by Noelle Adams
But after being here for just a month, somehow Max managed to talk her into the change.
Every week, students linger to talk to him long after his class is over, and this is noteworthy since students usually rush out of class before the professor manages to get the final word said.
I do understand why Max has had such an impact on a small campus like Milford. He’s sexy, successful, and single, and he has a natural kind of charisma that makes people want to be around him.
But it bothers me. That he has so easily and quickly made his mark here when I’m still struggling to make my voice heard, even with more than two years under my belt and a full-time position.
I don’t like men for whom things come so easily. Men who women make goo-goo eyes at. It reminds me of Ron, who could always talk me into anything.
So I’m holding back a frown as I pass his classroom and look in.
It’s a studio painting class, so the room is set up with easels instead of desks. Max is there at the front of the room, propped on the edge of the instructor’s desk as he always is. And there are several students gathered around him—mostly female. That’s not unusual either.
I’m hit by the same rush of electricity I always feel when I see him.
That annoys me too. There’s no reason for me to be this attracted to a man I’ve only ever seen from a distance.
He’s probably not even six feet tall, but he’s got broad shoulders, great arms, a fit body, and a stance of relaxed strength. He’s got longish brown hair with a sprinkling of gray, and his face is broad and attractive with striking silvery gray eyes.
He has an air of laid-back authority. An intelligent sophistication that doesn’t try very hard. That’s the only way I know to describe it.
He’s probably the most attractive man I’ve ever seen—his appeal being his visceral sexiness rather than perfect features—and he clearly doesn’t even try.
He doesn’t try.
That’s what bugs me about him the most.
I’m fighting the surge of excitement as my eyes meet his from the hallway. He’s looking at me between the surrounding students. He keeps talking—never falters in whatever he’s telling them—but his eyes hold mine for longer than they should.
I don’t smile. Neither does he. We just look at each other as I keep walking until I’m out of his range of sight.
I’m breathless as I pick up my pace to leave the building.
It’s ridiculous. Ridiculous. That I’m this stimulated by holding a man’s gaze for a few seconds. I don’t know anything about him. It’s entirely possible he’s an entitled, arrogant jerk. But nothing in a whole week has gotten me going like this has.
Just another reason why I need to do better.
I shouldn’t be this absorbed in the fantasy of a man.
The truth is I know nothing about Maxwell Wentworth III, so even my attraction and excitement are based in fantasy rather than reality.
And one thing I’ve learned for sure.
Reality can never live up.
Two
THE FOLLOWING DAY, I’m working in my little office when Martha comes to see me. She’s an attractive woman in her sixties with salt-and-pepper hair, an elegant manner, and a softly twangy Southern accent.
She’s a pretty good boss overall. The only thing I don’t like about her is her reluctance to change—which means any suggestion I have for improving the effectiveness of the library is met with endless debate and delay.
Otherwise, she’s an incredibly kind woman who is unfailingly courteous and giggles like a girl when something is funny.
She comes in and sits in the one side chair that fits into my office, so I know she has something to say beyond a general greeting. She’s smiling, however, so it can’t be bad news.
She makes pleasant small talk for a couple of minutes before she gets down to business. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to help with a library exhibit coming up.”
“Of course I will,” I say, perking up at the thought of doing something new. “Does the history department want to do one like they did last year?”
“No. Not the history department. The art department.”
My heart makes a weird little flutter, but I pretend it doesn’t. “Oh. Okay. For the new display space?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“I wouldn’t be any good at art placement or anything like that. I assume the art folks would handle that part of it.”
“They will. But it seems this first round of paintings are all inspired by books, and the young man I spoke to would like to have the inspiring books on display, so you’ll need to work with him to find the editions he wants to include.”
“Oh. Okay.” She said young man, which doesn’t sound like an appropriate description of Max Wentworth. He’s got to be close to forty. Maybe it’s a student in the art department who’s organizing the thing. “I’ll be happy to help however I can. Is it Professor Carter I’d work with? Or maybe a student?”
Martha shakes her head. “Oh no, hon. It’s that new adjunct instructor who’s teaching the studio classes. A very pleasant fellow. I think you’ll find him easy to work with.”
I swallow hard. “His name is Max Wentworth?”
“Yes, that’s him. You’ve met him?”
“No. Not yet. But I’ve heard people talking about him.”
My heart isn’t fluttering anymore. It’s racing. I’m telling myself it’s a reluctant kind of nervousness, but I know very well it’s excitement.
I’ll be working with Max.
I’ll be in the same room.
I’ll actually have to talk to him.
Swallowing over my rising emotions, I respond to the few more comments that Martha makes about the project.
She’s rising to her feet when she says, “He said he’ll stop by shortly after five today to discuss the exhibit with you, so I hope you don’t mind staying a few minutes late. I know it will put you out a bit, but he has a regular job and he can’t get over here until then.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be happy to stay and talk with him.”
