Cuddle Like You Mean It

1. Chapter 1 Staley

Chapter 1 Staley

T he only place I want to be is inside of you.

In my dreams, Luca has blue eyes, and his voice—dear God—his voice is what every man should sound like.

My hands on your waist.

Do you feel how my fingers mold perfectly to your body?

I’ve fallen in love with a man I’ve never met. Anonymous voice actors provide me with all of the sexual relief a girl could ask for and then some.

God, I could drink in the very sight of you. Your smile ... your ass ...

An endearing, breathy laugh hits my ears, followed by a growling moan, and my next sip of iced vanilla latte turns into a full-frontal spill down the front of my Bush T-shirt.

Everything is not Zen, Gavin.

The voice of Luca Blue, my favorite spicy audio narrator in my headphones, has completely sabotaged my outfit for the day.

The university is bustling with students. I feel the weight of their eyes on me as they pass by, judging me for my coffee mishaps. I should know better than to listen to Luca when I’m late to an important meeting with the university counselor—very late.

You taste so sweet.

Well, so did my latte, but now I’m left daydreaming about Luca and how my clothes might melt off if he said those words to me in person. If I had friends, they’d probably give me a ton of shit about listening to sex stories instead of trying to date a living, breathing, can-speak-to-me-in-person sort of man. But Luca can’t ever leave me for someone else. Sure, he probably has other listeners, but it doesn’t make me delusional to pretend that I, Staley Monroe, am his only one. Luca Blue is grade-A boyfriend material who knows how to get me feeling electric and says all the right things at all the right times.

What I wouldn’t give to get you alone. I’d have my way with you—every single inch.

Dammit, Luca.

Flustered and covered in coffee, I let the dream go. The spill is the universe saying I need to cool it. The school campus is no place for me to remove my pants.

Professor Frank’s office door is always open. She hovers over her cluttered desk, repeatedly dunking her tired tea bag, mindlessly reading the university paper.

“Earl Grey?”

The tea bag slips as droplets splash onto her coveted Opinion section. Forget finance and politics. Frank lives for the campus gossip.

“Staley! My goodness, can’t you knock? You scared the tea right out of me.”

Her eyes acknowledge my shirt’s new sepia tone.

“What happened to you?”

“My iced coffee gave up on me.”

She laughs and gestures for me to sit before cutting straight to the chase. “You need three more credits to graduate.”

An all-too-familiar sense of dread starts at the top of my body. My scalp tingles, and my cheeks flush with the heat of what can only be the beginning of an anxiety attack.

“Wait, what do you mean? I did an extra semester the summer after my sophomore year.”

Square breathing, meditation, visualization—I’ve tried it all to quell the anxiety when it feels like the weight of an elephant is sitting on my chest, causing me near asphyxiation. The only thing I can think of to help bring me back to center would be to press play on the latest Luca Blue track again.

“Staley, the math doesn’t lie. You’re three credits short, and there are slim class pickings from the looks of things. We could try enrolling you into something from this list.”

Fall semester of my graduating year is not the ideal time to find out I am one elective short of getting an embossed piece of paper in my hand. I promised my dad I’d graduate.

Frank slides a piece of soggy paper over with my options. None of them look good.

Ceramics 101.

Astronomy for the Ages.

The Craft of Poetry.

My finger taps the poetry class because it’s the only one I can squeeze into my already packed schedule, and I’m pretty good with puns.

“If it means I’ll graduate, sign me up.”

Frank laughs, passes me the add/drop slip of paper, and shoos me from her office.

The road less traveled into sonnets and iambic pentameter would be less of an uphill battle than making pottery alongside stoners named Chad who sculpt bongs out of clay coils.

Scanning the auditorium, I scope out the nearest empty seat. My choices are limited: I can either subject myself to the group of possible frat guys donning polarized sunglasses and back-in-again permed mullets or sit in the front row. Here in the Liberal Arts building, my chances of having to do a group project with a dudebro are high, and my threshold for fanny-pack frat boys is zero. Seat selection is essential.

Front row it is.

I flip the theater-style seat down and make myself as comfortable as possible on the scratchy fabric. My seatmate to my left must be a freshman, as her assortment of highlighters and sticky notes reflects an eager student on their first day of school. The yellow slip from Frank remains rolled between my sweaty fingers like a lottery ticket I don’t dare lose.

The professor descends the stairs with a worn, leather messenger bag clutched to his chest. The broken strap follows him like a toilet paper strip stuck to his shoe’s bottom. Coffee stains the front of his pleated khaki pants. I snort because he and I are probably covered in coffee for different reasons.

