Chapter 9 Elle
ELLE
Humiliation burns my skin, like an open flame being held against me. I stand outside the auditorium while class continues, debating silently whether I should even stay enrolled in this fucking school at all.
I’ve never had anyone go so far out of their way to embarrass me—three times. Then again, nothing men do surprises me, so I’m not sure why I find it so bothersome now.
I certainly wasn’t expecting him. He’d been leaning against the stage, his brown hair all slicked back and neat, making him look more boyish than the beige sweater vest and pleated trousers he wore.
But it was the severity on his face when he said my full name that caught me off guard. Like he was angry I hadn’t shared the entire thing or pissed I was there at all.
Whatever. I’m a student, and regardless of some fleeting encounter, I have as much right to be in an elected course as anyone else.
So when the class begins to file out, signaling its end, I slip inside and down the aisle, watching as the professor—Sutton Dupont, according to my course schedule—disappears behind the stage.
“If you’re looking for Dupont,” an attractive man with warm, light brown skin and bright blue eyes says, seeming to arrive out of thin air before me, “he hides in his office between classes. The whole theater department is in the annex of the Lyceum.”
“Oh.” I blink, nodding. “Um, thanks.”
“He keeps syllabi in there too if you can convince him to give you one.” The guy smirks, extending his hand. “I’m Lexington. The thorn in Professor Dupont’s other side.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, taking his palm just barely, letting him shake once before his arm drops. Has he hooked up with him too?
Just how much do you really get around, Professor?
“Fury Hill founding family stuff. Feuds go back centuries. It’d take too much effort for me to really care though.”
I make a noise of disbelief. “Yeah, I usually go out of my way to bring up things I don’t care about too.”
A big, goofy grin stretches across Lexington’s face. “Please tell me you’re staying in this class. I can already tell you’re gonna be a lot of fun for Dupont.”
“The only man I let tell me what to do is my father,” I say, pushing past to move through the auditorium. “And he’s not here right now.”
There’s just one door backstage, and when I shove it open, it leads to a narrow hall with the occasional dead cockroach and dozens of wooden doors that seem to go on forever.
Not much of an annex if you ask me.
I jump as the exit swings shut; the sound of the handle latching into place bounces off the corridor, and I follow it with short steps, reading the names mounted on the walls as I pass them.
An overhead light flickers as I walk under it. I grip my backpack tighter, reaching the last door on the left.
This one lacks a label, but I can see a faint glow beneath the frame. Swallowing, I reach for the knob and turn it quickly, inviting myself in.
Sutton stands just out of reach, the door missing him by a hair as it swings open. A bowl of apricots and overly ripe bananas sits on the corner of the large mahogany desk behind him, next to a small orange prescription bottle and a stack of La Musica Deuxième playbills.
His arms are crossed over his chest like he’s been waiting for me, and he wears an unreadable expression. His wavy hair is now slightly mussed, like he’s been dragging his hands through it out of frustration.
The image sends a shiver slinking down my spine, and I freeze in place.
Fuck me, I’d forgotten just how hot he was. Even standing at the top of his class earlier, I hadn’t been entirely sure. My brain was still reaching for anything that could disprove this being the awkward man who made me come on his hand last week.
Standing here now, though, there’s no denying it’s him.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice carefully detached.
“I was told I could get a copy of the syllabus from you.”
“Only students enrolled in my courses receive syllabi.”
My head cocks. “I am enrolled.”
“You were. I’m having that taken care of.” He surges forward, reaching for the door and pulling it wider. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got—”
“You can’t kick me out just because we hooked up.”
“Jesus,” he hisses, sliding a hand around my waist to pull me into the office as he slams the door shut. As soon as he touches me, though, he withdraws, curling those icy fingers into a fist and clenching his teeth. “Do you want me to get fired?”
“I have no particular feelings on the matter,” I reply, lifting my chin in defiance. “All I wanted was a syllabus.”
