by J. L. White
My brain is trying to work out the possibility of an Intro to Philosophy class with only twenty-five students requiring a student assistant, but I’m really rather distracted by Student Assistant What’s-His-Face.
His gorgeous, gorgeous face.
And I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone rock a blazer the way this guy’s doing. Aside from his age, he looks the part of a professor. The only thing his blazer is missing are the elbow patches.
“Miss?” he says again.
“Oh, uh, sorry I’m late. I just got put in this class.”
“Ah,” he says. He looks at me a second longer and I wish I could stand here and stare at him all day. With some popcorn. Sitting in a comfy chair. While he strips off his shirt and—
Apparently recovering from the surprise of my untimely interruption, he grabs the top sheets from a couple stacks of paper on the podium and holds them out to me. I start to move toward him and manage to trip on nothing, but catch myself and cross the room with burning cheeks.
He gives me an amused smile.
Wow, that smile.
I snatch the pieces of paper and retreat to a seat near the back. I’m usually a front-of-the-room girl, but I’ll make an exception in this case. I’ve drawn quite enough attention to myself.
I take a deep breath and try to get myself under control.
“Introduction to Philosophy” the heading on the top paper reads.
Right. This is why I’m here. Get it together, Isabella.
I glance back at the man at the front of the room. Our eyes meet immediately and I look back down, bending over my papers for good measure. My heart is racing and I can’t tell if it’s because he caught me looking at him or if it’s because of the way he looks.
Because he looks So. Freaking. Gorgeous.
I decide not to look at Distracting Sexy Student Assistant so I can concentrate on what’s in front of me. A syllabus and a questionnaire. I can only assume everyone’s busy working on the latter.
I’d dropped my bag on the floor next to me. I now bend over so I can spend, apparently, several minutes fumbling around for my pen. My bag is working against me, I swear it. I have to keep pulling my long hair out of my face with one hand so I can see what the hell I’m doing.
At last I manage to free a pen from the bowels of my traitorous bag and sit up only to find myself face-to-face with Mr. Distracting Sexy Student Assistant. I startle and put my hand on my chest.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, trying not to disturb the class. As if every girl in the room isn’t watching him. I know they have to be.
He’s kneeling by my desk, an open folder on his leg and a pen in the other hand.
He’s even sexier up close. There’s just a hint of stubble coming out on his strong jaw bones. His eyes, which I thought were blue at first glance, are actually an intriguing mix of blue and green. His dark hair looks soft and touchable and my holy god, is that his smell?
Would it be inappropriate for me to lean over and sniff him? Would he report me to the professor?
He gives me another smile and, I’m embarrassed to admit this, I think I’m melting into a puddle right here at the back of the class.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
Anything you want, baby, what’s yours?
I think I’m channeling Sam’s spirit or something.
“Isabella,” I say. “Nikas.” It’s actually Isabella Procopio Caivano Nikas Maddox, but I don’t have enough functioning brain cells to go into all that. I don’t use the Maddox name on campus anyway.
Before I have a chance to spell the last name for him, he says, “Greek, right?” I blink at him. “N-i-k-a-s?”
I nod. “Are you Greek?” I ask stupidly.
He smiles and my heart does a little flutter. “No.”
I watch him write my name on the class roster in neat print. “Thank you, Miss Nikas,” he says, and heads back to the front of the class without looking at me again.
Miss Nikas? What the hell?
Maybe I’ll try to sort out why he just called me by my last name after I’m done checking out his ass. It looks perfectly squeezable in his soft, black slacks.
He sets the folder on the teacher’s desk in the corner with a smack, then turns to face the class. Our eyes meet again. I look back at the papers in front of me.
What am I supposed to be doing again? I look around and notice everyone’s pretty much done and waiting for the next step. The class is on the young side, mostly freshmen from the looks of it. I’m probably the only senior in the room.
“Alright, let’s get started,” he says. “Welcome to Introduction to Philosophy. I’m Professor Shane Brooks.”
Professor? Did he say professor?
Oh, help me. I fumble for my schedule. There it is at the top of the page: Professor Brooks.
“I have a bachelors in Philosophy from right here at Hartman,” he continues, “a masters in Philosophy from Tufts University in Massachusetts, and somehow managed to survive the snow. This is my first year teaching at Hartman and I’ll be working on my PhD here as well.”
My god, but he’s pretty.
“I’ll go over your syllabus in a moment, but first we’re going to take a few minutes to introduce ourselves. This class will be heavy with discussion, so I’d like us to start to get to know one another.”
Don’t think about how you’d like to get to know him, I chant to myself. Don’t think about how you’d like to get to know him.
“To begin, tell us your name, your year, your major if you know it, and why you decided to take this class.”
He circles the front table and most of him disappears behind the podium. Okay, that’s better. I can breathe a lot easier now that I don’t have to take in the full package.
Pull yourself together, Isabella!
I look back at the papers in front of me, pretending to read them, though I have no idea what they say. My hands are clasped tightly in front of me.