Miss Organized glares at my outburst. I’m here to graduate, not make friends, so I offer her a sharp look.

I can’t help but picture the professor’s life story: He lives alone, and his coffee is instant. His wife asked for a divorce for his propensity to recite too many cheesy love poems at the dinner table.

His professor paraphernalia smacks the counter and removes me from the imaginary dinner table in his home. He’s old school and uses chalk to write his name and the course title across the board. A screech stops further chatter from the group of dudebros three rows back.

“Welcome to The Craft of Poetry. If you’re looking for Podcasting 101, it’s down the hall and to the left. For the students hoping to add this class to their schedule, please see my teaching assistant, Mr. Sullivan, after class. This elective is one of the most sought-after electives at this university.”

All eyes move down the line to where Professor Graham points at his TA. A collective oh leaves the mouths of the other women in the class, and a few men too. A squeak seeps out of my seatmate, blocking my view of the TA.

“Um, are you okay?” I ask her.

A glimpse of her campus ID reveals her name: Gabby.

Gabby stares unblinking at Mr. Sullivan (although I think it’s totally weird to call my peer Mister), her mouth completely agape.

“Seriously, what gives?”

Gabby and I aren’t on a first-name basis, but that doesn’t stop me from moving her body back to see what the fuss is about.

Ohhhh.

Tangled chestnut locks, either curly or unbrushed, fall past his eyes, leaving an air of mystery around him. It’s not the hair that has me stuck staring. It’s his complete indifference to everyone’s attention, as if there isn’t a single eye ogling him right now. I’d give anything to exist with his level of chill and indifference. I’ve sworn off boyfriends for the rest of time, but it does not mean I can’t admire a fine specimen and deposit him into my memory bank for a little two-finger tango later.

Mr. Sullivan keeps his head down and pays the rest of us no mind, but I continue to ogle. I’m the same girl who spilled coffee all down her front a few hours ago listening to spicy audio. The drag of his pen across the paper in front of him accentuates his naturally flexed forearms. In light of the noise around him, his focus and ability to ignore everyone else have me most curious. A slight upturn of his full lips interrupts his writing. Cupid must be taking specialty orders because Mr. Sullivan checks all of my boxes: Curly-ish hair. Strong arms. Great smile.

I have no shame. None.

Professor Graham drones on. “Listen up. I’ve heard the rumors. This class is not an easy A. Fifty percent of your grade relies on a group project. You can find the details on said project on page three of your syllabus.”

“Excuse me, Professor Graham, it says here the project must be original work. What if some of us aren’t, er—writers?”

Gabby cares about the details, and I should too, since I need this class to graduate, but my laser focus is on the impervious TA who won’t throw me a bone and give me more than a damn side profile. It’s imperative to my survival and graduating to get added to this class. Without it, I won’t be able to find a better-paying job or pay the bills.

She has a point. If memory serves me correctly, the only poem I’ve ever written was in kindergarten, and it might have been about my love of ice cream.

Frank didn’t say what my grade needed to be in this class to receive credit. If my five-year-old self could combine words, I’ll find a way to rhyme orange with another word.

Writing poetry might be the difference between me following through with my commitment to Dad and not.

Professor Graham waves off the other hands raised in the air.

“As mentioned, please see Mr. Sullivan. Your fate is in his hands.”

The class settles in as the professor covers the poets and techniques in the syllabus for the semester. Gabby might as well be a painter the way she transcribes notes to the page because I don’t think I’ve ever seen penmanship as lovely as hers. I arrived in a rush, unprepared, without a notebook or computer to take notes with, which means I’ll need to make friends after all.

“Hey, do you think I could borrow your notes?”

She moves her gel pen to the margin and writes the word sure . Panic has a history of locking me in place, and I cannot make headway sometimes, but right now, I’m breathing with a little less trouble because of Gabby’s easy generosity.

The chatter among the rest of the class resumes as they pack up their bags and head toward the exit.

“I’m Staley, by the way.” Gabby strikes me as someone who prefers formal introductions, so I offer a handshake. Gabby bypasses my offer and pats my shoulder instead like it’s my first day, not hers.

“Gabby. But you probably already know that, as I’m the only person wearing a lanyard in this class.” She yanks her badge off and shoves it into her backpack. “I can email you the notes if you want me to?”

“You’re a lifesaver, and I’m not one hundred percent sure I’m in the class yet. Here, I’ll write it down for you. Can I scribble it right here?” I pick up one of the pens on her desk.

