Chapter 3 #2
The season has begun. And I’m finally home once again.
***
I walk across campus and enter the building where my history lecture is, pulling open the heavy door to my Greek and Roman History class, where students are just trickling into the lecture hall. I’m minoring in history, and I thought this would be an interesting course.
I hike up the steps to the back of the hall, taking the farthest seat in the row, against the wall, and immediately put my backpack into the vacant seat next to me.
I get out my laptop and open it up, getting it ready for class.
Although today is the first day, and most professors are talking about the course syllabus and not much else, I want to be prepared, just in case.
More students keep trickling in, and I’m surprised to see it’s going to be a full lecture hall. It’s mostly males, which is interesting. I guess I’m one of the small number of females at OCU who have a desire to learn about the ancient Greeks and Romans.
A couple of guys come down my row, but I don’t move my backpack. There are still seats to be had, and I’d prefer to have that space open if at all possible.
And if I’m being honest? It’s a great way to keep guys at bay.
After what happened last year, I have a hard time trusting them.
And my focus is swimming and my grades. Sorority activities.
I have zero time for dating anyway. Not that every guy who would like to sit next to me wants to date me—that’s stupid.
But keeping that space helps me feel a bit … protected.
God. That’s stupid, too. Yet I leave my backpack in place.
The door at the bottom of the hall opens, and in walks an older man in his fifties, with thick gray hair and tanned skin.
He moves to the lectern at the front of the room and glances down at his watch.
“It’s ten thirty, so we’ll begin,” he says, his voice grave and serious.
“I’m Professor Hillenbrand. I don’t like lateness.
If you aren’t going to be on time for my lectures, you might as well not come.
Also, it might be syllabus day, but I don’t give a shit about that.
You’re here—presumably—to learn. That starts right now. ”
I bite my lower lip. I can already tell this course is going to be hard. But that’s why I’m here, right? To learn history? Challenge myself?
And I instantly regret not taking Colonial American History instead this semester.
The door bangs open, and all of our heads turn in the direction of the sound.
Whoa. I know I’m on a total man sabbatical, but this guy who just entered the lecture hall is HOT.
I allow myself to check him out. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s between six three and six four.
He has brown hair that’s covered by a backward baseball cap, and his olive skin looks amazing against the white T-shirt stretched across his muscular chest. A pair of shorts reveal thick, muscular thighs and developed calves.
He has the body of an athlete, and there’s no denying it’s glorious.
I take him in as he moves up the steps, his eyes searching for a vacant seat. I look for him. Unfortunately, more seats are down in the front—right by the scary professor—rather than back here.
“Young man?” Professor Hillenbrand says into his microphone. “You, walking up the steps, who came in late for my class? Turn around.”
I cringe as Hot Guy stops dead in his tracks, two rows from me, and turns around.
“Don’t ever be late for my class again. You have ten seconds to find a seat. If you do not by the time I finish counting, you can leave.”
WHAT?
“Ten … nine … “
Hot Guy frantically looks for a seat, his dark eyes darting around the rows in front of him. Then his eyes land on the seat next to me, currently occupied by my pink backpack.
“Six …” Professor Hillenbrand says, his count slow and dramatic.
Hm. Love theater much, Professor Hillenbrand?
Hot Guy’s eyes shift from the backpack to me, a pleading expression entering into them.
“Four …”
I lift my backpack off, and he dashes up the steps, flies down the row, and drops himself into the seat next to me just as the count gets to one.
“Saved by the woman with the pink backpack,” Professor Hillenbrand quips, causing some students to chuckle.
“Now, before I was so rudely interrupted, this is Greek and Roman History …”
Hot Guy leans in next to me, and I’m instantly aware of how good he smells. Woodsy with a hint of citrus. “Thank you,” he whispers.
I notice his eyes are a warm, rich brown, flecked with gold. “You’re welcome,” I whisper back, quickly turning my attention back to Professor Hillenbrand.
I’m listening to him speak about expectations for the class—oh yes, an area where I excel, striving to meet other’s expectations—when I’m aware of Hot Guy getting his laptop out and opening it up.
He begins typing, then reaches over and taps my forearm with the end of his pen.
He points to his laptop screen, and to my surprise, I see he’s typed me a message:
The professor isn’t wrong. You saved me. I owe you one. I’m serious. Iced coffee? Donut? Starbucks gift card?
Butterflies appear in my stomach.
Wait. Butterflies? Panic ripples through me. No, no, I don’t want butterflies!
Don’t all guys start out this way, anyway? Lethally charming before they eventually crush you with disappointment or shitty behavior?
I’m about to type him something back when I see he’s typing again.
I’m Wyatt, by the way. Tell me what you want before the end of class. I’ll bring it on Wednesday. I’ll even give your pink backpack its seat back.
Oh damn it, why is he clever and hot? Don’t answer him, I tell myself.
The problem is, for the first time since last semester, I’m tempted to engage.
And I don’t know if I can resist the opportunity to banter with this sexy guy named Wyatt.