Martha seems pleased with my attitude and the results of the conversation as she leaves, and I’m left sitting at my desk, trying to control my fast breathing and shaking hands.
What the hell is even wrong with me? There’s absolutely no reason for this reaction.
It’s just a job. He’ll probably be friendly with me, as that seems to be his normal manner, but nothing further is going to come of this.
Maybe I’ll discover I don’t like him so I won’t have to wait with bated breath for our eyes to meet every Tuesday night.
That would be a good thing.
I’m taking a break from dating so I can focus on myself. I definitely don’t need this kind of distraction.
And I already know that Maxwell Wentworth III is going to be a distraction for me.
IT TAKES A LOT OF MENTAL maneuvering, but I manage not to obsess about my appointment with Max for the rest of the day. It’s not until four thirty that I have trouble thinking of anything else.
At just before five, I go to the bathroom and check my appearance in the mirror over the sink.
My fine, wavy hair falls to just past my shoulders, and I usually leave it loose. But for some reason I want to look particularly professional when I meet him, so I pull it back into a low ponytail. The hairdo is too severe for my face. My cheekbones stand out starkly, and my blue eyes appear far too big in my small face. Instinctively I start to pull the ponytail loose, but I resist the impulse.
It doesn’t matter if I don’t look pretty right now.
Better to not look pretty. Not that I think he’s going to be blown away by my appearance but so that I don’t start thinking in the wrong direction regarding him.
I powder away some of the shininess of my nose and am about to reapply lip gloss when I stop myself from doing that too.
I’m not—not—trying to look pretty for him.
I’m not going to let
myself.
It’s harder than it should be to leave the bathroom without seeing a reflection I’m happy with in the mirror, but I manage.
I’ve straightened up some of the mess on my desk and am replying to an email that just came in when there’s a tap on my half-open door.
“Katrina Pierce?”
I would have recognized his voice even if I hadn’t expected his arrival. My whole body breaks out in shivers. I take a deep breath before I turn my chair slowly to face the doorway. “Yes,” I say with a smile that’s appropriately professional. “I’m Katrina.”
I’m looking at him when he first takes in my appearance, so I see his reaction. It’s clearly displayed on his handsome face.
I see him recognize me. Then I see surprise. He hadn’t known before this moment that the woman who walks by his classroom every Tuesday night is the Katrina Pierce he’s meeting today.
And then I see another expression. I’m not sure what it is, but if I had to guess, I would have said relief.
He mutters something under his breath. It sounds like, “Thank God you’re not a student.”
I frown in confusion as I stand up and come around the desk to shake his hand. “Of course I’m not a student. I’m full-time staff here. Did Martha make you think you were going to work with one of our work-study students?”
He shakes my hand and doesn’t immediately let it go, his expression relaxing into that smile I recognize from seeing it in his classroom. It’s a slow smile. Warm. Leisurely. Compelling. Open. Like he’s holding nothing back from the person he’s talking to.
I know it’s got to be an act. Everyone holds something back. Everyone. Especially with a stranger. But it’s impossible not to feel like he’s drawing me into an intimate conversation, like he’s looking at me like I’m special.
I’m not special—at least not to him. He’s just met me, and he smiles at everyone like this.
I’m not going to get drawn in here.
“No, no, nothing like that. I just didn’t know that the person I was meeting today was you.” He pauses, his gray eyes studying me with an almost amused scrutiny. “You walk by my classroom on Tuesday nights.”
“Oh yes.” I say that like I’m making the connection, but I suspect he’s not convinced. “I work at the library late on Tuesdays, and walking through the classroom building is the shortest route home.”
“Ah. I see.” His smile is deepening. Warming.
Oh God, how is he doing this to me? My whole body is vibrating with excitement, and my heart is pounding so loudly I’m afraid he might be able to hear it.
He’s still holding my hand. His is big and warm and strong and... Shit. I draw my hand back abruptly.
I clear my throat and make a valiant effort to pull myself together. “Please have a seat. You wanted to talk about the art exhibit?”
I feel better when I’ve returned to my chair and put my desk between us, although my hand still tingles from the feel of his.
“Yeah. Thanks for helping us out with it. Did Martha tell you about it?”
“She said the paintings are all inspired by books, and you wanted to include copies of the books in the exhibit somehow.”
He nods, slouching slightly in the seat. He looks too big for the small leather chair. He feels too big for the office.
He seems to fill all the extra space in the small room.
“Yes. So I’m hoping it’s all right with you if the kids specify what kind of edition of each book we use.”
“Um, yeah, to a certain extent. The library can’t afford first editions.”
“Oh, of course not. Not like that. I just mean some will want paperbacks. Some will want books that look old—not valuable books just old-looking. That kind of thing. I’ll make sure they know they have to work with whatever you can easily find and afford. A few of them want to use their personal copies of the books, if that’s okay.”
