by Noelle Adams
“It doesn’t. Just curious.” He’s giving me that warm smile again—slightly ironic, slightly amused, completely irresistible.
“Since we’re asking each other personal questions that have nothing to do with the exhibit, how old are you?” I never would have asked such a question had he not riled me up so much.
He laughs. “I’m thirty-nine. I’ve had a lot more years than you have to make mistakes in relationships. And one of them was a twelve-year marriage.”
“Oh. Wow.” It shouldn’t surprise me that he’s been married and divorced at his age, but it bothers me a little. That some other woman claimed him as hers for twelve years.
It’s a completely unreasonable and unjustified feeling, so I force it away.
Because I’m having inappropriate responses to this topic, I search for a new one. “So why did you start teaching here? You have a regular job, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I have my own business as a graphic artist, but I’ve been doing it for a long time, and a lot of the projects I get are...” He makes a face. “I appreciate all the work that comes in, but a lot of them aren’t very exciting. I wanted a challenge. Something different. And I wanted to get back into the studio. I was talking to Bert Carter last year, and he mentioned he’s had a hard time finding someone qualified to teach the studio classes. I’ve got an MFA as well as professional experience, so this has become my new challenge.”
“And how have you liked it so far?”
“I’ve really enjoyed it. I like working with students, and there’s a really good group here. It’s nice to be able to share what I know.”
I open my mouth to tell him how I want to teach a few English classes after I get my master’s in English, but that feels like too much.
If I keep sharing personal stuff with him, I’m going to start to feel close to him. On top of this intense attraction I feel for him, I’d be in very bad shape.
“What were you going to say?” Max asks, leaning forward again in that way he has. Like I’m the most important thing in the world.
“Nothing. And now we’ve had a real conversation so you can’t tell me I’m too abrupt when I say it’s been nice to meet you.”
He chuckles and stands up, clearly hearing the dismissal in my tone. “Well, it feels kind of abrupt to me, but I’ll live with it.”
I stand up and move around the desk to walk him to the door. I don’t know why. I really should have stayed with a desk safely between us.
He reaches for my hand again. “It’s been very nice to meet you, Katrina Pierce.”
His voice is slightly husky as he says my name. My cheeks warm. My body vibrates. “It’s nice to meet you too. Just email me the list when you get it next Tuesday.”
“I will. Or you can stop by the classroom on your way home next Tuesday, and I can hand it to you in person.”
“Oh. Uh, sure. That would be fine too.” He’s still holding my hand, and I can’t bring myself to pull mine away yet.
“Good. I’ll see you next Tuesday then.”
“Okay. See you.”
When he finally releases my hand, mine hangs in the air stupidly for a moment before I remember to drop it.
He gives me that intimate smile before he turns down the hall.
I watch him until he disappears. He’s got long legs and a great ass.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Everything about him seems designed to attract me. But I’m not going to let it distract me from my plan.
My life isn’t anywhere close to being what I want yet, and I’m not going to get absorbed by a guy—any guy—until it is.
MAX EMAILS ME THE NEXT morning at just before ten. I’m working at my desk, so I see the message as soon as the alert pops up in the corner of my screen.
Katrina, thanks for helping me with the exhibit. I was happy to meet you yesterday, and I appreciate your staying late to talk to me. Looking forward to seeing this through to the end. Max.
I read the message with a held breath. Don’t ask me why. I literally don’t breathe as I read it. Then I read the short note again and then a third time.
It’s just a nice message. He’s being friendly. Polite. Trying to make connections at Milford since he evidently wants to keep teaching here.
It doesn’t mean anything more than that, and I’d be a fool if I assumed that it did.
But still. I read it through a fourth time, focusing on the final sentence. He’s talking about seeing through the exhibit project to the end. Obviously. No reason for me to get chills.
I do like that he uses “your” correctly before a gerund. Most people don’t use the possessive in conversation, so it’s falling out of use in written language too. But he’s using it right—even in a casual note.
I like way too many things about this guy.
I close out the note and start to delete it so I can work on putting it out of my mind, but then I remember that I should probably reply.
Not right away. That would look too eager. I’ve got to wait at least an hour.
I make it about forty minutes before the unanswered, undeleted email nags at me too much, so I rush through a response so I can be done with it.
No problem. Happy to help. Just email me the list when you have it ready. K.
I stare at the K for way too long. It’s how I normally close out informal emails, but I suddenly wonder if it looks too young. Too casual for a man who uses “your” correctly before a gerund.
I’m about to write out my full name when I realize what I’m doing.
The same thing I always do.
Shaping myself around what a guy might want.
I keep the K as it is and hit send before I change my mind or second-guess the rest of the note.
It’s done. He won’t contact me again until he has the list ready. Hopefully, I can meet him one more time to go over the list and then I won’t have to work with him directly until the exhibit is ready to put together.
I feel better once the email is sent, and I’m able to focus on work. I get a lot done, and by four in the afternoon I’m not even spending (much) time thinking about him.
