Chapter Four
Evelyn
After a week full of maths and finance lectures, it’s finally Friday, the day of my first Art History seminar. Part of me is terrified and I wish it was nerves from being a TA for the first time, but it isn’t. It’s my reaction to Asher that’s causing the fear to flood my system.
Since our meeting, I haven’t been able to get him out of my head. Which is ridiculous. He may be hot, but hot men come and go. My brain knows that, so why can’t I get my pulsing heart to understand? He’s followed me all week, his eyes flashing with every pulse of want and need that flushes through me.
It’s pathetic.
I grit my teeth, determined to get over this silly little crush and focus. I’m sitting inside his seminar room, fifteen minutes early, ready for the class to start. There are two desks at the front, one in the middle I’m assuming is his, and another set off to the side and further back which I think is mine. I really can’t wait. I know a lot of about Art History, but nothing beats the expertise of someone like Asher. After our meeting, when I knew his first name, I looked him up. Abel wasn’t exaggerating when he called him a gallery owning hotshot. According to Wikipedia, he owns two galleries, one in LA and one in New Orleans and he’s well known in the art world for discovering new talent. To be able to learn from someone whose worked with the latest talent is … it’s a dream come true.
“Is this Art history?” A deep voice asks from the doorway and my head snaps up. A tall jock-type is standing at the door, his hand pressed into his sandy blonde hair.
I smile. “Yep.”
“Are you...” He pauses, looking confused. “Are you Professor Callaway?”
I laugh, understanding his confusion. “Oh no, I’m Evelyn, his TA.”
He smiles. “Nice to meet you, Evelyn. I’m Jake.” He walks further into the room and finds a seat near the front. “So, are you a junior?”
I shake my head. “Sophomore.”
“Nice.”
Students begin to filter in through the doors, filling the classroom with noise as I retrieve my notebook and pen. I wanted to get a laptop for this year, but I saved every penny I could to help dad, so the old-fashioned way it is.
“Good morning, class.” Asher’s voice is sudden, deep, and rough like Monday, and my core throbs. He walks into the room, his suit fresh and crisp and I wonder if he ever looks anything but perfect. He looks to me and nods, smiling warmly. “Evelyn.”
“Professor Callaway.” I smile back.
The students have gone silent and the class, which is comprised of mostly girls, all blush and shift, fluttering their lashes at the perfect specimen of a man at the head of the room. I would have rolled my eyes at them usually, but he really is that handsome. It’s the kind of reaction that you can’t control.
“Now, we all know by now that first classes are introductory bullshit.” Asher’s voice echoes through the room. “So welcome to introductory bullshit 101. My name is Asher Callaway, and I’m your Art History professor.” He circles the room. “Now, I want everyone to turn to the person sitting next to them and introduce themselves. Have a conversation. Get to know each other.” He pushes his hands forward. “Go.”
As everyone turns to follow his instruction, Asher walks forward, sitting at his desk but turning to face me.
I send him a teasing smile. “Swearing like a sailor is an understatement.”
He smiles. “I did warn you.” He leans forward. “So, Evelyn Hart. Who are you?”
“I’m sorry?” I ask, confused.
“Who are you. Come on, we can’t expect the students to do the awkward introductory games if we don’t even do them.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’m Evelyn Hart.”
“Okay you’re no good at this.” He stands. “Class. Now I want you to play question for a question.” He sits back down. “Now you have to answer. Are you planning on majoring in Art History?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Finance.”
He looks disgusted. “Why?”
“Ah, ah. It’s my turn now.” He rolls his eyes, but goes silent, waiting. “It’s your first-year teaching, so why did you want to become a professor?”
“I didn’t want to really, I just wanted something new in life.” He splays his hands out. “This was a way to do that. Now, why are you majoring in finance and not Art History.” He says the word like it tastes sour and I laugh.
“Because I want stability without risk.”
He shakes his head. “Passion is dead.”
“You sound like my best friend.” I laugh harder picturing Bree beside him, agreeing.
“Sounds like you should be listening to your best friend. You clearly have a passion for the subject. From what I heard; you had more knowledge than the last professor who taught here.”
My stomach flutters and I warm at the praise. “I love art, but I love stability more.”
He shakes his head. “Like I said, passion is dead.” His eyes catch mine, and I see gold speckling the green, like gold leaf on a canvas of green. “Maybe I’ll change your mind.”
My heartbeat flutters, jumping at the intensity of his gaze but I push the feelings away. “Maybe.” I say simply, my breath catching.
He stares, his eyes searching for a beat, before standing and turning to the class, leading them in more introductory games. I spend the rest of the class staring, memorising his every sharp line and angle, intent on painting him, intent on pretending that that’s the only reason my eyes don’t look away from him.
I can look, but I can’t touch. That’s the rule.