I’m supposed to look at this professor all year and actually concentrate? Maybe I should’ve taken that education class. I wonder if it’s too late to change.
I glance back up at him. Then again, a little eye candy could fall into the Major Bonus category. Once I get over the initial shock of his looks, I should be able handle his class okay.
Right?
I realize everyone’s looking at me. Professor Brooks’ arms are crossed and he’s watching me with a bemused expression.
Shit. It’s my turn. “I’m Isabella. I’m a senior with a double major in Biology and Chemistry.”
Professor Brooks nods. Damn. He’s so hot I’m actually starting to get wet. I hope I’m not blushing. Get it together, girl!
“And?” he says. He’s giving me that bemused smile again. Who knew a professor in a blazer giving me a bemused smile could be so hot?
I blink. “And? Oh. Right. I’m short some humanities credits for graduation, so here I am.”
“An endearing reason,” he says with a smile, before looking to the next student and indicating it’s her turn.
I’m glad he’s not looking at me anymore because I can’t seem to peel my eyes off him.
Now I know for sure. Taking this class was a horrible, horrible idea.
Chapter 4
I’m sitting on the couch in the living room of our new apartment. Sam, Chloe, Ashley, and I signed a year lease July 1st and I’m thoroughly enjoying being off campus for our senior year. I’ve had enough of dorm living.
Sam’s in her room but Ashley’s on the overstuffed chair across from me. She’s rapidly working her long hair into a single braid. She gave up the double braids, and the beanie, sophomore year.
The Biochemistry, Cell and Molecular Biology GRE Study Guide is open on my lap and I’m just starting a new note card when Chloe walks in the front door.
“You’re back early,” I say. It’s nearly nine at night, but I didn’t expect to see her for the rest of the evening. She’s been out with Brad, missing our tradit
ional start-of-the-year volcano fries expedition to Delsa’s.
“Just picking up my tablet,” she says, her auburn hair bouncing as she trots down the hall.
“There’s a shake in the freezer for you,” Ashley calls after her, her fingers flying. Even after all these years, I’m still impressed by how quickly she manages it. I’ve tried braiding her hair before and it takes me forever.
“Thanks,” Chloe hollers from their room. “I’ll get it later.”
My phone dings. It’s a text from Leo.
Him: We need to talk.
We’ve seen each other a couple times since school started, and it’s only confirmed what I suspected before. This relationship has run its course. I’m pretty sure he’s cooled as much as I have. We’ve had sex once since reuniting and it was about as exciting as a trip to the grocery store.
Me: Yes.
Him: You free now?
I pretty sure I know what’s coming and I really don’t want to get into it tonight.
Chloe comes back down the hallway, her tablet in her hand. She heads for the door, then halts, looking at me. “Oh, what’d the dean want?” she asks.
“Apparently I’m short a humanities credit. I didn’t want to drop any of my classes so he gave me permission to go over the cap. I’m taking Intro to Philosophy.”
She nods in approval. “That’s cool. Have you had your first class yet?”
“Yeah. This afternoon. It’s a new professor. He’s kinda cute.”
There. I said it. I’m officially not withholding anything. Right? Although ‘kinda cute’ might not be quite the right way to describe him.
“That’s a nice change of pace,” Chloe says rolling her eyes. Her phone dings and she bolts. “It’s Brad. Mr. Impatient. Gotta run.” She gives us a smile and a wave and bounds out the door.
I glance out the window, absently watching her climb into Brad’s car.
My mind is back in philosophy class. I admit it. But hey, he was... you know... kinda cute. What girl wouldn’t fantasize about that face a little?
As Brad’s car drives away, Jack’s truck pulls up. He and Sam are heading to the school’s bookstore for their textbooks. No minute like the last minute.
“I’m off too,” Ashley says, tossing her finished braid over her shoulder and hopping off the couch. “I want to grab a practice room before they’re all full.”
Ashley’s a killer pianist and, as far as I can tell, the star of Hartman’s music department. This is something she vigorously denies any time we bring it up. I have no idea why.
When we got this new apartment, I seriously considered buying a piano for her but I knew that’d be crossing a line. They wouldn’t even let me chip in extra on the rent so we could have a four bedroom instead of three. I thought it’d be nice if everyone had their own room, but Ashley and Chloe don’t mind sharing the master.
“We’ve been roommates for three years,” Ashley had said. “No reason to change things now.”
“Plus,” Chloe added, “we get the master bath and that yummy, yummy jetted tub.”
“Hey Jack,” Ashley says now, accepting a kiss on the cheek from him as he comes in. “Bye Jack.”
He shuts the door behind her and scans the living room with a grin. His eyes land on me. “Hey Bella Babe. Where’s Sam?”
“’Bout time you got your sorry ass here,” Sam says, coming down the hall. “They close in fifteen minutes.”
“Plenty of time,” he says, grinning. “We should be quick, though. I’m taking Missy to the club tonight.”
“I thought you were taking Katrina,” I say.
“She had to cancel, but to make up for it she’s taking me to dinner at The Iron House tomorrow night.”
