“That we’re on equal ground.” She walks toward me, her back straight with confidence, but her eyes lower with restraint. “We’re just two normal people setting up for an event.”
I can’t help the disappointment of her words, but I know she’s right. As much as I know she feels what I feel, I have to be careful about my approach. I know she battles with anxiety, but I hadn’t considered her fear of getting close to people.
I can’t say I blame her, though. Without knowing her entire back-story, I know I can relate just from my past alone.
I just have to figure out how to crack her, get her to say what she’s really feeling.
After checking the list again, I see after landscapes, it’s abstracts, and then portraits and pastels. We’re each working on a different wall when Aunt Mel comes in to check on us. She’s working with the curator and Christine on setting up everything else. Tables, booklets, silent auction pieces. She looks stressed out and a bit over-caffeinated.
“How’s everything going in here? Doing all right? Need anything? Perhaps some water? Is the temperature okay in here for you guys?”
Aspen spins around slowly, wide-eyed and pursing her lips together. “Everything is fine,” she replies sincerely. “It’s coming together.”
“Good. Great. Okay then. Holler if you need me!” She waves quickly before nearly running out.
“I’m starting to see the resemblance.” Aspen laughs.
“How so?”
“Highly energetic. A bit crazy.” Her lips tilt in a taunting grin. “Obsessive.”
“Perhaps that’s just the nature of the Hampton genes.”
“No, I’d say it’s more nurture than nature.”
“Oh,” I say with a laugh. “I didn’t realize this turned into a psychoanalysis review.”
“Well, Professor Hampton…” she drawls out slowly, seducing me with her voice, “just because you’re the teacher doesn’t mean I can’t teach you a thing or two.”
I’m two seconds away from rounding the table in front of me and pushing her up against the wall, demanding that she show me when another visitor interrupts my thoughts.
“Oh my God, A! You’ll never believe—”
I turn and meet Aspen’s friend, Kendall, as she freezes mid-sentence when she notices me. “Oh, hi, Morgan.”
“Hi, Kendall.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but Ms. Jones just flew up the stairs screaming…in Spanish.” Her eyes light up and she starts giggling. “Shane fucked something up in security real bad. You should go save your boyfriend before Ms. Jones bursts of an aneurysm.” She nudges her with her elbow.
My brows rise at the mention of the word boyfriend. I turn my back and continue working to avoid looking interested in their conversation. The last thing I need is her friend to get suspicious of my feelings for her.
“Shane doesn’t even speak Spanish.” Aspen deadpans.
“I know. That’s just how mad she is.” Kendall giggles.
“It’s so unhealthy how crazy she gets before these events.” I hear Aspen setting things back down on the table.
“She needs a valium,” Kendall adds.
“Well, I’ll go see if I can do anything although I doubt it. Ms. Jones can be stubborn.”
“Stubborn?” Kendall asks in a mock tone. “That’s putting it lightly.”
I hear the clacking of shoes as Kendall walks away, leaving Aspen and me alone again. “I can go talk to her if you’d like.” I turn and face her already facing me. “See if I can help your boyfriend out.”
An amused expression flashes over her face as she bounces her feet from left to right. “No, it’s fine. I’m kind of used to it. After three years, you kind of learn to get out of Ms. Jones’ way during times like these.”
“Ah…high-stressed.”
“Just a bit.” She smiles. The awkward tension in the air is killing me, and so I suggest taking a break.
“Yeah, sure. I could use a drink anyway.”
“Great, I’ll meet you back in like ten minutes.”
“Perfect.” She smiles, but it’s forced. I flash one back at her and walk away, defeated and feeling hopeless.
I walk upstairs and find Aunt Mel in her office. Her brows are furrowed and her body tense. “Everything okay?”
“Jesus, Morgan. You scared the living daylights out of me.” She places a hand on her chest.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I just heard you were having some issues and wanted to see if I could help.”
“Oh, you sweet boy.” Her lips spread into a genuine smile at the mention of the nickname she used to call me as a child. “It’s nothing. Just some of my idiot security team ordered the wrong part, and now I have to rush ship it here in time for the gala. Big event means more surveillance.”
I step inside her office and stand in front of her desk across from her. “Well, if you need anything, let me know. I have my mom taking Natalia to her therapy tonight.”
“Oh, how is she doing?”
“She’s…making some progress.” I shrug. “Baby steps.”
She frowns. “That poor child. She’s lucky she has you, Morgan.” Her lips curl back up into a sweet, sympathetic smile. “You’re good for her.”
My lips turn up. “No…I think she’s the one who’s good for me.” I wink before walking out and head back down the hallway.
Three guys in security shirts are standing in the hallway, and I find myself eyeing them up, wondering which one of them is Shane. I know it’s stupid to even compare, but I can’t help wanting to know considering I’d even asked her if she had a boyfriend and she’d told me no.
Perhaps she lied.
As I round the corner toward the staircase, I hear one of the guys yell out Shane’s name. “You’re in so much shit, dude.” One laughs.
“Ms. Jones is going to skin your ass and hang it up on display.” The other joins in.
I turn around just in time to hear his response. “Fuck you, guys. Ms. Jones should order her own shit then.”
