Chapter 15
GRADY
A few weeks had slipped by since the semester began.
The unspoken tension between Cece and me had settled into a simmering undercurrent.
We maintained a professional distance, exchanging only the necessary words during classes.
Yet, every time she entered the room, my eyes betrayed me, drawn to her presence despite my best efforts to remain composed.
The staff lounge coffee was shit, but it was free and strong enough to wake the dead.
I’d learned to appreciate both qualities during my first year at Zebulon when my salary barely covered rent, let alone decent caffeine.
Now, four years later, I still found myself snagging the free coffee most mornings, partly out of habit and partly because Felix made a point of holding court at the corner table, dissecting departmental politics with surgical precision.
It was the place to be. It was where all the gossip happened.
The lounge was empty that day, though. I was doctoring my cup with enough sugar to mask the burnt taste when I heard the click of heels on linoleum behind me.
“Professor Stone.”
I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
Dean Carver had a voice that could make my balls shrivel.
Hell, it did make my balls shrivel. I couldn’t explain what it was about her, but the woman got on my last nerve.
I sensed it was a mutual feeling. She didn’t like me any more than I liked her.
I just didn’t know why. What the hell did I do to her?
“Morning, Dean,” I said, not bothering to face her as I stirred my coffee. Maybe if I avoided eye contact, she wouldn’t attack.
“I was hoping we could have a word.” She stepped closer, close enough that I caught a whiff of her perfume.
Something expensive and cloying that made my nose itch.
It made her smell like an old woman. I remembered going to church with my grandmother.
Sitting among the old ladies with their white hair felt like being in an actual perfume bottle. It was suffocating.
I finally turned, plastering on my most professional smile. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
Carver was one of those women who’d probably been stunning twenty years ago and was fighting tooth and nail against the passage of time.
Everything about her was doctored. There was nothing natural about her—except the wrinkles around her eyes.
No laugh lines. I didn’t think she ever laughed or smiled.
Her navy suit had been tailored to within an inch of its life. Maybe buy another one a size up?
“I wanted to discuss your teaching assistants,” she said, her eyes studying my face like she was looking for cracks in a foundation. “How are they working out?”
I took a sip of coffee, buying myself time. It felt like a trap, though I couldn’t figure out what kind yet. “Fine. Both are capable students.”
“Mmm.” She tilted her head, a gesture that might have been flirtatious if it didn’t feel so calculated. “I’m particularly interested in your assessment of Ms. Monroe. Her academic performance, her… dedication to the program.”
The way she said Cece’s name made something cold settle in my stomach. “She’s one of the strongest graduate students I’ve worked with. Bright, hardworking, asks the right questions.”
“I see.” Carver stepped closer, ostensibly reaching for the coffee pot, but the movement brought her shoulder against my arm. “And personally? How do you find her?”
Every alarm bell in my head started ringing. This was definitely a trap, though I still couldn’t see the shape of it. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“Oh, I think you do.” Her smile was razor thin. “You’re an attractive man, Grady. And Ms. Monroe is… well, she’s quite striking.”
My jaw tightened. This was exactly the kind of conversation that could end careers, and Carver knew it. She was fishing, casting her line and waiting to see what she could drag up from the murky depths.
“I don’t assess my students based on their appearance, Dean Carver,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I evaluate them on their academic merit and professional conduct. Frankly, I think it’s inappropriate that you mention it at all to me.”
Her smile didn’t waver, but something flickered behind her eyes. Disappointment? “Of course. How professional of you.” She paused, refilling her coffee cup with deliberate slowness. “And what about Ms. Reese? I understand her mother is quite concerned about her progress.”
There it was. The real reason for this fishing expedition.
Lina’s mother Seraphina. Major donor. Woman who could make my life hell with a single phone call.
She wanted a progress report. And Carver was her messenger.
Obviously, they were expecting a glowing report.
Her mother would not be happy if I said anything negative.
She was looking for the bumper sticker. The one that said her kid was on the honor roll or whatever the grad school equivalent was.
Never mind the fact that her family was what bought the honor roll.
“Lina is adjusting to the demands of graduate-level work,” I said carefully.
It was the most diplomatic way I could think of to say she spent more time on her phone than her coursework.
That she ogled me like I was a prime cut of beef she was trying to decide how to eat.
That Lina brushed her tits against my arm or chest or back anytime she could make it look accidental.
“Her mother mentioned she’s been putting in extra hours. Late nights at the library, additional study sessions.” Carver’s eyes never left my face. “She’s quite dedicated, apparently. She’s really enjoying your class, according to her mother.”
Late nights at the library my ass. The girl couldn’t find the library with GPS and a sherpa. But I wasn’t about to say that to the dean, not when Lina’s mother could smite my career like a vengeful god.
“She’s certainly enthusiastic about the subject matter,” I managed.
“Wonderful. Her mother will be so pleased to hear it.” Carver took a sip of her coffee, grimacing slightly at the taste.
“You know, Stone, I’ve always admired your dedication to mentoring young minds.
So hands-on in your approach. Your students always have nice things to say about you.
I swear, you would think you were personally teaching each of them.