But then another email comes in.
I thought you were going to stop by after my class on Tuesday. Have you changed your mind about that?
I stare at it for a long time, processing the jump in my heart and annoyed by it.
This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t be responding this way, and he shouldn’t be sending me emails like this that are just making my reaction to him worse. This time I only wait a few minutes because I want to get the response done.
I’m happy to do that if it’s easier, but email works just fine too.
I get his response in less than a minute. I’ll see you on Tuesday evening then.
I frown. The man might seem nice, but there’s something obnoxious about him. He keeps going, even after I’ve put up walls.
Because I’m feeling feisty, I send off my immediate reply without reading it over several times as I normally would have to make sure it’s clear, appropriate, and correct. You’re always surrounded by your fan club after class. It might be hard for me to get through the swarms of your admirers.
If I’d read it through even once, I never would have sent that one. Hopefully he won’t take it seriously.
His reply comes in quickly. Some of those students do hang around forever, don’t they? Some weeks I have to push them out the door so I can pick up Freddie and go home. But don’t worry. I’ll disperse the fan club as soon as you make an appearance.
I would have giggled at his dry tone, but I’m hung up on Freddie. Who the hell is she? Or he? Why is he picking this person up? He made it clear he doesn’t have a wife anymore, but maybe he has a girlfriend.
Or maybe Freddie is his dog.
Shit, I’m in way too deep already, and I’ve only talked to the guy for fifteen minutes. I want desperately to ask him who Freddie is, but that would be a step too far. It would hint I’m open to personal conversation when that’s al
ready proven dangerous with him.
I’m trying to compose a response that will end the email conversation so I can mentally put it aside when another email comes in from him.
Freddie’s my little girl. Don’t think I’ve mentioned her before.
Shit. Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. He’s a mature, complex human being with a deeply rooted life. His having a young daughter makes the situation feel more complicated, but it does absolutely nothing to dampen the attraction. In fact, that he’s a single father makes me want him even more.
It’s wrong. I’m not supposed to be looking for a man right now, and I definitely don’t have the emotional energy to tackle a relationship with someone with a child.
Not that it matters. He’s not interested in me. He’s just a nice guy with a flirtatious manner. He’s not taking me seriously.
I wonder how old she is. He called her his little girl, so I’m picturing seven or eight.
I’m not going to ask. Absolutely not. Just like I’m not going to ask anything else about her—like her personality and whether he shares custody with her mother. I don’t want to know any more details about him and his family.
I’m already too far gone as it is.
I read through the last two emails and take a few minutes before I come up with a good response. One that sounds friendly but doesn’t encourage further discussion. Okay. I’ll brave the swarms of admirers on Tuesday, and we can go over the list then. Take care. K.
He responds almost immediately. There you go, trying to get rid of me again. See you Tuesday.
How the hell can he read me so easily? And why does even the brief message make me so fluttery?
I’ve got to do better than this. I have work to do. I’ve got reading to do for the graduate literature class I’m taking. And I’ve got a life I’ve never really figured out for myself.
That’s what I’m going to be focusing on right now.
Not Max.
He’s not going to do anything but get me totally off track.
I DO BETTER FOR THE rest of the week. Mostly because I don’t hear from Max again so his existence isn’t constantly prickling at me.
I work on my graduate class on the weekend except for Saturday evening when I hang out with Beck, Evan, and a couple of their friends.
But on Monday I keep remembering that I get to see Max again the next day, and my progress in keeping him out of my mind comes to a dramatic halt.
On Tuesday I’m jittery and restless, and it gets worse as the day goes on.
It’s almost seven when I can’t stand it anymore, and I have to walk to relieve some of the nerves. I make a round through the library on the pretense of checking everything out.
I mostly just need to walk off some of my rising nerves and excitement.
I smile and wave when I see Rika.
She’s obviously been waiting for me since she puts down her book and reaches into her backpack as I approach.
She pulls out the copy of Little Women I lent her last week.
“I finished it,” she says with a smile that breaks slowly over her quiet face. “I loved it.”
“Did you? You don’t have to say you did just to be nice.” I sit down in the seat beside her.
“I’m not being nice. I did love it. I couldn’t put it down. My dad told me twice I had to take a break from it. He said it was consuming me and I needed some fresh air.”
I chuckle at that, although I can’t help but think that everything she’s ever said about her dad has been him stifling her love of reading. Hopefully he’s not too much that way. “That’s always how I get when I read it too. Which of the sisters is your favorite?”
“Beth is. And then Jo. You know, I kind of wanted Beth to end up with Laurie. Wouldn’t that have been a good ending?”
I laugh uninhibitedly. “That’s always what I thought too!”
We talk about the book for almost a half hour before I realize that I’m technically supposed to be working right now and not talking about my favorite book with a thirteen-year-old girl.
“I better get back to work,” I say in a conspiratorial tone.
