Chapter 6 Reyna #2
Sue stares at it for a moment longer. I’ve given her the background of my life, and she’s been more than accommodating in my search. “Tell you what. How about I have a look around to see if anyone might know?”
“I would be eternally grateful. I’ve also noticed that quite a few of the alumni books are missing.”
She rolls her eyes. “I bet you it’s Tim. That boy has been nothing but trouble since the day he started. Things have been goin’ missing like it’s nobody’s business.”
I give her a tight grin. I have no idea who Tim is, but I know Sue’s hated him since she witnessed him covertly throw out some of her baking.
I wave her goodbye, and because I’m clearly in the fates’ good graces today, I have to break into a sprint the second I’m outside. The sky batters the ground with hail and one of the seven plagues of Egypt.
I love that I forgot to bring my umbrella.
That’s just fan-fucking-tastic.
By the time I stroll into class and claim the seat farthest from the front, I’m the human equivalent of a drowned rat.
Dirt and chips of stone stick to my long boots, and my pantyhose are so soaked that they’re glistening against my black dress. Not to mention the water dripping from my scarf and coat is bound to make every cleaner in this university hate me.
Whether or not Shaw noticed me clomp inside bringing the outdoors with me will remain a mystery. I subtly glower at him as I unpack my things, and Christ if it isn’t infuriating how effortlessly handsome he is. Couldn’t he be horrifically disfigured? Or at the very least have bad teeth?
The man encompasses the very essence of suave, and I want to push him into a pool to make him lose his composure. But I bet he’d glide out, soaking wet, looking more godly than Poseidon himself.
Because winning the genetic lottery wasn’t enough, he’s nailed the hot professor look too. I never thought I’d be attracted to a man in a knitted vest, but it’s doing things to me that Maddox Shaw shouldn’t be.
Life is so unfair. Why must natural selection be so cruel?
As more students trickle in, I pretend not to notice Shaw while I stare blankly at the graphs for my psych class. Nicole’s away sick, so I’ll need to face Satan alone.
My face suddenly heats with awareness. Unlike in the library, this feels like a searing burn, the kind that comes from being in the center of a bull’s-eye.
The dark, foolish part of my soul is telling me to raise my chin and look Shaw dead-on. The practical part of me—the part that holds the occasionally dormant survival instincts—tells me to ignore him.
It’s the mature choice.
But I still want to look at him because he’s damn easy on the eyes.
Every woman here is swooning; it’s in the flutter of their lashes and the overly enthusiastic way they say, “Good afternoon, Professor Shaw,” and it mortifies me that I’m one of the ones heating up just thinking about him in his stupid fucking vest.
It makes me hate him more.
Attractive, smart, and arrogant. The traits of a man who isn’t worth my time. Regrettably, it’s an honor and a privilege to be taught by said man. So shutting up and ignoring him is, unfortunately, the right choice.
Class starts, and all of us hang on every word he says. It’s enrapturing to watch him teach. What he lacks in practical film skills, he makes up for in theory—and man does he know his theory.
My brain is fried from information overload by the time class ends.
I’ve learned more in the past two weeks than I have in the entire year Professor Bradford was teaching us.
I take my time packing up, because I only have a couple of assignments to work on for once, and a video I need to upload and deliver to a client.
Nothing is burning—except the stats formula for psych I still don’t understand.
In my books, that’s called a moderately relaxing night.
I might even spoil myself and rewatch Midsommar while researching the insignia I found in the library.
“Miss Sinaga, a moment.”
Shaw’s voice freezes my insides.
This can’t be good.
Taking a deep breath, I shoulder my satchel and try not to seem so begrudging about finishing my day with verbal abuse. I might have the sleep and caffeine levels to tolerate his bullshit, but there’s only so much one woman can take.
If he mentions anything to do with my mother, all bets are off.
I’m going for his jugular and writing a scathing complaint to the dean.
Hell, get a couple of drinks into me, and I might start buddying up with all the critics giving him a hard time—yes, I did spend far too long searching him up online the other night.
For a second, I’m self-conscious about how I might look when there isn’t a single part of him that’s out of place. Then I realize that I don’t give a shit. He has luxuries that I can’t afford and priorities that aren’t in the same tax bracket or realm as mine.
