Chapter 5 #4
Noah’s eyes dance between mine, bright despite the half-lit auditorium.
He keeps the clipboard out of reach as we get to our feet and he brushes past me, down the stairs.
He takes his place back on the stage, where he lectured and makes a show of clearing his throat.
My stomach violently knots as I realize what he’s about to do.
“Was the class well organized and was the course content clear?” His eyes scan the page, and heat erupts along my spine, slicking my skin with sweat.
Tender, whiskey eyes meet mine. “Professor Ryan isn’t just organized, but he also leads the course in a way that guides the students to value organization as well.
The lecture topic was established at the beginning of class, clearly and succinctly, and there was a verbal exchange between professor and students to recap last week before jumping into this week.
From the first moment of class, he set his students up for great success. ”
In my bag, I have a canteen of water, a macro-friendly protein bar, two notebooks, a weathered copy of the Thesaurus, and a pack of Kleenex. There is no shovel, and yet right now, all I want is a shovel so that I may dig a massive hole and climb into it.
Noah’s lips twitch. “That is such a Cade response.”
Irritation keeps my tone sharp, but I stay strong, despite the fact that embarrassment is the emotion I feel most. “It was complimentary to you, and well-written.” And every word of it is true, even if it is egregiously commendatory, it’s true. Noah is… fucking great.
His tongue pokes out, tracing the corner of his mouth. I can’t tell if he’s fighting the same twitchy smirk he’s always fighting, or if he’s fighting a scowl because he thinks I’m blowing smoke up his ass.
He can’t possibly think that. He’s got to know that he’s incredible. Noah looks down, moving onto the next question. Outside, students chatter and laugh, but the metal door and the soundproofed walls turn them into a quiet roar.
“Did the content reflect the current knowledge of the discipline and division level?” He reads, only this time, his eyes don’t break from the page to find me.
He simply follows the text into my handwritten answer, reading aloud.
“Professor Ryan’s students are based in the current discipline, with the majority of them engaging in class conversation, each of them engaging at an upper-division level, despite half of them being in lower-division courses outside of this.
If all professors taught the way Professor Ryan teaches, we’d have to change the undergraduate degree to reflect three years instead of four. ”
My stomach tightens and my face burns. If I hadn’t spent the entire lecture fantasizing about… I don’t even know what’s going on with me. But if I had been focused the way I should have been, I wouldn’t be riddled with guilt and therefore, I wouldn’t have written such an egregiously sappy review.
I still stand by the review. I believe everything I wrote.
But I wouldn’t have told him that. Not to this extent. It’s… too much. Too much for a peer review. Too much for someone I share air with six hours a day (or more). Too much for me, even. What I wrote even makes me uncomfortable.
Guilt makes me verbose, apparently.
I would have fixed it in my editorial pass. One I never got to make before this little interception.
His eyes climb the seats, one by one, before they settle on me. His lips part, and my breath catches, and the clock on the wall ticking the only thing I can hear, aside from the voracious thumping of my heart.
Chemistry sparks between us, invisible but undeniable, and I can’t force myself to look away.
I continue staring at him as my excessive words tether us in this empty, private space.
“You didn’t have to be so complimentary,” he says, taking a moment to choose his words, like maybe he’s affected by me too.
“It’s supposed to be professional but… truthful. ”
My response comes so quickly, it leaves absolutely no room for doubt.
“I meant every word.” Heat stalks up my throat and colors my jaw before settling into my cheeks.
There’s enough space between us, with Noah still down on the stage, that maybe he won’t notice.
I hope he doesn’t notice. I touch my glasses.
“It’s a rough draft. I’d planned on thinning it out tonight. You know, when I type it up.”
His eyes work over the paper, and despite the fact that I haven’t prayed since my mom got sick years ago, I say a little prayer to whoever is listening that he stops with this read-along.
Or, get me a shovel before he continues.
Noah begins taking the steps down the stage, and I do the same, traversing, heading to the door.
We end up meeting in the aisle, near the exit.
The red light casts a faint glow on his face, and something about the neon lights against his tanned skin sends a little hum through my veins.
Noah presses my clipboard into my chest. “I’ll be in your class tomorrow morning.
I’d stay now but I have something to do.
” He doesn’t smile, and he doesn’t press me for more, or tease me again.
Instead, he just does that little jerk of his head, that subtle nod, the gesture perfected by cool, hot guys everywhere. “See you in the office later.”
I nod and reply, “sounds good.”
But in the hall, we go separate ways.