3. Ivy
Chapter 3
Ivy
S tepping into the lecture hall feels like diving headfirst into a new dimension—one where the air crackles with energy, and excitement and anxiety seep from the pores of every student. Or maybe that’s just me, because as I glance around the assembly of young adults already gathered, not one of them has their attention trained on the front of the room. They’re either chatting with the people around them or have their noses buried in their phones, earbuds tightly inserted.
My heart beats rapidly as I turn to the front of the room and the man Mrs. Brookes cautioned me about. While there’s a large whiteboard pushed off to the side, he’s at the chalkboard, his back to me. Walking toward him, I let my gaze track up and down his body. He’s a large man, a few inches over six feet, broad in the shoulders, thinner at the waist, though it’s hard to tell for sure given the black leather bomber-style jacket he’s wearing. His dark hair is on the shorter side with some wave to it, though it’s a little longer in the back than what’s on top.
I stroll up to him, thinking it would be a good idea to introduce myself before the class starts and ask if I should take any extra notes or anything.
“Excuse me, Professor Ashe?” My voice barely rises above the hum of arriving students, but he hears me nonetheless and turns around.
Oh good God—my insides do this weird, fluttery nosedive thing straight down to my core.
He is definitely cute.
No, no, cute is much too mild a word. The man is drop-dead gorgeous. The boys I grew up with never looked like this. I don’t think a single male, adult or otherwise, in Mount Vernon looks this good. Even though I knew ahead of time he was younger than most other professors, I still expected the stereotypical attire: neutral chinos and a well-worn brown or blue tweed or corduroy blazer with elbow patches, maybe a cozy cardigan over a dress shirt, and of course a pair of loafers. And definitely, glasses, black-rimmed, of course, perpetuating the nerdy profile.
He may be a nerd purely because he’s a brainiac, but Professor Ashe is a surprising mix of modern sophistication and comfort in dark denim jeans that nicely hug his thighs and backside and a solid light grey dress shirt with the top buttons undone under the leather. A black tie hangs loose around his neck and trendy sneakers complete the look—of somebody who should be sitting with the rest of the students, ready to take notes, not standing at the front of the room, prepared to enlighten young minds.
“That would be me.” His deep, almost baritone voice seems to echo around me, smooth like melted chocolate over vanilla ice cream, rich like caramel sauce. His eyes, the color of aged whiskey, lock onto mine with a fierce intensity that should be illegal. Even in the early afternoon light, his five o’clock shadow is prominent and dark, adding to his rugged appeal.
For the first time, I regret my inexperience with men.
I also understand why women swoon in the presence of this man.
I shift the weight of my backpack, wipe my hand on my ill-fitting jeans, and stick it out. “Hi, I’m Ivy Kendrick, your new TA.” The words tumble out in a rush, my cheeks heating because I don’t want him to think I’m nervous or anything.
His handshake is firm, confident, and warm, sending a jolt of electricity skittering up my arm. And then it happens—he smiles. And a foreign and powerful sensation almost knocks me off my feet. My panties are suddenly, inexplicably damp. My nipples pebble into hard, achy points beneath my sweater.
Mortified by my body’s spontaneous betrayal, I yank my hand back and jam my fists into the front pocket of my jeans.
“Nice to meet you, Ivy.” His smile is so devastatingly charming. His eyes crinkle, and my heart trips over itself in response.
“Thanks, I’m… ah… looking forward to it. To class, I mean. With you. And helping, you know, as your TA.” Am I blushing? I feel like I’m blushing.
Why does my body and my mouth insist on overreacting? I’ve been attracted to boys, but I didn’t stammer around them. My body didn’t harden in some areas and melt in others. My heart didn’t race like it was aiming for a medal. Right now, I desperately wish my parents had allowed me to date. If they had, I might understand what’s happening and be able to control it.
“Take a seat,” he gestures casually to the front row of empty chairs, “and we’ll chat after class.”
“Sure thing, Professor.”I stroll over, picking a spot dead center, and lower onto the not too comfortable seat, placing my bag on the floor at my feet. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear—a nervous habit when I’m... well, nervous. I cross my legs and sink into the chair, hoping this reaction I’m having settles down.
Professor Ashe starts talking, laying out his expectations, and then going through the course content before he starts on the first lecture.
I try to focus on the complexities of nineteenth-century literature, but it’s like trying to read while riding a roller coaster. His enthusiasm for the subject matter is palpable, his gestures animated, his voice dipping and soaring with the cadence of the prose he quotes.He’snot just teaching; he’s performing, and most of the class becomes spellbound as he paces back and forth in front of us.
Harrison Ashe isn’t merely attractive; he’s like a walking, talking sculpture that some artist chiseled out of pure charisma and sex appeal. I sneak peeks at him between taking notes, drinking in the sight of how well those jeans fit him, how the leather of his jacket seems to have been molded to his biceps. When he removes the jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair, I think I actually heard a collective female sigh from the room.