“Score,” Sam says, approving.
I don’t know how Jack keeps all his women straight, but he seems to manage somehow.
Sam grabs her purse from the side table and they head for the door.
“Oh!” I say dumping my book off my lap and jumping off the couch. I run for my purse. “Will you pick up whatever it is I need for Intro to Philosophy?”
“Just come with us,” Sam says.
“Please, please, please,” I say, bringing over some cash.
Sam gives me a look.
“Jack?” I say, holding out the money, tilting my head, and giving him my best puppy-dog eyes.
He takes the money and I give him a kiss on the cheek.
“If you spoil the children, they’ll be impossible to live with,” Sam tells him as they head down the walkway.
“I love you!” I call.
Without turning around, they both raise their hands in a wave.
Before I return to the couch, my phone dings again.
Leo: Bella?
I forgot he’d asked to see me tonight.
Me: Tomorrow?
It takes him a couple minutes to respond. 2pm? Coffee at Java Hut?
It’s the perfect place for a break up. I sigh. I guess we may as well get it over with.
Me: Okay.
I return to my studying, or try to anyway. My mind’s all over the place. I decide I need to burn off some pent up energy. I abandon my book in the living room, change into my suit, and head for the school’s lap pool.
While swimming laps is a near-daily workout for me, tonight it has the extra bonus of clearing my head. I most often swim in the mornings, but what I like about late-night swims is the solitude. The pool is rarely occupied at this hour.
I finish my final cool down lap with a long, underwater stretch. Breaking the surface, I tilt my head back and run my hands over my hair to smooth out the water. Opening my eyes, who should I see walking through the door but Professor Brooks himself?
He’s not in a blazer and soft slacks this time. Oh no. He’s in swim trunks and a t-shirt that just hints at some serious muscle underneath. Even from this distance I can tell his arms are hard and sinewy. A towel is slung casually over one broad shoulder.
So much for clearing my head.
Our eyes meet and he halts.
“Oh—” he says.
“Professor Brooks.”
“Miss Nikas.”
I blink at him stupidly.
“Sorry,” he says. “I was told there usually aren’t any students here this hour.”
“Usually not,” I say. “I don’t usually come at night either. I usually swim in the morning, but I had a conflict.” I’m rambling, and entirely overusing the word ‘usually’, so I clamp my mouth shut.
“I can come back later,” he says, gesturing toward the door and halfway turning, offering to go.
I take a steadying breath. Why am I being such an idiot?
“No, no. It’s okay. There’s nothing that says professors can’t use this pool, too. I’m done anyway.”
I lift myself onto the edge, water streaming off my body. Even though I always feel a bit self-conscious in a suit—even the simple swimmers one-piece I’m wearing—something about being alone in here with Professor Gorgeous has me feeling extra exposed.
When I glance at him—still standing there, watching me—he jolts into motion and heads for one of the concrete benches lining the walls. I likewise head for my towel, on the bench freaking right next to the one he chooses.
“Are you on the swim team here?” he asks as he tosses his towel onto the bench.
“No, I did that in high school, though,” I say, watching him kick off his sandals. God, is he going to remove his shirt?
I don’t care if he is my professor, I really, really want him to remove that shirt. It’s not a sin to look is it?
“I was in diving, too,” I say, starting to dry off. “But I’m not really interested in competing anymore.”
“Do you play any other sports?”
“No. I’m not too good at anything that involves a ball.”
He gives me a funny look and I realize how that must have sounded. My cheeks are burning so I toss the towel over my head and start drying my hair.
He do
esn’t say anything off-color though. Instead he asks, “You don’t like basketball?”
“Why does everyone think I like basketball just because I’m tall?” I say from underneath the towel.
He laughs and I peek out from behind the towel. I like his laugh.
He pulls his shirt over his head and oh my god this guy is cut. I take in his broad chest and abs as much as I can but he’s looking at me again and I can’t stand here ogling over my freaking philosophy professor.
I look down at my cover up, resting on the bench, and absently rub my hair with the towel. What am I supposed to be doing?
“So what was your conflict?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“You said you usually swim in the morning.”
“Oh.” I grab my cover up and throw it on. Well, that’s a little better. “I had some work to do with my lab team. It was the only time they could all meet and I’m fine swimming in the evenings.”
“That’s right, you’re a biology major. Also, what was it, chemistry?”
I nod, pleased that he remembered.
“What are you planning on doing with your majors?”
“I want to get my master’s in microbiology. I’ve been studying up for the Biochemistry GRE. I’d like to research diseases.”
He raises his eyebrows and nods. “Nice. That makes me think of an article I read lately about a breakthrough they’ve made with Alzheimer’s.”
I blink at him. “The one in Scientific American?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Pretty exciting stuff.”
“It is!” I say, stepping closer to him, forgetting for a moment about his chest and his cuteness and his professor-ness. “They’re getting closer to a cure all the time.”
“Can’t happen too soon,” he says. “What I found most interesting about the article is how they figured out how to grow the proteins they needed.”