“Um, why don’t you tell me what it is? I’ll write it myself, and you can keep the pen.” A subtle but pinched smile is all she offers. I’m nervous and confident I’ve offended her somehow, but I can’t afford to be without notes if I get into this class.

Professor Graham leaves the auditorium the same way he came in, with his leather strap in tow, as a line of students attempt to crowd Mr. Sullivan at the front of the auditorium. Despite my front-row access, I end up third in line. The urgency to add this class is two-fold: I need to graduate, and I have to get to a work appointment afterward, and it’s across campus, at least a fifteen-minute walk. Frankie isn’t a new client. He’s a regular and has had a Tuesday appointment with me for three years.

Making eye contact with Mr. Sullivan is impossible. He’s an impenetrable wall. He is a gorgeous wall but with a softer shape. A wall I wouldn’t mind leaning my body against or cuddling with in every position known to man. He’s not muttered a single word to a student he’s yet to help. Gorgeous and the strong, silent type. TA jobs are hard to attain on this campus and pay more than most work-study gigs. How he’s kept this job with such little interaction is beyond me, but hot people aren’t always helpful people.

The guy before me engages in a slap-and-tickle fest with his buddy. Their antics collide with my downcast head, knocking my phone out of my hands and across the floor.

“Ugh! Come on. Can’t you Neanderthals find a wrestling mat or something?”

Silence sweeps the room when an all-too-familiar voice interrupts me.

Oh. My. God.

What are the odds my app didn’t close out earlier? Not as high as the odds of me clicking on said app before my phone went flying.

That’s a good girl. You know exactly what I like ...

This is it. This is how I die. At least the last thing I’ll hear is Luca Blue telling me I’m his one and only.

It’s fine. Everything is fine.

And by fine, I mean world-ending.

“Damn, girl. Maybe we can swap numbers. I’ve got kinks too.”

I make a note to stay far away from Dudebro Number One for fear that Mr. Sullivan might put us on a group project together.

Heated embarrassment climbs my torso, activating the dried coffee on my top to a percolating drip of sweat and caffeine. People sweat when their cortisol levels bust through the roof. It’s me, I’m some people, and my anxiety is at a balmy level ten.

“Hell yes, I love dirty talk!”

Second note to self: Kick Dudebro Number Two in the shin if I see him in public and pray I never get booked with him as a cuddle client.

No one in history has been as mortified as I am. This is a first because embarrassment is not a state I often experience. My relationship with Luca Blue is a balance of give and take, and right now, I want nothing more than for him to give me an exit from this misery and finish me off.

The phone lies wedged between the floor and the uneven base of the podium where Mr. Sullivan sits on a lopsided metal stool.

Touch yourself. Look how wet—

Makeshift noises of slippery bodies or fingers and hands—I cannot tell—bounce across the auditorium. All I know is that if I were in the privacy of my bedroom, I’d be enjoying myself, but currently, I’m praying for a swift death.

The phone is stuck, and face down, no less. Mr. Sullivan intervenes by tipping the weighty podium to the side. Great, he’s a hero too. When surrounded by sharks, I prefer to be saved by an old boat captain, but this stunning man uses his bare hands and strength to rescue me instead. This is one of the worst parts of having anxiety; my intrusive thoughts get the best of me, and Mr. Sullivan has come to bail me out.

I’ve got plenty of kinks, but public humiliation by meatheads wearing fanny packs isn’t one of them.

The verbal exchange between the two guys is nothing but background noise.

My knees dig into the hard tile, and hair falls into my eyes, escalating my exasperation while also thinning my breath. With slick fingers, I attempt to slide them across the screen as Luca pushes through the end of the scene.

Luca growls and sucks air through his clenched teeth. I don’t know how he manages to exude a level of wanting in me, but I feel desire even in this arena of embarrassment.

I only talk like this when I’m with you ...

Stop. Stop. Stop.

The meatheads continue with their commentary.

“Maybe she has a kinky friend. We could go on a double date.”

“Th-that-that’s enough.”

So Mr. Sullivan does speak. Until now, it’s been side profiles of his face and dead air from his mouth.

We’re now eye to eye. He’s not all lines and angles but round and full in the face in a way that likely produces dimples when he smirks at someone he fancies. Soft waves and curls fall past his obnoxiously long eyelashes; it takes everything in me not to push one of his tendrils away from his mossy eyes. My gut tells me he might let me sob into his sweater-vest for comfort. Because there’s a warmth from him, whispering I will comfort you.

