Whirlwind
1. Ryker
Chapter one
Ryker
Romantic, sexual, or other intimate relationships between faculty and students are prohibited whenever a power imbalance exists, including, but not limited to, situations where the faculty member:
Teaches, supervises, or advises the student.
Evaluates the student’s academic work, research, or performance.
Holds any position of authority that may impact the student’s academic, financial, or professional standing.
The HR policy for Midland Springs University, my employer for the last four years, replays in my mind for the millionth time. I’ve taken to reciting it to myself on loop over the last hour and a half, but no matter how many times I do, every time Finley Buckley looks up at me from her final with those pretty brown eyes of hers, my heart beats faster in my chest, and thoughts of being decent exit my brain like a lawn chair being sucked up in a twister.
Said eyes meet mine from a desk in the front row, and only when her cheeks flush pink do I realize I’ve been staring at her. Smooth, Ryker. Fucking smooth.
My lips turn up in a friendly smile so I don’t look guilty if any students are watching the interaction, then I glance back down at my laptop. Radar for a nearby storm cell is on it, a storm I’m debating chasing solo after this final has ended, but I’m not paying attention to it like I should. Instead, I’m thinking about Finley.
I glance up over the top of my laptop and catch her still watching me. When our eyes meet, she quickly drops her gaze to her test, her cheeks turning an even deeper pink.
Goddammit to hell. I shift in my chair and will my body to calm down. We’re not alone. There are twenty-four other people in this class, and none of them can know that I have a crush—albeit an unfulfilled one—on my best student. If they did, they’d question not only her grades and all the time we’ve spent together during labs and office hours but also her coveted spot—one she earned fair and square—on my storm-chasing team’s potentially historic chase in Oklahoma this weekend. One the school’s meteorology department funded because of the research paper we’ll be submitting if all goes according to plan.
I run my hands through my textured dark hair. It’s longer than I usually keep it, but I see the way Finley looks at it. How her eyes linger on my hands and forearms as I do exactly what I’m doing right now. The fact I haven’t gone to a barber in months is something Hawk, my best friend and fellow storm chaser on my team, Tempest Trackers, pointed out recently.
I told him that he was misreading things, but he used it as an opportunity to once again warn me I was getting too close to my student. Something he’s been doing since the first time I ever told him about Finley.
It feels like yesterday, yet an entire school year has come and gone since the day she walked into my classroom. She immediately drew me in with her smarts, wit, attentiveness, and of course, her undeniable beauty.
When I’d met Hawk for dinner that night after class had ended, I told him about her—leaving out the part about how I found her straight chestnut hair, soulful eyes that reminded me of dark amber, and round body more attractive than I’ve ever found anyone. But he called my starry-eyed ass out immediately, anyway.
I assured him my interest and clear excitement was only because she reminded me of myself when I was her age and working toward my master’s while chasing storms, but I knew even then I was lying to myself. He knew, too—that’s why he called me on my bullshit, warning me to steer clear. I told him I would.
Fuck if I didn’t try.
But as the months went on, it became more and more difficult because I got to know her. She’s brilliant and funny and a talented photographer. Hawk was right to warn me, but he has never met her, either.
I have, however, remained professional, never crossing a line into the territory I dreamed of exploring. Not because I didn’t think Finley wanted to—I’d be an idiot to not see the mutual attraction in her eyes when she looks at me—but because I didn’t want to turn our lives upside down. Especially hers.
While Finley is an adult, the small Kansas town this college is in would have a field day if they found out a forty-two-year-old professor fell for his twenty-five-year-old student.
I close my eyes and inhale a breath. I need to get my shit together before our chase tomorrow. We’re going to be in a car together, spending countless hours in each other’s space. I can’t be thinking of her in any other way besides Ms. Buckley. My student. My off-limits student.
Romantic, sexual, or other intimate relationships between faculty and students are prohibited…
A shadow over my computer stops my mental recitation. When I look up, Finley is there like a ray of sunny light in the dreary lecture hall. She tucks a strand of silky-looking hair behind her ear then hikes the slipping strap of her backpack up her shoulder.
“Finished?” I ask quietly .
She bites the corner of her lip. “Yep.” She holds out her test packet and Scantron to me. Normally, we do everything online, but for finals, I like to go a little more old school. Something my class groaned about—except for Finley, who simply smirked as if she knew I would do something like this. I hadn’t told her, but maybe she knows me that well.
Fuck, this weekend will be torture. A nice torture, but torture nonetheless. It’s going to be interesting being just Ryker with her outside of school, the over-the-top storm chaser and extreme meteorologist. But now that I think about it, maybe I’ve been him more than I care to admit during office hours and labs, telling jokes and laughing with her. Showing her my true self.
A man my chase team describes as an extrovert with an adrenaline addiction yet somehow has no issue calling it a night by nine on a weekday, reminiscing about the “good ol’ days,” and blasting what they’ve dubbed “mullet rock” on every chase. That’s probably why Finley didn’t flinch at the Scantron—she knows things about me that only close friends should. She knows I like to mix things up and throw in old-school surprises now and then.
I quietly clear my throat and take the test from her, careful to avoid touching her. The last thing I need is to feel her soft skin on mine, making me get swept up in my thoughts of her more than I already am.
“Thank you,” I say.
She smiles wider at me and hikes her backpack up again. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“You bet.” If I could, I’d slap my hand on my forehead. You bet? Again, fucking smooth.
Her eyes twinkle with amusement, and she dips her chin in acknowledgment. “Bye, Professor West.” Finley walks away, exiting the classroom. I force myself not to watch her ass as she leaves, an ass that’s round and framed in a pair of painted-on jeans .
I suck in a shallow breath to not draw attention to myself and put my focus back on the radar. The storm cell is looking good, and if the rest of the students finish soon, I’ll be able to catch it.
I exhale, feeling a little calmer now for two reasons: one, that Finley is gone and I can think with my professor brain, and two, the idea of letting off some steam in a solo chase. Hopefully, catching a storm will settle me enough before tomorrow, and I’ll be able to get through this weekend without embarrassing myself.
Romantic, sexual, or other intimate relationships between faculty and students are prohibited …
Yes, Ryker, remember that. Prohibited.