“Yes? I mean, yes!” The soft voice grows firmer.
“You?”
“Y-yes.”
“Weak, but there’s fire in your eyes so I’ll let you stay.…”
He continues until every student has answered in the affirmative, their voices gaining in confidence until the last virtually shouts the response. Beckett grins his approval, the expression so transforming that my lips part in soundless awe.
Surly and scowling, he could pass as a prematurely crotchety forty. Grinning, however, he looks his age. Thirty-three, if my memory serves. And every bit as handsome as Google warned.
“Ms. Eliot, are you going to stand there for the next fifty minutes or would you like to take a seat?”
I blink away cobwebs of scandalous thoughts and realize he’s caught me staring. That snarly half-smile is back. My cheeks burning, I grip my bag tight to my side and stride to the back of the classroom to claim a desk. As Beckett begins his first-class spiel, I set up my laptop, listening with half an ear until I hear my name.
“…will send you an email with her office hours. The workshops for this class are Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Ms. Eliot will be sending me weekly assessments of your participation and progress, so do take her seriously. Unless you’re suffering from a debilitating disease, I recommend you attend every one. If you don’t, you’ll see your lack of commitment reflected in your final grade. I also plan on spot checking the workshops myself.” Another lightning-flash of a grin. “Not even Ms. Eliot will know which ones I plan to attend.”
As he continues rattling on about syllabus, midterm and final projects, and weekly journaling assignments, I eventually grow used to his accented, rapid-fire speech. I even muse that his voice matches how he writes. Concise. Eloquent. Cutting.
Thinking of his smile, I add another adjective.
Dangerous.
“—all I have. Any questions?”
No one moves.
Beckett nods shortly. “Very well. Journals out. Twenty minutes of freestyle writing to be turned in at the end of class. Stop staring at me and start now. First impressions matter.” His eyes, electric emerald in the sunlight dancing through the nearest window, find my face. “Ms. Eliot, if you’ll join me in the hallway a moment?”
Taking a steadying breath, I close my laptop and stand. You can’t quit. You need the TA stipend. You need to finish your Masters. One more year. You can do this. However brilliantly talented and obnoxiously handsome he might be, he’s just a man. More importantly, he’s the freaking head of your program. Be professional.
Bolstered by my internal pep talk, I follow Beckett’s tall frame into the empty hallway. The door snicks closed behind us, sounding disproportionally ominous. Arms once again crossed over his chest, he stares down at me, a frown puckering the skin between his eyebrows.
“Aren’t you a little young for a graduate student in her final year?”
The question triggers a lifetime’s worth of emotional baggage and professionalism flies out the window. “Are you joking? Is there an age requirement I’m unaware of?”
His lips do an odd, quirking dance; I think he might be trying not to smile. “How old are you?”
I gape. “Didn’t you read the Code of Conduct? You’re not supposed to discriminate based on age, sex, orientation—”
He waves a hand imperiously. “Fine, don’t tell me. And call me Beck or Beckett. Professor makes me think of graybeards with food in their teeth. Did you get all my emails?”
The abrupt shift in topics sends my already malfunctioning head-to-mouth filter into full meltdown. “Sure did. All eight hundred of them.”
Oh my God, I’m so fired.
But to my shock, his eyes crinkle with mirth. “You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you? I was told you’d have no other assignments beyond your course load. Is that correct?”
I nod again, less enthusiastically. What mere weeks ago had seemed like a gift from the heavens has degraded in the last fifteen minutes to a silent plea of, Please let me survive this quarter.
By the amount of work he’s assigned the students and his insistence that his TA have no other duties, I’m now relatively certain he wants me to be his assistant-bitch for the next twelve weeks.
And we’re off to such a promising start.
When he doesn’t say anything else, merely pinning me with his focused stare, I feel my neck heating beneath my scarf. Whatever his thoughts, the look he’s giving me is not appropriate between teacher and student.
At length, he murmurs, “You seem familiar.”
“Familiar how?” I ask nervously.
He blinks, shaking his head a little. “We haven’t met before? You are over eighteen, aren’t you?”
In a flash of sickening insight, I recall a particularly lurid article about his reputation as a whiskey-swilling philanderer.
He thinks I’m a one-night stand.
Ew.
“We haven’t met,” I say forcefully, then summon a modicum of the poise I’ve been lacking since I slept through my six a.m. alarm. “Professor, I’m very much looking forward to assisting you this quarter. Did you receive my schedule and contact information?”
He nods. “It’s Beckett or Beck. And I did, thank you. I saw that you’re also taking my Advanced Fiction Writing class Wednesday evenings. And you’re on my docket for a meeting tomorrow, is that correct?”
“Yes, to review progress on my thesis.”
Which will probably end in me stabbing myself in the eye with a pencil.
“Good, good. Seems we’ll be seeing a lot of each other for the foreseeable future.” He reaches for the door handle, flashing that dangerous grin at me. “The former Director spoke very highly of you, Ms. Eliot. I look forward to learning what makes you tick.”
On that titillating and terrifying note, he sweeps back into the room. I stare at the floor, realizing several disturbing truths at once.
1. My heart is racing a mile a minute.
2. My knees are weak.
3. I haven’t felt this alive in years.
View on Amazon
About the Author
L.M. Halloran is an author of contemporary romance from San Diego, California. When not writing or reading, she enjoys a brain-bending day job, walking barefoot, subjecting her husband to questionable recipes, and chasing her spirited toddler. She's a rabid fan of coffee, moon-gazing, and small dogs that resemble Ewoks.
For news on upcoming releases and promotions, sign up for L.M. Halloran’s newsletter, which the author admits will be sent sporadically at best.
Stalk the author:
www.lmhalloran.com
[email protected]
Also by L.M. Halloran
The Muse
Breaking Giants
The Reluctant Socialite
Double Vision (2018)
The Fall Before the Flight (2018)
The Reluctant Heiress_A Novella Page 15