They all say they appreciate the one-on-one time with you. ”
The way she said it made my skin crawl. Everything about this conversation felt wrong, like she was trying to lead me somewhere I didn’t want to go. I didn’t do any one-on-one time. I was required to hold office hours per my teaching contract. Students did come in, but that was part of the job.
“I’m glad the students appreciate my class,” I said, setting my cup down harder than necessary.
Carver’s voice dropped to what I suspected she thought was a sultry whisper. “You’re so good with your hands, aren’t you? All that fieldwork experience.”
What the fuck was happening right now? I took a step back, putting some distance between us, but she moved closer again.
“Dean, I’m not sure what you’re implying?—”
“I’m not implying anything.” Her eyes roamed my body, but it wasn’t admiration. It felt more like a butcher eyeing a slab of meat. “I’m simply observing that you have a very tactile approach to teaching. Very physical. Hands-on demonstration techniques.”
She was definitely trying to insinuate something. And I didn’t like it.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said. “My teaching methods are entirely professional.”
“Are they?” She tilted her head again, and I caught something cold and sharp in her expression.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have a class to prepare for.”
“Of course.” She stepped aside, giving me another one of those looks that made my skin crawl. “We should do this more often, Grady. These little chats. I find them so illuminating.”
I walked away feeling like I needed another shower, and it wasn’t even nine in the morning yet.
I made it to the hall, still feeling icky after the interaction.
Several students were already seated. Ten minutes later, I sat at the front desk, pretending to review some notes while stealing glances at Cece.
The students were taking a test and the room was quiet.
Cece moved gracefully between the rows, her focus on the students, oblivious to the effect she had on me.
Lina, on the other hand, prowled the aisles with a predatory air, her eyes occasionally flicking toward me, seeking attention I was unwilling to give.
My phone buzzed, jolting me from what was spinning into a less than appropriate fantasy. A calendar notification flashed: Dive Prep!
I stifled a groan. The diving trip I’d planned over the summer had completely slipped my mind. Back then, Lina was my only TA, and I’d arranged a scuba dive to a shipwreck off the coast of South Carolina, partly to impress her mother so the project could get some money.
Now, with Cece as my other TA, I faced a dilemma. I doubted she was certified for such a dive, and the idea of excluding her felt wrong.
I could offer to get her certified. My mind raced through the logistics.
The university had a decent training pool, and with intensive sessions, she could probably get the basic certification within a couple weeks.
But that would mean private lessons. Hours alone with her in the pool, watching her in a wetsuit that would cling to every curve.
Teaching her how to breathe underwater while I struggled to breathe above it.
Shit, was I seriously considering this just to see her in a bikini?
I rubbed my face with both hands, trying to banish the image of Cece in swimwear from my brain.
This was exactly the kind of thinking that proved I was losing my grip on reality.
A responsible professor would either cancel the dive or find a way to include her that didn’t involve me personally training her.
But the thought of disappointing her, of watching her face fall when I told her she couldn’t come, made my chest tight.
She, unlike Lina, was actually interested in archeology.
She would love the dive. Cece was someone I could share my passion of exploration with.
The truth was becoming harder to ignore; I was obsessed with her.
Not just attracted—obsessed. I found myself taking routes across campus that might lead to a glimpse of her.
I’d started timing my coffee runs to coincide with her schedule.
Last week, I’d spent twenty minutes in the parking lot after class, pretending to check my phone while really just hoping she’d walk by.
Praying her car wouldn’t start so I could help her out.
It was pathetic. I was a grown man, a professional, and I was acting like a teenage boy with his first crush.
The smart thing would be to get out there and find someone else to occupy my thoughts.
Someone age appropriate. Someone who wasn’t a grad student.
Someone who wouldn’t cost me my career if things went south.
But every time I tried to picture myself with another woman, the image felt hollow.
Empty. Like trying to satisfy hunger with cardboard.
I’d had opportunities over the past few weeks.
There’d been that colleague at the faculty mixer, a woman at the coffee shop who’d slipped me her number, and a few women that had been at The Library.
None of them made my pulse quicken. None of them made me forget how to breathe.
Only Cece did that.
I was doomed, and I knew it. Completely, utterly doomed.
A student raised her hand, breaking me from my spiral of self-recrimination. “Professor Stone? Question about number seven?”
I stood, grateful for the distraction, and walked over to help her. But even as I explained the difference between stratigraphic layers, my eyes kept drifting to where Cece stood near the windows, sunlight catching the red in her hair like fire.
Yeah. Definitely doomed.
After the quiz, as students filed out, I approached Cece.
“Hey, Cece, have you ever gone scuba diving?”
She looked up, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. “I have.”
That surprised me. “Yeah? Certified?”
“Yeah, I’m Advanced Open Water certified. That’s actually one of the reasons I chose this university.”
I raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “Really? That’s great. I have a dive trip planned to a shipwreck site. Would you be interested in joining?”
Her eyes lit up, a smile playing on her lips. “Absolutely. That sounds amazing.”
I nodded, trying to maintain a professional demeanor.
“What’s the dive?” she asked.
I flashed a grin. “We’re searching for pirate treasure.”