by Alexis James
I pull the suitcase across the laminate flooring and toss my purse down onto the small dinette table, breathing in the sweet scent of lavender lingering in the air. I’m slightly obsessed with the scent; lit candles or body wash, I surround myself with the smell.
Walking down the short hallway and into the bedroom, I think about all I need to accomplish before I close my eyes tonight. I have a paper to complete that’s due for one class, some homework to finish for another, along with four chapters to read by the end of the week. With a grimace, I take a deep breath and pray my second wind kicks in soon.
Muttering to myself, I make quick work of unpacking. After shoving my suitcase under the bed, I begin to strip. I pull on worn yoga pants and a faded tee then gather my laptop and books and head back out into the living room.
My simple beige couch is something I’ve recently acquired—an impulsive splurge that depleted my savings a bit, but I couldn’t pass it up. My old one had a variety of holes and stains, and when the springs started poking me in the ass, I decided it was time to invest in my first piece of furniture. Granted, it came via a consignment store and is slightly well-loved, but it is far better than the old piece of junk I used to have.
Ten minutes later, I’m set up in my usual spot, books laid out before me and steaming cup of tea cooling on the coffee table. Ray LaMontagne croons softly in the background, the perfect music to accompany studying. Firing up the laptop, I log onto my email and grimace. My inbox is overflowing, having been neglected during my entire trip because I was submerged in all the wedding activities. I quickly click through the ones from my professors, make a few additions to my to-do list, and save the best for last.
It could also be the worst.
Email from: Professor Caleb Bonham.
To: Sophia Moran
Subject: various
Wincing, I can only imagine what his description of ‘various’ will entail. The man is a tyrant, a workhorse, who demands perfection from those of us who work for him. Since I’m not technically employed by him, I have to assume that’s his general attitude toward most people. Yes, I’m his assistant, but as such I’m supposed to be gaining lifelong lessons to use in the classroom. Lessons I can put into place when I finally get that teaching degree of mine. Last year I clerked for Mrs. Ellis, the ancient Psychology teacher who has worked at the college for decades. She and I mostly talked about our favorite books. There was minimal work, which allowed for time to sit in her office and do my homework. I learned quickly that I wouldn’t be gaining much from watching her give a lecture to her class; she’s a text book teacher, never jumping outside the box, never deviating from the same lesson plan she’s used for decades.
I long for the day when I can be the one standing up there, encouraging my students to think on their own, ask questions, and never stop learning. I might alternately despise and admire Professor Bonham, but I am in awe of his ability to be unpredictable. He keeps his students guessing, throws them new and exciting challenges, and insists—without apology—that they rise higher than they believe they can.
Quickly perusing his email, I frown. How typical! He’s left me a bulleted list of items I must accomplish for the next day. He’s so arrogant he never actually comes right out and says that I must do them, it’s merely implied because the email comes from him.
The man is frustrating as hell, and I half-believe he sent this just to get under my skin. We have a … contentious relationship. Not a relationship exactly. More like an understanding. I show up to the office, and he gives me more work than I can handle in a ninety-minute period. Then I go right back to wondering about him: this elusive enigma who manages to bring out the ugly in me each and every time. The same man who I can’t seem to ever get out of my head.
Charlotte doesn’t seem to have these issues with him, and she’s TA’d for him longer than I have. She easily admits he can be a jerk, but he never appears to be as hostile with her as he is with me. It’s curious, and I’ve even contemplated asking him about it a time or two, but he’s not exactly the welcoming type. He’s not any particular type, actually, which makes him both fascinating and frustrating.
Caleb Bonham might possibly be the most untouchable man on the planet. He might loathe me in every single way, but nothing will change the fact that I lost my heart to him a long time ago. Something in me shifted when I saw him for the first time. A part of the old me floated away and in its place is the woman I now am; I’m connected to him on a level I can’t explain or excuse. All it took was a simple glance, and I was lost. And I have been ever since.
The gloomy, rainy weather should be an indication of how turbulent the day is going to be, but I won’t be dissuaded. I refuse to anticipate the worst as I slop through the puddles toward the building that houses the history department.
This is something I find completely ironic. I’m working on my teaching degree, with a minor in Psychology, so why the hell am I doing TA work for a history professor? Five months into this gig, and it still astounds me.
In the past when I’ve questioned it, my advisor has brushed it off, stating that regardless of the subject at hand, Professor Bonham can offer a rare insight into what my advisor denotes as “lone wolf” teaching. I’ve never asked her what that means exactly, but I have my own interpretation of the type of teacher he is. I certainly do not need her pointing out what is glaringly obvious the moment you meet the man: he’s part animal.
Lowering my umbrella and shaking the water from it, I step inside the warm building and wipe my feet. I’m an hour early, having chosen to forego a break of any kind to complete the long list of items I must get through today. The auditorium where he holds classes is one of the largest in this department. Seating roughly one hundred students, give or take, it looks more like a movie theater than a classroom. Seats are staggered, giving a full unobstructed view of the small stage at the front. His podium sits off to the left and behind it is a massive screen where he displays Power Point presentations. He’s a visual teacher. He doesn’t just stand at the podium and lecture, yammering on incessantly and losing students to the occasional nap or internet search. He has a deep love of history and demands that same passion of his students. He frequently encourages class discussions and has been known to penalize a student should they refuse to get involved.
