Chapter 10
TEACHER’S PET
Clover
Three days later, I’m in the middle of dinner prep when there’s a knock on my door.
I assume it’s Sophia and her hands are too full to manage the door.
While we eat dinner together more nights than not during the week, Friday happens to be our dinner-and-movie date night.
I wipe my hands on my apron and head for the front door, opening it with, “You better have the red wine!”
I stop short when I realize it isn’t Sophia at all. It’s Maverick.
He’s dressed like he’s ready for a date: black dress pants, crisp white button-down, tie with the school hockey team logo on it, and a sharp black blazer.
He runs a hand through his hair. “I can hit up the liquor store and be back in ten with some red wine. But you’ll need to give me an idea of what kind, because I only drink it at weddings when they shut down the bar during speeches.”
I chuckle. “Are you even old enough to buy wine?” I know the answer to that, but I don’t think it hurts to remind him there are some lines we can’t cross.
“Ouch. That hurts, Professor.” He presses a hand to his chest and stumbles back a step, then gives me a dimple-popping half smile. He glances over my shoulder, likely checking out the most recent gift basket that arrived sometime this morning. “Am I interrupting? Smells like you’re cooking.”
I smooth my hands over my hips. “I’m just getting dinner ready. Sophia is coming over—my friend who lives upstairs.” Why am I suddenly awkward? And why do I feel compelled to explain?
“That’s good. You gonna watch a movie and chill out tonight?”
“We are.”
“Good. That’s good.” He folds his hand behind his back. “You doing okay? How are your hands?”
“They’re good. Healing.”
“Any other bruises? Sore spots?”
“I’ve got a decent bruise on my hip, but I’ve been using the hot tub out back in the evening, so I’m almost back to normal.” I thumb over my shoulder.
He nods and taps his temple. “Sleeping okay?”
“Yeah. It helps that Soph is right above me.” I point to the ceiling. “Thank you for coming by to check on me, and for your help the other night.”
“I didn’t want to email about it, you know, since they monitor those things.” He taps on the hand railing. “It’s good you ended up filing a report.”
I blink in surprise. “How do you know that?”
“I talked to the guy who owns the mechanic shop.”
“Right.” I vaguely remember him mentioning that he knew the automotive shop.
“Two of the guys have been fired. He wasn’t real happy when the police showed up at his shop looking to talk to them.
” He rubs his jaw. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you were all right, and to bring you a little something. It’s nothing big.
” He reveals a gift bag that’s been hidden behind his back.
“Oh no. No. Nope. You can’t bring me gifts, Maverick. It’s inappropriate.”
“I’m not trying to buy my grade. I noticed that your slippers got—”
I shake my head. “However well-intentioned you may be, I can’t accept a gift. You just can’t.”
Besides it being inappropriate, it reminds me too much of Gabriel.
His eyes widen. “Shit. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to replace some of the things I know got damaged. I’m sorry, Professor.”
“It’s the optics of it, especially with our history.”
He gives me a lopsided grin, gaze moving over me on a slow sweep. “Okay, message received.”
He’s about to take a step down when Sophia comes around the side of the house. She’s holding a bag of fresh bread and a bottle of wine. Her gaze flits from me to Maverick and back again.
“Uhhhh . . .” Her improv isn’t the best.
“This must be the bestie.” Maverick throws one of his dimpled smiles her way. “Have a fun night with my favorite professor. And try to convince her that it’s a good idea to come to my self-defense classes.”
Sophia raises one eyebrow at me. “Hi, Maverick Waters.”
Maverick’s grin widens as he passes her on the front steps, and he turns and walks backwards down the driveway. “You’re talking about me, huh? That’s good. I can work with that.”
“Have a good night, Maverick. Try to stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll do my best.” The monster truck parked in front of my house beeps, and he climbs into the cab, turns over the engine, and waves as he pulls away from the curb.
Sophia whistles. “What was that all about?”
“He was checking in on me after what happened the other day.”
She pats me on the shoulder. “It’s a good thing the semester is almost over.”
“Yes, it is.”
Three days later, I’m standing outside Pump It Up with ten minutes to spare before the self-defense class starts.
When I talked to my mother earlier today on one of our biweekly chats, I mentioned I was thinking about taking the class.
I didn’t tell her what happened with the drunk hecklers, and I was right not to, because just the mention of the classes put her on alert.