“Thank you, Mr. Sullivan. I wasn’t trying to disrupt class.”

A nod is all he is willing to give me, but I can’t help but take in the rosiness spreading across his full cheeks.

Dudebro Number One pushes past me with a scoff and hands his slip to Mr. Sullivan. The box “Waitlist” is marked, and my heart bottoms out. He’s two people ahead of me in line, and if he’s on the waitlist, it means I’m one class short of a diploma and a better paycheck.

Breathing—my coping mechanism for the unease in stressful situations—feels unyielding as my throat coils around itself.

Now would be an excellent time to spiral. The medical bills will pile up. Letters from the university will pour in demanding tuition payment even though I’ll no longer be a student. I’ll lose any chance at a better job, degree, and integrity because I promised my dad I would do this. This is for him more than it is for me.

What will happen to my clients on campus if I can’t get into this class?

“Shit.”

Mr. Sullivan homes in on my panicked face and gestures at the guy before me to move forward. When he hands the yellow slip back to the fanny pack–wearing frat boy, he is met with an immature outburst.

“Waitlisted?! Come on, Sullivan, I need this class to row this semester, without it they’ll pull me from my seat spot.”

Being waitlisted means one thing and one thing only: Someone has to drop out to make room for the rest of us, and I’m praying that if these guys do get in, they do me a favor and quit as soon as possible.

The tension in my shoulders builds. My client won’t reap the benefits of our appointment together if I’m wound tight. It’s not like me to accept defeat. I can’t afford to wave the vanilla latte–stained white flag in surrender.

The disgruntled, soon-to-be-benched rower shoves by me.

“Move, good girl .”

Heat flashes across my cheeks.

Public humiliation? Nope .

Being called a good girl? Yes, please. Not by this douchebag.

Screw feeling bad for myself. I channel my inner Cher Horowitz and give him my best, “As if!”

The slip has been through it in the past two hours, permanently creased and damper than any piece of paper should be. I slap it down on the podium between Mr. Sullivan and my coffee-covered self.

“I know it’s a long shot, but what else do I have to lose, huh? The whole university knows what I’m listening to in these headphones, but I gotta try.”

Mr. Sullivan doesn’t show his cards. His jade eyes don’t flicker as his pen dots the paper underneath it. His silence is an eternity, and I add to my rant because I can’t help myself.

“I won’t graduate without this class and must graduate this semester.”

I don’t care one bit; the TA is witnessing me nosedive.

Mr. Sullivan ceases tapping as ink, scribbling on paper, fills my ears. He stands up and hands the form over, accidentally letting one of his dimples show.

“H-here.” His words are faint.

I’m on the waitlist, but the box next to the word “Other” is filled in. In his meticulous handwriting, I read:

The student’s enrollment is conditional on not playing erotic audio within the confines of the lecture. An official Add will

require open spots. The student is third on the list.

I’m unofficially a student enrolled in The Craft of Poetry—if I can keep my headphones on.

“Can I hug you? I’m going to hug you. You have no idea—”

Before I can stop the forward motion of my enthusiasm, I tackle Mr. Sullivan in a full-blown hug of gratitude. A cry-laugh floods my body as the adrenaline crashes, leaving me weak and shuddery. I shouldn’t be hugging this man. He’s a stranger from whom I didn’t get an enthusiastic yes, and now he is my TA.

If this morning reminds me of anything, pants are part of the campus dress code. His torso is rigid, surprised by my embrace. As I continue with my outpouring of thanks, my hug warms our bodies, and his shoulders drop a tad. He pats my back in an awkward, I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-my-hands-at-a-high-school-dance sort of way.

“Dammit, I’m so sorry. I’m kind of a hugger. It’s my thing.”

With some heavy reluctance, I release his soft, flushed body and memorize the citrus and ink smell layered into his clothes. Being on the receiving end of a hug like this, where no payment occurs and the recipient doesn’t cry, is a breath of fresh air. Mr. Sullivan’s warmth and full stature leave me a little drowsy with relief.

“What I mean to say is, thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Sullivan. I’ll see you in class on Thursday. I promise, no more sexy outbursts.”

Before I can make more of a mockery of myself, I leave the auditorium the same way I came in—with my yellow slip in hand. I’ve ensured my future success, kind of. As long as I can convince the rower boys I need their seat in this class more than they do.

As the door closes behind me, I hear Mr. Sullivan mutter under his breath, “You’re w-welcome.”

Be still, my heart; thou hast not yet removeth thy pants. Or whatever Homer said.