My jaw ticks at the sound of his disrespectful tone toward my aunt. I’m tempted to turn around and beat the guy’s face in when I spot Kendall coming up the stairs toward me. “Hey! Did you see where Aspen went?”
I brush a hand through my hair to calm my nerves. “Uh, no. She mentioned getting a drink or something.”
“Oh, okay. Probably went to go straighten Shane’s ass out then.” She laughs and my fists tighten. “If you see her before I do, let her know I’m leaving early.”
“Sure, will do.” She walks past me and heads up the stairs.
My head is a mess, but I know I have to get my shit together. Aspen isn’t mine, and technically, she’s off-limits. Ever since the first tour, Aunt Mel hasn’t stopped talking to me about her. About how she’s like a daughter to her. How she’s come from a rough past. How she’s one of the hardest working employees she’s had and how she feels protective over her well-being.
I exhale a frustrated breath as I walk back toward the front of the gallery.
“Oh, hey!” Aspen calls out as soon as she sees me walk in. “I think we’re almost done with organizing in here. We just need to reposition the lighting above yet.”
“Sure,” I mutter out a short response. “I’m surprised you’re back already.”
“Oh, yeah. I just grabbed a quick bottle of water from the vending machine. I’ll eat when I get home. I have some studying to do anyway.”
“I figured you’d be with your boyfriend,” I blurt out, trying to make my voice sound as casual as possible. “You could’ve taken a longer break. I wouldn’t have minded,” I lie but sound completely genuine.
She tilts her head at me and frowns. “He’s not my boyfriend.” She shifts her eyes back down to the table and grabs another piece. “Not even close.”
“Really?” I raise my brows.
“I don’t have a boyfriend, remember?”
“I do. I just haven’t figured out why not.”
She gives me a stunned look. “I just don’t.” She shrugs, but I know there’s more to it—much more.
I want to press for more, but given the fact that we’re surrounded by gallery employees and anyone could be listening in, I don’t.
But that doesn’t stop me from thinking of every possible way to bring it up later.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ASPEN
Working side by side with Professor Hampton has felt intoxicating. I’ve felt high most of the day. In fact, I feel that way every time I’m near him. He just…he makes me feel so nervous and giddy. It’s like a combination of a six-year-old just finding out she’s going to Disney World and going to an interview for your dream job.
It’s a pile of mixed emotions, but there’s also the fear.
I don’t date for that very reason. I chose not to get too close to guys to keep from getting attached, but I haven’t even kissed him, and I already feel attached.
“So what made you choose CSLA?” he casually asks as we fold the tables down.
“It was as far away from home as I could possibly get,” I reply a bit too honestly. He tilts his head up and looks at me as if he’s trying to read me. “I’m from Illinois originally. I didn’t want to stick around after high school.”
“That’s understandable. I think most kids your age like to get away for college.”
Most kids? I brush it off and ask him the same. “What about you? Where’d you come from?”
“From here originally. Then I moved to Ohio for a job.”
“And?” I probe as we move the tables off to the side.
“And what?”
I suspect he’s not telling me the whole story although I can’t really blame him. It doesn’t stop me from trying to get it out of him, however. “And why are you now back in California? Where’d you teach before that? Why’d you move? Give me something…”
“I got my heart broken and needed to get out of town. I taught part-time at Ohio University but had some things here I needed to take care of so I came back and found a job at CSLA.”
“Add in a dog custody battle and you’ve got yourself a country song.”
He snorts.
“So what made you want to major in art history?”
“Wanted to incorporate something I’m passionate about into a future career,” I say, reciting my usual generic response I give to anyone who asks about my major.
He stops what he’s doing and stares at me. “That’s the biggest piece of bullshit I’ve ever heard.”
I glare at him. “It’s not bullshit. It’s the truth.”
“You know how I know it’s bullshit?” he asks, and I flash him a bemused expression.
“Please tell.”
“Your left eye twitches. That’s a dead giveaway.”
I’m suddenly hyper-aware of my eyes, wondering if it really does twitch. “Maybe I just have a twitching problem.” I fold my arms over my chest. “I’m actually quite sensitive about it.”
“Is that so?”
“It is,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Well, then I apologize for my rudeness.” I can tell he’s mocking me, but I’m not about to give in to the fact that he caught me lying.
“Thank you.” I can feel the tension in the air between us getting thicker and thicker. My pussy clenches at the thought of his full lips on mine…kissing, licking, sucking.
I blink the fantasy away.
He smirks, obviously not buying any of the shit I’m feeding him. However, I’m not about to go down memory lane with a guy I hardly know. A guy who’s my professor nonetheless.
“What did you major in?” I find myself asking to fill in the silence as we walk out of the room. “Something in philosophy?” I guess, knowing most students majoring in philosophy end up in a completely different career.
The corner of his lip curls up in amusement. “Biology.”
“Biology?” I ask in surprise. “How’d that happen?”
He glances over with a shrug. “I was making a political statement.”
“Ah…defiance against your parents.”
“Exactly.”