I’m relieved that this sounds like a fairly reasonable project. “Yes, that would be fine. Martha’s given me a budget to work with. It’s not a huge amount, but I’ll be able to buy reasonably priced books for all twenty-one students.” I checked the class enrollment shortly after my conversation with Martha so I’d know how many books I’d need to come up with. “Do you have the list yet?”
“I have a list of the titles, but I haven’t gotten edition preferences from all my students yet. I’ve told them I need the final list by next Tuesday night. Will that give you enough time?”
“Yes, that should be fine.” I’m desperately trying not to stare at his big hands, the bristles on his strong jaw. He’s wearing a pair of faded jeans and a camp shirt, so he obviously doesn’t have to dress up for work. His forearms are sexy and masculine.
Just like all the rest of him.
I wonder if he’s a painter too. I wonder what it would feel like for him to paint all over my naked body.
The surge of heat that rushes through me is so intense that I jerk my head away from him. I’m throbbing between my legs. Literally throbbing.
From nothing more than being in the same room with him.
This doesn’t happen to me, and I don’t know how to handle it.
I don’t like it. He’s somehow doing this to me without adjusting his normal laid-back demeanor.
I catch my breath and give him another professional smile. “Okay. Well, as soon as you have the final list, email it to me, and I’ll start working on it.” I dig in the top drawer of my desk—which is filled with pens and sugar packets and random sheets of paper—until I find one of my business cards.
They gave me a box of them when I started my job, and I’ve only used a few of them. Maybe some people still use business cards, but it’s not me at all. But this seems like a good way to end the conversation before I do something genuinely embarrassing. I hand him the card and add, “My contact information is here.”
He accepts the card, his fingers brushing against mine and generating more of those tingles. He’s smiling as he asks, “Are you always this abrupt?”
“Abrupt?”
“You’re rushing me out of here. Is it me, or do you just not like to stay past five o’clock?”
He doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks even more amused.
His expression unsettles me even more. “I don’t mean to be abrupt. I just thought we covered what we needed to cover.”
“Did you?”
He’s laughing at me. Silently but obviously. I frown and narrow my eyes.
He tilts his head. “Now you’re annoyed with me. What did I do?”
“You didn’t do anything.”
He raises his thick, dark eyebrows.
I let out a breath. “You look like you’re laughing at me, and like everyone else, I don’t actually like it when people laugh at me.”
He seems to take my response seriously because he thinks before he speaks. “I wasn’t laughing. I was smiling.”
“Your smile looked unreasonably amused.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I was amused but not because I was laughing at you. Because you were trying to get rid of me, and I’m not used to that happening to me.”
“I can imagine,” I mutter dryly, feeling better since he seems to be telling me the truth.
“Why can you imagine?”
“Because you’re one of those guys who can talk people into doing anything.” I speak the words as an obvious truth. Inarguable. It’s as clear to me as anything has ever been. “So I’d imagine most people aren’t trying to get rid of you.”
“So why are you?”
“I’m not trying to get rid of you. I thought the conversation had reached a natural end.” Despite my nerves and confused attraction, I’m starting to enjoy the conversation. It feels like a verbal duel.
He leans forward in his chair, his eyes holding mine. “And I don’t believe it had.”
I gulp. “What else is there to say?”
“How long have you worked at Milford?”
“Two and a ha
lf years.”
“And what were you doing before that?”
“I was in grad school.”
“How long did it take you to get your degree?”
This is a strange question, and I pause as I stare at him. He looks interested, so it seems to have been genuine. I say, slowly, “Two and a half years. I was working full time at the same time to support me and...”
I was about to say “me and Ron,” but that’s not actually any of this man’s business.
“And what?”
I shrug. “Nothing.”
“Do you have kids?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. My boyfriend at the time was in med school, so I had to help with living expenses.”
He’s frowning now. “The way you said it before sounds like more than helping. Why did you have to work full time while you got your degree when he didn’t?”
The answer is simple. He didn’t think library science was as important or difficult as medical school. And for all I know he was right. It bugged me a little then, and it bugs me even more now—that I worked really hard to help support Ron only to have him cheat on me.
I’m feeling kind of heavy and resigned as I tell Max the truth. “I’m the one who went along with it. I was only twenty-two when I started grad school. I think we do a lot of things when we’re young that we wouldn’t do again.”
“Yeah. That’s for sure. And it doesn’t actually seem fair that we have to make so many life-changing decisions about school and jobs and relationships when we aren’t necessarily mature enough to make the best ones.”
I smile at him, filled with an odd kind of gratitude at being understood, affirmed even in my stupidity. “That’s so true.”
“So I take it you’re not with that guy anymore?”
“No. I stayed with him way too long though. We broke up last August.”
“Anyone since?”
I shake my head, responding before I think through the fact that this too isn’t really his business.
“So you were two and a half years in grad school and more than two years here. You’re twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?”
“Twenty-seven.” I peer at him, trying to understand the expression I’m seeing on his face. “Why does that matter?”
