Dear Professor(38)

I loved it. I hated drama, but I guessed I had a bit of a thing for attention, and attention was something I tried not to draw in my personal life. Mostly because with attention came drama.

It didn’t escape my notice that the attention from my job had me smack-dab in the middle of a hefty dose of drama, but I was choosing to omit that from my current thought process.

I was definitely addicted to my job. And really, that was dangerous. While all of us who lived in Dalton House were college students, we weren’t the only girls who worked for the company. Some of them were thirty, forty, fifty… Married, engaged, single… Mothers, grandmothers. I briefly wondered how many of them had started as a student and simply never stopped.

I could see how it would be easy. With my savings alone, I could put a small deposit on a nice, little house in town and do this for the rest of my life.

Unfortunately, I was a dreamer, and that was my problem. Jordan Keaton was the sandman and the boogeyman all wrapped up into one. He had total control of my dreams.

The worst thing was that, when he kissed me, I forgot that.

He was just a man, and I was just a girl, and it was just natural. Like his lips had been made for mine.

I blew out a long breath and lay back. Except he wasn’t, was he? And I had no place thinking that. No place even enjoying his kiss. That was reserved for his wife, whoever and wherever she was.

Jesus Christ—why was I even thinking about kissing the man? Why did I let him?

I was a bitch. A total bitch. I was essentially The Other Woman. Albeit a contracted, paid-for other woman, but still.

I grabbed my fluffy Minnie Mouse cushion and slammed it over my face. I screamed into it. Loud and hard. I took the ball of frustration inside my chest and let it all out. It didn’t work though. I threw the small cushion at my bedroom door and sat up, grabbing my pillow.#p#分页标题#e#

I let rip at it with my fists. I punched the heck out of my nightly best friend and kept screaming. But I was still annoyed. At him. At myself. At everything. At this whole damn situation. At every choice I’d ever made. At the decision to do this because I’d known that it would one day catch up with me. At my inability to walk up to him, jab him in the chest, and ask him what the hell a married man was doing fucking around with his student.

At life. I was mega pissed off at life.

Karma could go suck an egg. I was so tired of this.

“What the hell?”

My bedroom door exploded open, and Jenna almost fell into my room. Her eyes found me sitting on the bed, and she stopped while still holding the door handle.

“I thought you were being attacked! Or that you had some kinky-ass motherfucker in here trying to chain you to a wall or something.”

My shoulders heaved with my deep breath. If only.

“No,” I said. “I’m frustrated. It was screaming and abusing my pillow, or I’d need bail money.”

Jenna’s eyes narrowed. “All right. I know a shortcut to the woods. Who are we burying?”

My lips twitched. I loved her. “No one needs to be buried. Well, not today, anyway.”

“I have a couple of minutes. Wanna talk?”

I shrugged then focused on her fully. She was wearing her underwear. Literally just her bra and lace boy shorts plus one stocking.

“Do you want to… I don’t know. Put on a robe or something first?”

She looked down at herself like she’d forgotten she was half naked. “Eh. I panicked and forgot. Hold on.” She disappeared down the hall.

I shook my head when she returned a couple of minutes later with her missing stocking, a tank top, and her makeup bag, which she set on my dresser. She finally shut the door and perched on the edge of my bed.

“Now, tell me what’s up.”

Sweat beaded on the back of my neck. This was risky. Of course, I couldn’t use details, but while discussing it even the tiniest amount, I had to be careful.

I sighed heavily and grabbed a hair tie from my nightstand. “Picture this. There’s this guy. He’s…made it known…that he’s watched your show several times. He’s attracted to you—”

“Is he hot?”

“Yes, but—”

“So screw him.”

“But he’s in a relationship,” I hurried out before she could argue further. I tied my braid off just as she turned with her mouth open in a tiny O.

“Well, that poses a problem,” she stated.

No fucking shit.

She dusted face powder across her forehead. “Is this girlfriend supposed to be secret?”

“I’m not sure.” I wasn’t. For all I knew, Jordan and his wife enjoyed an open marriage. “Hypothetically…yes.”