“So, how’d that pan out for you?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I dropped out in my third year.” I raise a brow, urging him to explain more. “I told my parents I needed to take a year off to ‘self-reflect.’”
“Ah…self-reflection. The best excuse to take off from college.”
“It was.” He smiles. “I did a little of everything. I started reading and writing for fun. Eventually, I branched out into drawing and painting. Then I tried learning the guitar.”
“So what made you stick with drawing and painting?” I ask as we slow down to a halt, facing each other chest to chest.
“Ended up being the only thing I was good at.”
I burst out in laughter.
“You think that’s funny?” he challenges, taking a step and closing the gap between us.
“No…I…” I place a hand over my mouth, trying to conceal the laughter bubbling up in my throat. “It’s actually pretty pathetic. Sad even.”
He rubs his fingers along his square jawline, a wicked grin forming on his lips. “I’m going to let that one pass,” he states. I focus on his hands and his lips, at the same time, wondering how they’d feel on me…his lips soft and sweet, and his hands greedy and firm.
“You know, it’s probably not too late to reconsider putting one of your pieces in the student section.”
I blink. “Huh?”
“For the gala. Are you scared?” He takes a step, and I walk side by side with him again.
“No.”
“C’mon. Just one piece. It could be a canvas of a gorilla even.” He flashes me a teasing grin.
“I don’t paint gorillas.”
“Dogs?”
“No.”
“Sunsets?”
“Nope.”
“Landscapes? Trees? Trees are a popular choice. You could do a full, green leafed tree, or fall colors like reds and yellows, or could even add a brook streaming nearby. Add in a sunset and you’re golden.”
I really wish he’d stop talking. The moment he mentions trees, my body tightens, and I hold my breath.
“Or we could always make a bet. I win, you have to put something in, you win—” He pauses briefly. “Aspen?” He tilts his head and steps closer. “Are you okay? You aren’t blinking.”
“No, I just need a moment.”
“What’s wrong? You’re pale.”
“I’ll be okay, just need a moment,” I repeat while trying to focus on getting my senses back.
“You’re not okay. Are you having an anxiety attack?”
Yes. “No.”
“Yes, you are. Sit down.”
I comply and sit on the chair he grabs for me. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. Good air in, bad air out. I imagine my whole body relaxing, starting with my toes and working my way to my head. By the time I get to my hips, my heart rate has lowered and my breaths are less labored. I continue through the breathing technique, more so that I have an excuse to avoid the questions I know Morgan is going to have once I feel normal.
“Doing all right?” he asks, still kneeling down in front of me. His hand brushes against my cheek, brushing a piece of my hair that fell out of my ponytail behind my ear. “You scared me there for a moment.”
I nod, keeping my eyes low to the ground, embarrassment flushing my cheeks. “Yes, I think so.”
“Can I get you anything? Water? Crackers? Soup?”
I lift my eyes to him and snort. “I’m not sick,” I remind him. “But thank you. I’ll be all right.”
He continues staring at me for what feels like minutes but is only a few seconds. He’s got that look in his eyes, that very look I dread anytime someone sees me like this. I feel weak and helpless, and I hate that look.
“You should go home. I can finish…” he begins, but I cut him off.
“It’s my sister.” I close my eyes an
d exhale.
“What?”
“She fell from a tree,” I explain. “That’s how she died,” I clarify and open my eyes to him focusing on mine. “I watched her fall to her death.”
“Oh my God, Aspen…” he gasps, his features drop in a frown. “I’m so sorry.”
“She’s the reason I started painting in the first place. I needed an outlet, a way to express my emotions.”
“She’s your muse.”
“Yes. I paint her to keep her alive. I know it sounds stupid—”
“Not at all.”
“I’m afraid I’ll forget her. That day after day after day, I’ll forget what her voice sounded like. How her obnoxious dancing made me laugh until I cried. How her smile and laughter were contagious.” A tear slides down my cheek, and I close my eyes to keep them in. “I feel so guilty.”
“Aspen,” he says softly. “Aspen, look at me,” he demands, but I can’t do it. I squeeze my eyes tighter, hating that I’m sitting in front of my panty-melting hot professor crying like a two-year-old. I feel his fingers press under my chin, tilting my face up. My eyes reluctantly open, grabbing my attention back to him. “There you are.” He smiles sweetly. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”
“I can’t believe that. I was up there with her. Her hand was in my hand, her eyes pleading for me to save her. I should’ve fought harder.”
“If it was her destiny, you couldn’t have,” he says genuinely, but I hate the truth in his words.
“You believe in destiny?” More tears slip down my cheek, my throat burning with every beat in my chest.
He sucks on his lower lip for a moment before responding, “Yes. I do.”
I lower my eyes and whisper, “I’m not sure what I believe in anymore.”
“It can’t be easy losing someone so close to you, especially at a young age.”
“She was my identical twin,” I say, lowering my eyes. “Not easy doesn’t even touch the surface.”
“You hadn’t told me that before.”
I look up, his eyes lost but filled with concern. “Like I said, I don’t like to talk about her.”
“You can always talk to me about her. Or even just about how you’re feeling.”
“Why?”
Pushing the Limits: A Student/Teacher Romance Page 14
