, and darts for the door. Someone’s always in the wrong class the first day.
Mr. Westbrook waves as he goes. “We’ll miss you, mate.”
The girls, including me, all giggle. The guys stare at Mr. Westbrook as if he’s a little screwy. A particularly nerdy student, wearing clothes one size too small, raises his hand.
Mr. Westbrook lowers his glasses down his nose and raises one eyebrow. “Questions already?”
Nerdy dude nods. “Where’s Dr. Dunbar?”
“Yes, Dr. Dunbar took a summer research position in Quebec. I suspect he wanted a cooler summer.” His smile widens. “Never fear, he’ll be back for autumn semester.”
The nerdy guy raises his hand again, looking disappointed.
Mr. Westbrook ignores him and says, “I assure you that you’ll find my ability to teach this course more than sufficient.” He narrows his gaze on nerdy guy. “If you have any issues, I suggest you drop the class.”
Nerdy dude slides down in his seat, looking thoroughly chastised even though he never expressed a concern with Mr. Westbrook’s credentials. He’s probably a brainiac who likes his classes hard so he can prove how smart he is. Me, I’m thrilled Dr. Dunbar is gone for the summer. Anyone would be easier than him.
Mr. Westbrook takes off his hat, revealing a thick mass of short, curly black hair. He sets the fedora on the podium and stares at the students. “I have many rules, and I’ll list them all today, but let me start by saying I will not tolerate tardiness. Anyone entering my classroom after ten a.m. will suffer the consequence. You have been warned.”
I want to ask what consequence he’s talking about, but he fires up the projector and starts lecturing about the class requirements. Then he delves into chapter one of our book. Halfway through the class, I realize I haven’t zoned out once. When I turn to Freddy, he seems just as rapt, chin resting on one palm as he watches our teacher point to the screen. Freddy’s gaze dips to his pad of paper, and he jots down a note. When his eyes flick back up, landing on Mr. Westbrook, his mouth turns up at the corners. He’s enamored, just like me.
I think Mr. Westbrook’s captivating accent is what holds our attention, or maybe it’s the way he smiles after he’s done presenting each slide. I sigh. The man is enthralling, and I have the pleasure of sitting in his class, three days a week, enduring an irresistible man I can never touch. This will be one frustrating summer.
Chapter 4
Liz, Hannah, Emma, and I sit in the living room of our cottage watching a rerun of Gossip Girls and drinking rosé wine.
“I hate Blake Lively,” Hannah says. “She’s way too pretty, and she’s got that girl-next-door thing goin’ on.” She purses her lips. “Dylan loooooves her.”
“I don’t think she’s that pretty,” Emma, Hannah’s Little Sis from our sorority, says. “Her eyes always look sad, and her chin’s too manly.”
“Pfft,” Liz says. “I’d kill for her body.”
“I’d murder a puppy for her hair,” I say. Not really, but I hate my mousy brown locks even if they’re thick and strong enough to defy split ends. “Maybe I should go blond.”
“No way,” Hannah says. “Your hair matches your eyes, and that’s sexy.” She says the last word with a little too much gusto and smiles knowingly. “That’s what Josh said last week. I think he has a crush on you.”
I cringe as I imagine Josh coming at me, eyes closed, mouth open. Drool gathers at the bottom of his lip. Eek! Sometimes I hate my vivid imagination. The way he spits when he talks makes me think he’s probably a sloppy kisser. “Ugh. Not interested.”
Liz nudges me in the ribs. “Who are you interested in?” She leans in as if she expects me to whisper the details of a sordid affair in her ear.
I nudge right back, only harder. “No one.” I warn her with a glare to keep her mouth shut.
“What about Mr. Westbrook?”
I regret divulging the details of my instructor, but a man that good-looking is hard to keep under wraps. I spilled after the first day of class.
“Oh?” Hannah says, eyeing me. “Who’s that?”
“Her technical writing teacher,” Liz says.
“Is he English?” Emma asks.
I nod. “How’d you know?”
“I heard all about him from my roommate last year,” Emma says. “He was a T.A. in her Lit class. She told me if she didn’t get to the T.A. tutoring hours thirty minutes early, she couldn’t find a seat. One time, two girls bickered over who got to sit next to him. In front of him.”
I shrug, hoping they’ll drop the subject. “I’m not interested in Mr. Westbrook.”
Hannah smiles. “Why would you need Mr. Westbrook when you’ve got a vibrator?”
Emma squeals. “You have a what?”
I groan. Emma’s going to tell everyone about my toy. Thank God it’s summer and news has to travel by phone as opposed to hollering across the hall at the sorority house. At least the girls know better than to plaster my business on Facebook. One mention of a sex toy, and the Kappa Beta council would freak.
“It’s not a big deal, Emma,” I say. In this town, a woman admitting she enjoys sex might as well throw a window open and yell, “I’m a whore!” I give Hannah a dirty look. “You have one too.”
She dismisses me with a wave. “Touché.”
Emma already has her cell out, and her fingers glide over the keypad.
“Don’t even think about it,” I growl.
She smiles and drops her phone on the coffee table. I don’t so much mind her telling the girls in our house about my toy. What I fear is them telling their guy-friends. After the news travels, I’ll be the center of male attention I don’t want. They figure that a girl who craves orgasms any way she can get them is much easier pickings than a frigid one.
We all return our attention to the TV and go silent for a few minutes. Ed Westwick is doing his dapper thing on Gossip Girl, and we love him. As Liz likes to say, he’s the ultimate bad boy: rich, hot, and redeemable.
When he exits stage left, I eye our four wine glasses. “Anyone want more?”
Emma a
nd Liz chime, “Me!”
Hannah places her palm over her half-full glass and shakes her head. She’s driving, and one is her limit.
As I stroll toward the refrigerator, Emma says, “Who wants to go to Jack’s Trap on Friday?”
I falter mid-step and nearly trip. Jack’s Trap is a popular restaurant and bar next to campus. Wyatt and I shared our first kiss in the parking lot. I haven’t been near the place since we broke up, and I don’t plan to go anytime soon. Too many memories.
“How about we go to Billy Bob’s instead?” Liz asks.
Emma whines, “Their cheese fries suck.”
I stroll into the kitchen, still listening to the conversation.
“I’ll sneak you a beer,” Liz says.
“Dos Equis?” Emma asks.
“Whatever,” Liz replies.
I’m relieved Liz has Emma on board because I hate turning down a girls’ night out just because I’m a simpering mess who can’t get over her ex. I open the refrigerator and grab the wine bottle, a magnum already half gone. Call us a bunch of lushes, but we’re young with nothing else to do. A random Tuesday and a Gossip Girl rerun marathon are the perfect excuses for a few drinks and a nice buzz.
I head into the living room where Liz is leaning back against the couch, knees curled to her chest. She smirks at something witty Blair says to Chuck. I tip the wine bottle and pour a glass for her.
With her eyes on the TV, she lifts the goblet and, before taking a drink, says, “I think you need a fuck buddy.”
At first, I’m sure she’s mocking Blair because she’s not even looking at me. Then she peers up at me, and a Cheshire cat grin spreads across her red lips. I’m so surprised she is referring to me that I forget I’m filling Emma’s glass and pour wine on the coffee table.
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