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Then I did the dumbest thing to date with the young woman. I reached out and touched her arm to still her activity. The moment my hand felt the buttery soft skin on the inside of her forearm, I gasped. Gasped so loudly, she jerked her arm away and stood.
“Sorry,” I stammered. “Really, I am. I had no right to do that.” I swallowed the anxiety choking my air off.
She watched my every uncomfortable move with the attention of a scientist studying a specimen. She had to think I’d lost my damn mind.
It was possible I had.
CHAPTER SIX
MAYE
Up until that moment, I had convinced myself I was imagining some sort of electricity between us. I mean really, what was I basing it on? A bunch of schoolgirl-style mooning over her obviously incredibly handsome and intelligent proctor?
And then he touched me.
And I knew it wasn’t my overactive imagination, or my lonely libido, or whatever other excuse I had made to explain away what I thought was building between us. When Professor Chaplin yanked his hand back from my bare skin, I knew he felt it too. The panicked look on his face punctuated the theory.
“It’s fine,” I said in nearly a whisper. Neither of us could miss how throaty my voice sounded when I vocalized the assurance. I knew it was the exact same way it sounded when I was aroused.
Heat flooded my chest, neck, and face. I felt the blood rushing to bloat every tiny capillary responsible for the reaction. The blushing was a dead giveaway I was way too intrigued by the meaningless gesture. When I finally cleared my thoughts enough to look away, it was too late. He was observing me like I was a zoo animal, and my instinct was to bolt.
I dropped my untouched sandwich onto the napkin I’d so carefully laid out on the desk and rushed for the door. But Chaplin predicted my plan and blocked the door with his incredible body before I could flee.
“Don’t go,” he said, breathing through flared nostrils. My stare traveled from his pecs, up past his throat and prominent Adam’s apple, to his lush, parted lips. Finally, I forced myself to look into his dark stare and tried to read what was happening.
Once, twice, three times I tried to speak and couldn’t rationalize a single statement that fit the moment. What did I think I would say to this mesmerizing man?
Take me home with you ran out in front of the others as the choice that best expressed what I was feeling. The more sensible side of my brain put a stop to that—thankfully. The man was my teacher. My teacher who was old enough to know better than to bed his student.
But my body was having a riotous tantrum at the moment. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, so even if he did say something, I didn’t think I’d hear him. But he stood frozen in that spot. Not speaking. Not moving. Hell, was he breathing?
“I’m sorry,” I finally croaked, and the sound seemed to shake him from whatever stupor he was in. He shook his head ever so slightly and opened his mouth to reply. But just as quickly, he pressed his lips together in what looked like an angry slash, as his brows descended to meet nearly in a V between his eyes.
“Sit down and eat. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he said while morphing back to a man in control. He tugged at his shirt sleeve as if straightening his clothes would also recalibrate his demeanor.
The tone of his voice was the same as before—the one that rendered me helpless—almost. I took a measured step backward, then again, and once more until I bumped into my chair. Sinking down to the seat, I swiveled and faced my abandoned lunch. I couldn’t be further from hungry now, so I studied the bread crust’s contrast in color to the spongy white part and said nothing.
The sound of the creaky door caught my attention, and when I swung my gaze that way, it was only to see the back of my teacher as he bailed out like an ejecting fighter pilot.
I sat there alone for the longest ten minutes of my life, then finally fished my phone from my bag. I had to talk to someone just to get my mind to stop conjuring scenarios that ended in a multitude of ways other than what actually just happened. I fired off a text to my twin, making small talk to fill the stifling silence of the room.
Are you around?
About to go into my makeup chem final. WUP?
While I sent text messages with proper punctuation and spelling, Shepperd had the slang and abbreviations of our generation mastered. Half the time when we communicated that way, I caught just a portion of what she said until I met up with her again and asked her what various letter combinations meant. Of course, that just annoyed her. Sometimes she would be gracious and explain the shorthand to me, and other times, she’d huff and roll her eyes and mutter some version of never mind.
Not much. I’m on a short lunch break and wanted to be sure you made it to class.
Yes, Mom.
After failing to gauge her mood, I decided to wait until later to tell her what had happened. That sort of conversation seemed better for directly speaking to her than tapping out on my screen.
Well, good luck. I know you’ll do great!
THX Mayday
And I was right back to where I started. Sitting alone in that deafeningly quiet room, staring at a sandwich I didn’t want to eat. My phone alerted me of another incoming text after a few minutes, and my twin’s face filled the screen.