I assured her everything was fine—even though that’s questionable—and used Maverick’s words, saying I thought it would be empowering, which seemed to appease her.
A familiar black F-150 pulls into the lot and parks beside my Prius.
My heart rate picks up. It’s a reaction I’ve been fighting since Maverick showed up in my creative writing class.
But the warm feeling in my chest is new, and I attribute it not only to the things I now know about him, but also to the way he came to my defense, and his continued concern for my well-being.
I stand in the shadows, against the side of the building as Maverick opens the driver’s side door and climbs out, hood pulled up over his head and the brim of a hat peeking out.
I went back and forth about whether I should come to this class, all things considered, and decided it would go a long way toward making me feel more confident in my ability to defend myself.
He closes the door and tugs his hood down, then pushes the driver’s side mirror in and angles his body so he can maneuver around my car without grazing it.
He stops short when he reaches the front of the car and sees me standing there. “Professor?” His eyes light up. “I thought I recognized your car. I was hoping I’d see you tonight.”
My stomach flutters, and I internally roll my eyes at my body’s reaction to his admission. “Were you?”
“Yeah. When you didn’t show up for the Saturday class, I wasn’t sure if I’d pushed it when I stopped by to check on you.
I worried I’d made you feel uncomfortable.
But it’s good that you’re here. Hopefully you’ll learn some helpful stuff.
” He gives me a hopeful smile. “I gotta get inside ’cause the class starts in less than ten. You wanna come with?”
“Sure. Yes. Okay.”
He motions for me to go first, since the sidewalk is narrow, but when it widens enough, he falls into step beside me. “How are you? How are your hands?”
“Mostly healed now. That liquid bandage is a miracle. And the bruise on my hip has faded a lot. It’s still a bit sore, but otherwise I’m fine.”
He nods. “I’ll keep that in mind when we’re practicing some of the moves tonight. How about emotionally? You feeling okay? How was movie night with your bestie?”
My cheeks flush at the memory—how suddenly the emotion had swept over me when he’d been about to leave the night of the attack.
All the what-ifs creeping in and pushing me to the edge.
How I’d accepted that hug from him and how easy it was to find comfort in it.
“Movie night was good, and thank you for stopping by to check in.”
He opens the door, stepping aside to let me go first. “No problem. I just wanted to be helpful. We’re over there, in the room on the right.” His fingers graze my elbow as he guides me.
We pass everyone from students to grandmothers sprinkled throughout the expansive space—running on treadmills and stair climbers, riding recumbent bikes and reading books, lifting weights in pairs.
I follow him into one of the fitness studios. Close to a dozen women are already standing around, chatting quietly with one another. There’s a woman instructor at the front of the room, and her face lights up as soon as she sees Maverick. “Ah, there you are! We’re almost ready to get started.”
There’s a mother with her daughter who looks to be in her late teens, a pair of women in their mid-thirties, a trio who look to be in their forties, and a pair of younger women who are closer to my age, or maybe a few years younger.
“Should I have brought a friend with me? I’m the only one on my own,” I whisper.
“You don’t need a partner.” He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze, then drops his hand and steps back. “You’ll be okay. You’ve got this, and I’ll be here to help the entire time.”
He heads to the front of the room. “Evening. I’m Maverick.” He lifts his hand in a wave, expression open. “I’m here to teach you how to beat the crap out of me.”
The group laughs nervously, and the two younger women and the teen daughter openly check him out.
The other trainer’s name is Laura, and for the next few minutes, they explain the purpose of the class and the basic moves they’ll be showing us.
Maverick puts a pouch over his waist, clearly to protect himself, and then he and Laura start by demonstrating a basic arm grab and how to get out of the hold. Then they move around the class, allowing each of us to give it a shot.
When Maverick reaches me, he gives me an encouraging smile. “Are you okay to try this with me, or would you prefer to work with Laura?”
“I’m fine to work with you.” I wipe my hands on my thighs. At this point I’ve watched several people perform the move.
He nods. “Okay. I’m going to walk you through it, and we’ll do it a few times until you feel like you’ve got it. Sound good?”
“Yup.” I nod, feeling irrationally nervous about the whole thing.
“If you’re uncomfortable at all, or you feel like it’s too much, let me know.”
“Okay.”