I inch through the double doors as quietly as possible and quickly make my way through the auditorium, down the right side of the room, toward the small office where I work. Keeping my head down, eyes focused on the stairs in front of me, I take in the harsh sound of his voice. I couldn’t care less about the current lecture, but just hearing his voice fills me with a sudden and forbidden warmth.
He doesn’t pause or stammer, but somehow I know without a doubt that he’s watching me. I can feel the heat from those green eyes, the anger searing me through my damp clothes. I shudder with anxiety. And anticipation.
Stepping inside the small office and softly closing the door behind me, I smile. I live for this. Even though I’ll most likely be berated, snapped at, and made to feel less than worthy, I relish the thought of spending time with him.
I’m an idiot and an enormous fool, and I’m fully aware of it. Yet I allow myself this girlish giddiness each and every day. I know I need to get it together, concentrate on my priorities and quit fan-girling over him.
I need to. But I can’t.
I’m in awe of the hostile man—an obsession akin to hero-worship. I’ve had some stern pep talks with myself since I first laid eyes on him, but nothing I do and nothing he says deters me. My stomach jumps with excitement each and every time I hear his voice, and my heart flutters around in my chest when I look at him.
Yes, I am a total and complete fool.
With a heavy sigh, I move toward the small desk where two huge piles of work lie in wait. A scribbled note with a few last minute additions rests on top of one pile and makes me groan with frustration. I could sit here all day and never get all this work done. I know he realizes
that. I also know he gets a twisted sort of joy out of pushing me to extremes and pissing me off, which he does better than anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life.
There are times when Professor Bonham reminds me of my oldest brother Cruz. They have the same intense way of looking at life through unfiltered glasses. They are both driven to succeed, ruthless, and unapologetically arrogant. The difference is that Cruz has a soft side he allows only those of us who are close to him to see. Fiercely protective, of not only me but of everyone else in the family, he would fight to the death to defend.
I don’t know the professor well, but he comes across as someone who only wishes to defend himself, which makes my obsession with him that much more bothersome. Why the hell am I wasting time fixating on this man when I could be meeting someone who might actually appreciate me?
That’s something I’ve asked myself many times. The only answer I come up with is that I have no interest in meeting anyone else. Unrequited or not, I’d prefer to spend my remaining months in school working with him, grumpiness and all, rather than waste time on some college dude who only wants to get into my pants.
I’m concentrating on the computer, recording grades, when he saunters into the office and sucks all the air out of the room with his presence. The door bangs against the wall, startling me. I glance up and peruse him out of the corner of my eye.
“You decided to come to work, I see,” he snaps, strolling past me and into his much larger adjoining office.
I don’t bother responding. He speaks to be heard, rarely expecting a response. This is one of the many lessons I’ve learned under his tutelage. I continue on with the task at hand, tapping away on the keyboard and keeping one ear tipped his direction.
There’s some shuffling of papers and what sounds like a book being tossed down. Then I hear the familiar buzz of his cell phone. He barks out a greeting, mutters a few words under his breath, and promptly stomps across the office to slam the door, causing me to jump in my seat. I have no idea who it is that inspires such rage within him, but if past phone calls like this one are any indication, there will be plenty of wrath headed my way once he’s concluded the call.
I’m a glutton for punishment, and I have to question if maybe I’m one of those women who seeks pain as a form of pleasure. I’ve only had a few boyfriends, a small smattering of bed partners who introduced me to the basics of sex. Certainly nothing that would be considered painful. Granted, my first experience was with my high school boyfriend. Even though we were together for over a year, we never did quite seem to get a handle on it all. There was a whole lot of fumbling followed by some moaning and grunting on his part. It left me wondering if this thing I’ve heard so many people rave about is simply overrated.
The few men I’ve slept with since starting college have been slightly above my high school experience. One of them, a Bio major named Phil, introduced me to the wonders of oral sex. Thank God too, because while he might have been well-versed in that art, he failed miserably in the other. I do have to give credit to the other two guys I slept with. They tried to make me lose my mind and leave me in a pile of brainless mush—a result of really, really good sex so I’ve been told. That never did happen, though I did walk away mildly fulfilled.
The angry tone of his voice coming from behind the closed door snaps me out of my inner musings and back on task. I can’t spend time daydreaming when I’m working for Professor Bonham. I need to be focused on my job and the work, even though the work is mind-numbing and tedious.
The door to his adjoining office flies open and bangs against the wall, just as the main office door did a bit ago; it makes me wonder how often he calls to have his walls repaired. He moves quickly toward me, tossing down another large stack of tests, growling, “I need these all in the system today.”
Glancing at my watch, I grimace. There’s no way I will get through all of this and still make my afternoon classes. The fact that he’s well aware of my schedule just proves how self-absorbed he can be.
I turn slightly in my chair and lift my head to look at him. He’s glaring down at me through hooded gray-green eyes with an expression that literally feels like it’s burning my skin. It might have terrified me initially, but I’ve gotten used to him silently tearing me down.