His eyes vibrate with his ire, but I lose myself in the mossy shade anyway. Soft yet firm, like a forest floor you could lie down on until it swallowed you whole.
Internally, I shake myself. I’m here for one thing and one thing only, and I can’t let a cute guy distract me from that goal—not again.
After a long, heavy moment, he withdraws entirely, crossing his arms and walking to lean against the edge of his desk. “You could have just emailed.”
“So you could ignore me? I don’t think so, Boy Scout.”
“I hardly find that an appropriate thing to call your professor.”
“But you just said you were ‘having that taken care of.’ So… Are you my professor or not?”
He reaches up, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. I ignore how the tendons in his forearm, exposed by rolled-up sleeves, strain against his skin.
Somewhere in the perverted recesses of my brain, I wonder what he’d look like in glasses. A tie, maybe, or some suspenders. He could take the glasses off as he leaned in to kiss me and undo the suspenders to wrap them around my—
“What’s your interest in my class?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts. The taut look on his face makes me think he can read minds. “Are you taking the course just to harass me?”
“Harass you? Like by, perhaps, making you repeat your name over and over in front of a class full of students as if you’ve committed some heinous crime?”
Pink crawls up his neck, flushing his cheeks. “I didn’t intend for that to be so…” He exhales, shaking his head. “You have to understand my confusion. I mean, you said you were a tourist—”
“No, I said I wasn’t from here, which I’m not.”
He’s quiet for a long time, seeming to mull something over. “Are you related to Quincy Anderson? And Asher?”
“They’re my brother and sister,” I finish, shrugging. “So?”
Exasperation colors his features. “If you’re an Anderson, one of those Andersons, by default, we’re supposed to have some sort of unspoken rivalry. At the very least, we shouldn’t be speaking, much less interacting privately.”
I frown, tilting my head. “Why is that?”
Sutton releases his nose, opens his eyes, and swallows. “Because of our familial history?”
I blink at him.
He braces his hands against his desk. “Ms. Anderson, how much exactly do you know about Fury Hill?”
“As little as possible.”
“Because knowledge means responsibility?”
Blood rushes between my ears as I stare at him. The air expresses instantly from my lungs, and I clasp my hands together, squeezing tight. He watches the movement but says nothing.
It’s unnerving how good he is at seeing right fucking through me. He probably doesn’t even realize how transparent I really am, which would be comforting if I didn’t know.
All my life, I’ve worn my heart on my sleeve. Once upon a time, I thought it was safe there so long as I played whatever role people wanted me to—any role I could get my hands on.
But sometimes you can do everything right, play every part, and still wind up used and discarded.
“If this is how you treat all your students, I’m surprised your class was so highly recommended.”
“It’s highly recommended because I’m a good teacher.”
“Just a bad liar then?”
Pure, unadulterated fury burns in his gaze. His chest rises and falls rapidly, matching the urgency of my own breathing. “Are you implying I somehow tricked you?”
“I’m just saying. Why didn’t you mention working here? You said you were a director, and you made it seem like the other night was…”
I trail off, heat bleeding into my pores. No way am I admitting that for a few moments, our little tryst in his car felt special.
A man has to earn that right.
“Had I known you were a student, I certainly would not have engaged. My behavior was incredibly inappropriate, and I apologize.”
“What is that?” I ask. “A PR apology? I don’t remember requesting your regret over kissing me.”
“I didn’t say I regretted it.” His eyes flash, and a muscle in his jaw thumps. “I said I was sorry.”
“How is that different?”
“Regret implies I wouldn’t do it again.”
Oh.
He sighs, letting his chin drop. I take a moment to look around, noting a few dying plants in the windowsill, a large bookcase next to it filled with various works of famous playwrights like Wilde, Aristophanes, and Euripides, and even some Behn and Kalidasa.
It’s the collection of someone who not only enjoys acting but wants to fully understand the medium and its worldly history. Someone who takes theater seriously.