“Oh, my, God he’s as sexy as I’d heard.”
“I wonder if the rumors about him are true?”
“What rumors?”
“I heard he got caught having sex with a few of his students. And that he’s a great teacher in bed, too.”
“Idon’t know, but I’d be willing to sacrifice myself to find out.”
Muffled giggles follow, and I spin around to stare at the group of girls behind me, not sure which of them spoke. Each time his gaze passes over them, they titter like children. When he’s not looking their way, their tongues are hanging out of their mouths.
I understand their reaction because when he looks in my direction, it feels like he’s caressing my skin with a featherlight stroke. And that hair, so perfectly styled it’s a crime, makes me wonder what it would feel like between my fingers.
I’m here to learn, remember? Not ogle my teacher.
Mom would be ashamed of my thoughts. She’d have my bags packed for home if she had a clue, I’d be spending the next four years having lustful fantasies about my professor.
But as the class wears on, I realize it’s more than his looks; it’s how he commands the room, how his passion for teaching ignites something in me I didn’t know was there. I’m sure the others feel the same. It’s intoxicating, and I’m entirely enthralled, hanging on every word, every gesture.
The world around me fades into the background. The other students behind me are tuned out. My heart beats faster, and I can’t help but be captivated by Professor Ashe. It’s a feeling unlike any other—a burning desire to know everything about him. And like the girl behind me, it’s hard not to wonder what it would be like to be on the receiving end of his attention.
Is this what it’s like to lust after a man?
“Any questions?”he asks as the class winds down, and I’m brought crashing back into the moment.
Several hands shoot up. All female, of course.
Glancing down, I see a squiggly line where my pen went off the page. I sink deeper into my seat, hoping the flush in my cheeks isn’t giving me away.
I can do this. I can keep it together. Can’t I? This achy feeling I’ve got in my gut, between my legs, and in my breasts is challenging the question. Maybe Mrs. Brooks had a point. This might not be such a great idea.
The second the final word drips from Professor Ashe’s lips, signaling the end of the lecture, I’m on my feet. My heart’s a wild drum solo as I sling my bag over my shoulder, aiming for a ninja-like exit—silent, invisible, unnoticed.
“Ms. Kendrick, a moment, please.”
I freeze mid-escape and swivel toward him. His eyes lock onto mine. His voice is like velvet, and it effortlessly reels me in, like the fish Dad and I used to catch at the lake.
“Yes, Professor,”I murmur, edging closer, my palms clammy.
“Please, call me Harrison,”he says with an easy smile. “I’m not much for formality. I think we should get to know each other better if you’re going to be my TA. It’s important for our working dynamic, don’t you agree?”
“Uh-huh,”I nod, more puppet than person. Strange? Totally. But his gaze has me pinned like a butterfly in a display case—I can’t look away.
“Great. Let’s start with your experience then.”He gestures for me to sit in his chair while he leans back against his desk, exuding a sense of effortless charm and intelligence. It’s the perfect blend of academia and allure.
And I’m completely falling for it.
“Experience?”My brain short-circuits. What kind of experience? Life? Work? Love? Oh God, not love. Please not that. I’ve got none of that. Other than a couple of stolen kisses with Edward, one of the boys back home who was also homeschooled. Sometimes, our parents got us all together so we could do some group activities. During one joint venture, Edward decided to steal a kiss behind a tree instead of searching for different types of flowers and leaves for our science project. I found it less than impressive—the kiss, not the project.
“Teaching, research, any previous assistant roles?”he clarifies, unaware he has inadvertently tiptoed into a minefield of innuendo.
“Not specifically, but I worked as a camp counselor for kids over the last few summers back home. And I’ve done some clerical work at our local library. It’s small-town stuff, though. I don’t have any real-life, city, or even school experience. Sorry.”The word slips out with a resigned sigh before I can catch it. My cheeks are bonfires. Suddenly my resume seems woefully inadequate, and I question why I’m even here.
“That’s not a bad thing. Everyone starts somewhere, Ivy.”
“Right, yeah.”I laugh, wishing the ground would swallow me whole—or at least turn my blush down a few thousand watts. “It’s new territory for me, you know? Being... here.”The world is vibrant and dizzying, starkly contrasting to my sheltered upbringing.
“Not to worry. I’m sure I can teach you everything you need to know. We’ll navigate this experience together,”he reassures me, and somehow, it’s exactly what I need to hear, even though he doesn’t mean it at all the way I’m interpreting it.
“Thanks, Professor Ashe.”
He quirks his brows.
“I’m sorry. I mean, Harrison. I’m looking forward to it,”I manage, my words feeling like clumsy fledglings taking flight.
“Why don’t you meet me at my office after your last class today and we can establish a schedule and discuss duties?”
“Sure.”That should give me enough time to get my brain and my body functioning as they should so I can have a proper discussion with my professor without being distracted by thoughts of his scruffy beard brushing against my breasts or between my thighs.
At least I hope it’s enough time.