Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NEXT EVENING, I CROSS through the quad, heading to Alex’s class for a little surprise audit.
Eight weeks into the semester, the last of the straggling heat has finally dissipated.
Though a slight chill threads through the air, we probably have about two more weeks before it’s officially sweater weather.
I drain the rest of my cold brew and toss my cup before heading into the brick building.
“Professor Wells.” Alex flashes me a megawatt smile from the whiteboard. “What a nice surprise.”
A thrill rushes through me, and I match his grin. “Don’t mind me, I’m just here to observe.” What I’m not expecting is the chorus of Oooohs that follows. I let out a shy laugh and tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, then slide into an empty seat in the front row.
On the board, Alex finishes drawing a large triangle, then perches on the table up front and clasps his hands in his lap. “Who can tell me about Sternberg’s Triangular Theory of Love?”
The room falls deathly silent. When this happens in my class, I play a soundbite of a cricket chirping.
“No one?” Alex clucks his tongue, and the disappointment on his face almost makes me raise my hand.
“Passion,” a girl behind me blurts.
A slow smile breaks out across Alex’s face. I wonder if she’s swooning as hard as I am.
“Good,” he says. “What about passion?”
There’s a lengthy pause. I bet she’s panicking.
He leans forward, resting his delectable forearms on his thighs, his rolled sleeves straining as they tighten below his elbows. “Come on, Dana. You’ve got this.”
Holy shit. Professor Alex is hot as fuck. I mean, he’s always been gorgeous, but seeing him in this light, taking charge of the room, encouraging his students … Damn.
“Infatuation?” she guesses.
“That’s right.” He hops off the table and grabs a dry erase marker. “And where do passion and infatuation go?”
Between a mentor and her mentee, I don’t dare say aloud.
“The bottom,” she says, this time with more confidence.
“Excellent.” He scribbles the words at the left corner of the triangle. “Now besides passion, what other components are there?” He lifts the pen to the tip of the drawing. When no one speaks, he says, “Int …”
“Intimacy!” someone shouts in the back.
He nods, adding the word to the top. “Good. And what goes with intimacy?”
I’ve taught this lesson dozens of times, but for some reason, I suddenly have the maturity of a fourteen-year-old boy, and all I want to say is fucking.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.
Maybe I should go. Alex looks like he’s got a handle on things.
I flash him a thumbs-up and slide out of my chair.
But the moment I stand up, he says, “Professor Wells, do you want to do the honors?” He offers me the marker.
So much for making a quick getaway. Awkwardly, I drop my purse and messenger bag, then take the marker.
As Alex coaches the class, I resist labeling all ten parts of the triangle myself so I can get the hell out of here. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so in my head. I just did the same lesson with my class. And in the sanctity of my own room, without Alex, I was fine.
The clock ticks, taunting me from the back wall while Alex guides his students like a conductor leading an orchestra. I try not to stare at his perfect ass. His toned back. That lush hair. All I want to do is run my hands all over him. I grip the marker, trying to push the thoughts away.
Students call out terms with increasing confidence, and I jot them down, struggling to keep up. Alex beams at me, and my hand wobbles as I scrawl Consummate Love in the center of the triangle.
Once I’m done, Alex instructs the students to break into groups to identify the different types of relationships they’ve had and categorize them based on Sternberg’s triangle.
The room erupts in screeching as desks are dragged to form circles.
I’m about to make my getaway when Alex’s low timbre catches me by surprise.
“You want to split the groups with me?”
A shiver rushes up my spine. He wants me to spend more time with him? How can I say no to that?
“Sure,” I say, cringing at my eagerness. “This is my favorite part of the lesson,” I add, hoping it somehow makes me sound less desperate.
A coy grin tugs at his lips. “Oh yeah?”
“For sure. It’s always fun seeing their eyes light up when they reclassify their fuck buddies as fatuous lovers. Much more distinguished.”
He chuckles, and after we part ways, my shoulders finally unclench. I approach the first cluster of students. I’m about to ask how it’s going when one of the guys leans back in his chair with a cocky smirk.
“So, Professor Wells,” he says, way too brazen, “where do you and Professor Cardoso land on the triangle?”