If he’s got a problem with my appearance, he can choke on it. I wasn’t put on this earth to look pretty for someone else. Especially not him.
I stop beside his desk, not-so-patiently waiting for him to reorganize the books and folders he referred to throughout the class. My stomach swoops when his gaze flickers to my legs for the briefest moment; I’m convinced I might have been imagining it.
Shaw’s attention fixes on me, and a small part of me simultaneously dies and comes alive.
He’s even more attractive up close. More imposing.
The natural light filtering through the windows casts dark shadows beneath his jaw to make him seem all the more intimidating, yet alluring, the way a sailor is distantly aware that his ship is about to crash as he drifts closer to the siren.
Holding eye contact is crippling. It’s like he wants to dissect me and work out how I tick. It’s exhilarating all the same. He opens his mouth.
Let the degradation commence.
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother.”
What? Are my ears deceiving me? His shoulders are lowered, the creases around his eyes soft. His voice is more like warm honey than the sting of a wasp.
“She was a lovely woman and well respected within the community.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “You’ve met her?” I think I need to pinch myself.
“Once.” Maddox nods. “At an awards dinner. Mora was telling people to keep an eye out because her daughter is an up-and-coming director.”
My eyes mist over, and I quickly blink them away. That sounds like Mom. “Oh.”
Ever since I was old enough to use a camera, she told everyone I’d be in Hollywood before they knew it.
I swallow and look down at my feet. I miss her so much.
I think she’d be disappointed that I chose to come here. She and Dad wanted great things for me that didn’t involve Cresswell or New York, even if it has produced some of the most legendary directors.
“Thank you.” My voice breaks. I clear my throat. “She was crazy but loved.”
Maddox huffs out a breath that could be mistaken for a chuckle. “I remember. She was quite intimidating when she wanted to be.”
I smile softly to myself. “You can say that again.”
Strangely so, comfortable silence stretches between us. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to talk to anyone new about Mom. It’s nice to be around someone who knew her.
As grateful as I am for the interaction, this isn’t the only reason he wants to talk. “Was there something else you wanted to discuss?”
Shaw’s eyes stay on me for three heartbeats too long. My pulse ricochets against my skin the longer he stays quiet. It gets worse when he finally puts me out of my misery by nodding at the laptop opened on the desk. “Your assignment.”
“You’ve graded it?” Professor Bradford usually takes a month or two to mark anything.
“Not officially. There are some things I want to go through with you.”
I scan the empty room like there might be a line of students he’s said the same thing to. Shaw doesn’t strike me as the type of man to offer his time outside of scheduled hours. He’s a good professor, but he’s never been known as a generous man.
Apparently, he’s changing his whole act just for my benefit.
He pulls out a seat for me, then lowers himself into his own, looking at me expectantly.
I realize what this is. An olive branch. A fresh start.
Mom, you absolute psycho, I owe you for this one.
Reluctantly, I sit beside him. My little heart is going to be shredded to pieces because it’s never easy being told that my work isn’t good enough.
But I want this. Any critical feedback is helpful in a highly competitive industry.
If I don’t find my backbone today, I’ll be damn sure I find it by the time our grades are released, because I can tell he won’t give me the A that I so desperately want.
I take a deep breath and regret it immediately. Add his scent to the list of his crimes. Maddox smells a hundred percent man, and a thousand percent divine. There’s another note that I never noticed before that has me berating myself for finding him more appealing.
Bergamot and paint. My new weakness.
Clearing my throat, I narrow my eyes at the screen. If I can’t actually be focused, pretending is the next best thing.
Shaw motions at the scene where the character—well, me—is slowly losing it in an office.
“Why did you choose a static wide angle for this scene?”
“Going wide would emphasize isolation and emptiness,” I answer.
“Fair.” He nods, considering. “It’s a measured angle, but it does not match what you are trying to portray.
Emptiness is about dissonance and space.
It would have been achieved by going handheld to break the frame so the audience can feel her anxiety.
Be there for every hand tremble. Every tear.
Feel her paranoia each time she looks out of the window thinking he’s out there. ”
It’s maddening that I agree with him.
We go through scene by scene, and he points out each time the movement is too fast, the color is oversaturated, or the lighting falls flat.
“You delivered this part well.”
Somewhere in the distance, there’s a disc scratching. Did he just… Is that a compliment?