“Professor, I have class in a little over an hour. There is no way I can accomplish this in that amount of time.” I feel like I’m pointing out the obvious, but I’d never want to assume he knows my schedule by heart.
“Get it done, Miss Moran.”
I start to protest. “Professor, as I said …”
“Get. It. Done.” Reaching into his pocket, he extracts a small silver key and slams it down in front of me with his large palm. “This is not up for debate, Miss Moran.”
Grinding my teeth, I consider a retort. I also consider the fact that he’s given me full access to the office, something he guards almost as well as he does his emotions. He makes me so damn angry sometimes. Most of the time, actually. And as I watch him walk into the auditorium, I consider yet again speaking with my advisor about going elsewhere for my TA duties.
But as I watch him bend over the podium, his pen working furiously on the paper in front of him, that familiar happy jolt in my heart returns. As irritating and exhausting as he is, I admire him so much. He has such a quick, brilliant mind. Harvard educated, he offers a wealth of knowledge to his students. I’d be a fool to sacrifice all I can learn from him just because he makes me angry.
He drags his hand through his wavy dark hair that’s just long enough giving him an air of “I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.” It curls low on the nape of his neck. The few strands of gray at his temples gives him a distinguished look. I wonder, not for the first time, how old he is. I’d guess mid-thirties, but I have no real idea. Not that I care.
Lifting his gaze from the papers in front of him, his eyes lock onto mine, as if he somehow knew I was watching him. Those eyes narrow with irritation, and I immediately turn back to the computer screen. My breath catches in my throat.
I’m usually so careful about never getting caught. Hell, I’m usually too afraid to even look at the man. He is, of course, incredibly handsome despite being nasty, mean, and downright rude. Tall, slightly over six feet I’d say, he carries himself with the assuredness of someone who knows exactly who he is and what he wants. He’s not someone who spends time mulling over what he wants to say. When he opens his mouth to speak, people listen. Long and lean with broad shoulders, I doubt the man has an ounce of fat on his body. He seems like the type that only eats completely organic food. The few times I’ve witnessed him eating, it’s always been a pile of greens or some nasty cement-colored shake. I bet he’d cringe if I told him all I’ve had to eat today was a bag of Cheetos.
By the time my phone buzzes, alerting me to the start of my next class in a few minutes, I’ve barely put a dent in the work. Mentally reviewing my calendar for the remainder of the day, I internally rearrange a few things and gear up for yet another long night. I’d be lucky if I can get a few hours of sleep. I suppose it’s worth it if getting through these stacks tonight makes him less of a bear tomorrow.
Yeah, right. Just the thought makes me laugh.
Turning the Audi into my assigned parking space, I put the car in park and leave it idling while I conclude my phone call. This is the third one today—a record for her. You’d think with my repeated threats to send my lawyer after her, she’d have realized I’m not going to budge. She gets the five grand the court ordered me to pay each month and nothing more. No amount of whining, bitching, or complaining will change it. The fact is that no amount of money will ever please my ex-wife.
“Enough, Rianne. I have work to do.”
“But Caleb …”
I end the call with a quick tap of my finger on the screen and consider blocking her number. The only reason I don’t is if she can’t reach me directly, she’ll try going through my father. I want him as far away from this total clusterfuck
as he can be.
Sliding out of the low, sleek car, I hit the lock button and shove my phone in my back pocket. The rain has lessened some. Now it’s only a cold, light mist. Chilled, because I left in such a hurry I forget to grab a jacket, I make a run for the building and sprint up the back stairs.
The cleaning crew is good about leaving the hallways lit for those of us who don’t keep normal office hours. It’s a good thing too, because there are many like me who come in at all hours of the night to work. Anyone who thinks the life of a professor is an easy job can kiss my ass.
Shaking the wetness from my hair, I make my way down the hall toward the auditorium. Had I not gone off and forgotten my lecture notes, I wouldn’t have had to come back here at all. Of course, if I kept them on the computer like so many of my colleagues do, I’d have easy access from home or elsewhere any time I needed them.
I’m old school. I like to write things out long hand, get a feel for what I want to say. Then I’ll put it all into the computer later when I assemble my slides. It’s a tedious, long way around the barn, but it’s all I know. It’s what I’m comfortable with.
The auditorium itself is dark, though I can see a sliver of light coming from underneath the door of the small outer office. I don’t recall leaving on any lights and assume one of the cleaning people must have forgotten. I make a mental note to speak with them about it as I inch my way down the stairs.
The office door is unlocked and a thread of irritation shimmies up my spine. I hate ineptness of any kind and to know that someone carelessly left my space unlocked angers me to no end. But when I shove the door open and look inside, that anger quickly fades.
And a completely different beast starts to marinate in my gut.
Sophia is bent over the small TA desk, arms folded on the surface, fast asleep. The large stacks of work I left for her are gone, save for the last remaining few she has to complete—the ones she’s currently using as a pillow. Her long, light brown hair is pulled up into a ponytail and gives me full access to her face. A face I appreciate more than I should.
