Meanwhile, he’s refusing to meet my eyes too. Does he remember? Does he recognize me somehow?
I clear my throat. Doesn’t matter. I need to come clean, and somehow convince him to let me into that seminar.
“Well?” he asks, and we lock eyes finally. Yep. Intimidating as crap to stare into those deep, dark eyes—almost honey from close up, with the sun shining in them through the window. A lock of his dark hair falls across his forehead, and my fingers itch to run through it again.
All my carefully planned speeches fly straight out of my head.
“I have a confession to make,” is all I can think to say.
Apparently it’s enough. His eyebrows shoot skyward, and from the way the color drains from his face, I’m guessing he’s recognized my voice after all. Or my choice of wording.
“Dear god.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” I babble, my words practically tripping over themselves in my rush to explain. “I was going to just drop the class, because, I mean, obviously that would be the right thing to do, given the, um, the circumstances, but I accidentally overheard you talking to the dean about the Eliot thing and I’m planning to write my thesis on him next year; I would do anything to help you with those papers, please, I really need this.” By the time I reach the end of that little meltdown, I’m out of breath.
On the bright side, color returned to his face while I was talking. On the down side, now he’s just straight up scowling at me, his jaw clenched.
“You told me you were just visiting for the day,” he says, after a pause so long I nearly sweat through my shirt.
“I know. I didn’t know who you were or I swear I would never have . . . I mean . . . ” His glare makes the words die on my tongue. I clear my throat to force the block out of it. “It will never happen again, professor.”
“Damn right, it won’t. And if you think I’m going to give you favors because of what happened—”
“No, of course not, I’m not asking for favors, I—”
“You just told me you lied to get into my pants last night, and now you’re asking me to let you work on a project that you only know exists because you eavesdropped on a private conversation, and you don’t see the conflict of interest there?”
I grimace. This all sounded a lot more convincing in my head. “Just consider me. Please. I’ll do anything.” I pause, realizing how that sounds. “No, I mean, not like that, I . . . ”
He heaves a sigh, and for a second the angry facade drops. I catch a glimpse of the guy I met last night underneath. Overworked, frustrated. Passionate, in desperate need of a release. His eyes catch mine, bore straight into me, and I forget to breathe. He can pin me in place without even touching me. “I’ll consider you in the same way I plan to consider every student in your class. No more, no less. Impress me with the Heaney essay due this week, and then maybe—maybe—we’ll talk about Eliot.”
Hope and fear war in my chest. Our lecture has about fifty students in it. Most of whom will want this research gig as bad as I do.
But as bad as I am at managing my love life, I’m stellar at academia. Poetry is what I write, live, breathe. I can do this. I raise my chin and smile at him, our eyes still locked, my face hot from the sensation of his eyes on me.
“I won’t let you down,” I say. Right before I turn around and flee the office. Best get out of here before he can think better of this second chance.
Besides, I’ve got a paper to knock out of the park.
Jack
Perfect. Abso-fucking-lutely perfect.
I take a moment outside the overpriced vegan restaurant Kat insisted on going to to compose myself. As if it wasn’t bad enough that my sister is in town for the weekend and has insisted on dragging me out for a tête-à-tête, or that there’s a missed text from Hannah asking if we can “talk,” now I have Harper Reed to worry about.
Harper. The name suits her. I can imagine whispering it against her neck, right before I make her gasp mine in reply. No, not gasp. I want to make her come so hard she screams.
Clearly, composing myself isn’t working. I push out of my car and slam the door hard behind me, like I can trap those thoughts inside its metal walls.
Couples on dates bustle along High Street, hands clasped, girls in tight dresses and guys in pressed suits. A couple of tourists mingle in between, mostly Americans with white sneakers and oversized cameras.
I brush through the throngs and into the restaurant, a cramped space that looks like it was decorated by a 1960s love child who suddenly hit the lottery and spent all of their money on all the wrong things. I duck under a gold lamé beaded entrance and search for my sister’s telltale bleach-white pixie cut.