“Here’s your book. Thanks for lending it to me.”
“You’re welcome. You can keep it for a while if you want to read it again.”
“I do, but I checked out Little Men and Jo’s Boys from the public library, so I’m going to start those right away. Then my dad said he’d buy me all the Alcott books for my birthday, so I’ll have my own copies in a couple of months.”
“Oh good. That sounds like a perfect present.” I’m happy for Rika and relieved that her father isn’t a bad guy after all.
I’ve been having such a good time with Rika that I’ve actually forgotten about seeing Max again in another hour or two. But it all comes flooding back to me as I head downstairs.
It’s just after nine when I finally leave the library. I force myself not to primp in front of the mirror before I leave, so my hair is unbrushed and my makeup worn off. I’m wearing the brown trousers and cute, vintage-looking blouse I’ve had on all day. I did put on heels today when I normally don’t. But that has nothing to do with Max.
These shoes just look best with these pants.
The classroom building is mostly empty as usual at this time, and I pause in front of Max’s open door.
He’s propped against the desk at the front of the room, and there are four students gathered around him.
Three female and one male.
I take a step into the room, and I stand there in silence. I don’t know what to say, and it feels awkward to interrupt.
Max sees me immediately. He stands up smiling at me, and then he says to the students, “All right. That’s it for tonight. I’ll see you all next week.”
The students give me curious looks as they leave. A couple of them look suspicious or resentful or some other feeling that indicates they’re not happy I broke up their after-class Max time.
I don’t walk over toward Max until they’ve left the room. He’s putting his class notes in a leather saddlebag.
“Hello there,” he says with that smile that feels more intimate than ever.
I swallow hard. “Hi.”
“See? I dispelled the swarms. Not that there are swarms.”
“It’s a lot more than most professors get after class.”
“Really?”
“Definitely. They obviously like you a lot.”
His expression looks pleased and surprised. It’s rather endearing that he didn’t already know that. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. They’re a good bunch.”
“Of course, some of them might like you in ways that aren’t entirely professorial.” I’m not sure why I say that. It introduces a note into the mood between us that I was planning to avoid.
He tilts his head and pushes a hand through his too-long hair. “You think so?”
“Definitely. I was a student once. I remember. It doesn’t take a huge degree of attractiveness to get students going.”
He huffs. “Thanks a lot. Good to know I don’t have a huge degree of attractiveness.”
“That’s not what I meant! I was just—” I break off when he slants me a little look that clues me in that he was teasing. “Jerk.”
His eyebrows and the corners of his mouth go up in unison. “Jerk? Really?”
“Yes, really. You’re laughing at me again.”
“I told you last week. I’m not laughing at you.”
“You sure look like you’re trying not to laugh.”
“People laugh for different reasons, don’t they? Not all of them are mocking.”
I frown, confused and jittery and ridiculously turned on. Mentally more than physically at the moment. “Then what other way are you laughing then?”
“I’m laughing from an overflow of enjoyment.”
I roll my eyes. “Uh-huh.”
“You think I’m not serious?”
“No, I don’t think you’re serious.” I can’t think he’
s serious. If I did, I’d be out of my mind exhilarated. “Anyway, I didn’t stop to talk about your laughing or your swarm of admirers. Do you have the final list?”
“Yep.” He turns to his bag, giving me an odd look from the corner of his eyes. “Packed it up by mistake.”
He hands me a sheet of paper. Most of it is typed, but a few notes are handwritten, obviously done by hand in class today. I scan the titles. All of them are common and easily accessible. And the particular editions are mostly vague with only a few asking for a paperback with a particular cover on it if possible.
“This looks fine,” I say. “These shouldn’t be any trouble. I can get started on it right away.”
“Good. I told them that they have to take what you can find unless they want to do the searching and buy them themselves. As you can see, some of them are providing their own. There are only fifteen on that list.”
“Yep. That makes it easy. Shouldn’t be any problem at all.”
“I appreciate your help.” He leans forward slightly, and I’m suddenly aware of the warmth of his big body, the breadth of his shoulders beneath his long-sleeved crewneck, the way his hand looks braced on the desk.
I manage to say, “It’s not a problem.”
“You said that already.” He feels even closer to me now.
I drop my eyes so he can’t see my expression. I’m having to fight the urge to touch him, to find out what his chest feels like, his hair, the skin of his jaw. I lick my lips before I can stop myself.
I hear his breath hitch, and he takes a step back. “Okay then. I’d ask you to get some coffee so we can talk about this, but I’ve got to pick up my little girl.”
She must be with a babysitter while he teaches class, so it makes sense he can’t delay too long.
“I think I’ve got everything I need,” I say, relieved now that he’s put some space between us. “I’ll email when I start to get some of these in so we can make sure I’ve got what the students want for the exhibit.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I still haven’t looked back up at him, but I do at the husky note in his voice.
His eyes are like silver fire as they look at me. I’m hit with a full-body flush.