My heart thumps a little faster in my chest, but I ignore it.
A well-read man is attractive. Even more so when he’s well-read on things that interest me. But that’s not what I’m here for.
No matter how badly I might ache to learn more.
Beyond the books, a single filing cabinet sits beneath the window, holding a bust of Shakespeare and several cartridges of fountain pens. The cement walls are painted a forest green, a few shades darker than his eyes, and they remind me of the woods surrounding this school.
I shiver. All the more reason for me to leave without pursuing anything more.
“There was a fire at the dean’s house,” he says, glancing above my head. “Any chance you had something to do with it?”
“That’s what you want to know?”
Slowly, he drags his gaze to mine. “I’m asking if it was you, Elle. Is that what you needed the lighter for?”
Crossing my arms, I look away. A coffee stain catches my attention, dried up on the dark green ombre rug under our feet. I trace the outline with my eyes until it starts to blend in with the fabric below, eventually turning into a memory.
One filled with the scent of sweat-soaked flesh. The sound of distant screams echoing through the forest. Eyes I can’t unsee, ever, no matter how much time passes.
Fear scales higher along my body, sparks licking their way up my spine and limbs in a path toward destruction.
A different memory, this one tainted with sin, snowballing out of control. The need for attention—distraction—clawing at my brain, propelling me into strong arms, the scent of apricots and cologne invading my senses, making me dizzy.
And then…nothing.
Nothing at all.
He waits for an answer. A confession.
“I’ve never intentionally started a fire in my life,” I tell him.
“I don’t know about that,” he mutters, and I have to wonder if he means a different kind of fire.
If he too feels this heat pulsing between us, beckoning and pleading.
Instead of elaborating, he redirects the conversation. “Are you aware that arson is a very serious crime?”
“I’m not an idiot.” I slink forward a step. “But as I said—I’ve never started a fire. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“So far, you’ve instilled very little confidence in that being the case. Your preparedness skills leave much to be desired.”
“A momentary lapse in judgment.”
“That also seems like a pattern with you.”
“It’s cute that you’re so concerned.”
“I am. For both our sanities.”
Fluttering my eyelashes, I edge even closer, clutching my hands behind my back and pushing my breasts forward. One of the buttons on my blouse came undone earlier while I was waiting, so my cleavage peeks through a slit in the top, tantalizing. “Do you worry about all your students like this?”
He swallows. “Yes.”
“Really?” I slip into the gap between his thighs but don’t actually make any contact. He smells just like he did in the car that night—some mix between crisp apricot and a touch of woodsy cologne—and I try not to inhale too deeply.
“A good professor shows compassion for those he’s trying to teach.”
“Compassion.” I reach for his chest and start to drag my finger down the center. “Is that what you feel for me?”
His arm lashes out, and he catches my wrist, halting my movements. His fingers are as cold as I remember.
“I don’t feel anything for you except contempt, Ms. Anderson. You’re proving to be little more than a nuisance.”
“That’s no way to talk to a student.”
“Nor should you be touching your professor.” His green eyes blaze, rage bubbling in the irises. “I suppose we’re both at fault here, temptress.”
The nickname he gave me the night we met. Heat sizzles against the surface of my skin. “Would you like to touch me?”
“No.”
“Liar.” I pout and try to pull away, but he holds me tight.
In place.
He doesn’t say anything for a beat, but the way his gaze burns like liquid emerald sears me from the inside out.
The chill from his hands sends a spray of goose bumps scattering across my arms. “You’re cold, Sutton,” I purr, shifting to wrap my fingers around his. “Let me warm you up.”
Before I can, he releases me and stalks around to the other side of his desk. He snatches a stapled packet from the filing cabinet, tossing it onto the wood surface between us.
“There’s your syllabus,” he states, entirely devoid of emotion. That mask of his slides right back into place, shutting me out. “Now leave. I can’t keep you from taking the course, but I can damn sure have you removed from my office if need be.”