My mouth falls open. Is this kid for real?
I’m ready to tell him it’s at the corner of mind your own business and fuck off, but before I get the chance, Alex strides over.
He looks between me and the student. “Is everything okay?”
Before I can tell him everything is fine, the blond girl in the group says, “Tyler said something completely inappropriate to Professor Wells.”
Oh, god. She just made it so much worse.
“Come on,” the guy says, doubling down. “Everyone can tell there’s something between them.”
The blood drains from my face, pooling in my stomach. Have I been that obvious? I thought I’d been strictly professional, especially in front of the students.
Alex levels Tyler with a stern glare. “Professor Wells and I are colleagues.” He taps his pen on the paper in the middle of the group. “There’s nothing between us that falls on this triangle.”
Um, ouch. While he’s slightly incorrect because friendship does fall on the diagram, I nod, agreeing with him to show a united front.
“So you’re not friends?” the blond asks, more than a twinge of disappointment in her tone.
I beam at her. Good job, Blondie. Gold star for you.
“We’re colleagues,” he says again, more firmly this time. “That’s it.” He pushes off the desk and stalks to the next group.
His words snuff out the little ember of hope that had sparked back to life, leaving nothing but a pitiful plume of smoke in its wake.
“Brutal,” Tyler says.
That’s a fucking understatement.
I laugh it off, trying to salvage what’s left of my dignity, then head to the next group, my cheeks no doubt as red as my hair.
The minute Alex dismisses the class, I gather my things as quickly as possible so I can bolt out the door. But as I spring up, my purse snags on the desk and spills out. Lucky for me, I doubt anyone in this room will shame me for having condoms.
A girl next to me helps me collect a few odds and ends, smiling as she hands me the silver foil packet.
As she heads to the door, Alex slides his hands in his pockets. “Can you hang back a sec?”
I glance around the room from my crouched position on the floor.
It’s just the two of us. He offers me his hand, and when I take it, I try to ignore the heat that surges through me like lightning.
He pulls me to my feet, then sits back on the table up front.
“What I said earlier about us just being colleagues …”
Oh, god. This is going to get so much more awkward.
“It’s fine,” I blurt out. “We are colleagues.”
The. End.
The end, the end, the end.
He tilts his head. “Yeah, but we’re more than that.”
My heart stutters. Is he … is he saying what I think he is?
The little spark of hope glows back to life. I lick my lips, searching his eyes, losing myself in the deep pools of amber and green. “We are?”
“Well, yeah.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I mean … I thought we were friends.”
Friends.
A word has never tasted so foul on my tongue. I can’t even make myself say it aloud.
Friends. As in, just friends. Pals. Br—
No. I will not say bros.
But I guess in the scheme of things, just friends is definitely better than just colleagues. Besides, what difference does it make if that friend will be taking a new job three thousand miles away?
“Friends,” I finally manage, forcing a smile.
He holds my gaze another beat, his eyes flickering with something that looks like uncertainty. His lips part, but just as quickly, they snap shut, and he turns, heading for the door. Right before he exits, he scrubs his hand down his face.
My heart beats a riot in my chest. Is he reconsidering? Does he feel something for me, too?
Time stills as he turns back toward me.
He draws in a breath. I’m already holding mine. Slowly, he nods to my left, and I follow his gaze.
Then the words spill from his lips: “I forgot to erase the board.”
The … board.
The air wooshes from my lungs, my body deflating almost as fast as my ego. Once again, I misread the situation.
I smooth my hair down, tucking it behind both ears. “I got it.”
His brow creases. “You sure?”
Am I sure? Yes, Alex. I have one shred of dignity left, and you’re standing on it. Now please go so I can spiral in peace.
I roll my eyes, trying to save face. “It’s not brain surgery, Alex. I think I can move an object back and forth.”
He chuckles, completely oblivious. “All right. Night, January.” The nickname is the final twist of the knife.
After he’s gone, I glare at the center of the triangle, where intimacy, passion, and commitment come together to form the perfect union. The words consummate love are circled in red, taunting me as if they know I’ll never have it.
I grab the eraser and wipe them out.