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What I wasn’t about to tell her was that I tried that once. One time was all it took for me to lose my job at the private school I worked at. Harmlessly, I asked one of my coworkers to join me for a drink after work, and she couldn’t keep her mouth quiet about the date. Within days, the board of directors called an emergency meeting to discuss my “lewd” behavior, as they dramatically labeled it, and I was given the nonchoice to resign quietly or be publicly made an example. The whole situation was bullshit, and I still resented the way it was handled. But I tried to leave it in the past with all the other things I regretted in my life.
Sleep proved to be an elusive creature that evening. I finally gave up and got up earlier than planned and went for a long run. Summer months were the best for predawn runs, and my nerves needed the chance to unwind before I got to my office. Even though I would’ve preferred more sleep, I was energized by the workout and opened the creaky door to my space with half a grin.
She’d be here within the hour, and just from that simple thought, my stomach tightened and my throat seemed to narrow.
“She’s just like every other student,” I kept repeating to myself, hoping to block any anxiousness. So far, it wasn’t doing much good, but I had to keep something on a loop in there. Otherwise, thoughts and fantasies about my student would take over.
I wonder what her skin feels like.
I wonder if she smells like morning glories naturally or if it’s a perfume she wears. Maybe it’s a lotion, and that’s why she always looks so silky smooth and buttery soft in all the best ways.
“Good morning,” she said, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Lost further in a fantasy about her than I cared to examine, I didn’t even hear the door open.
“Oh, sorry,” she said shyly without lifting her eyes to mine. “I didn’t mean to surprise you. Isn’t that the worst?” she asked with that stunning smile that promised a hundred other amusing thoughts were just waiting to be set free.
But we were here to work and learn, so I dug in. “You can set up your stuff on that side of the desk. I know it’s cramped in here, but it should be workable for the time being. As I said in my email, we will likely move to the library in a week or two, depending on how quickly we can secure one of the private rooms.”
Instantly my mind took off again, wanting so badly to list all the things I’d like to do to this stunning woman if given guaranteed privacy.
It was possible she’d dressed today specifically to make me crazy. Typically for class, she favored long flowing skirts and dresses that hid her body from everyone. Not today, though. Now I knew just what a crime against mankind those bohemian skirts were.
Today she went with a pair of straight-legged slacks and a simple button-front white blouse. Her blond hair that I routinely fantasized about touching, smelling, and pulling was usually pulled back from her face and secured in some sort of bun or braid. Again, not today. It cascaded down her back and brushed the waistband of her slacks. It was full and silky, and when I stood just close enough, I could smell that intoxicating scent I was obsessed with.
I made a mental note to do some online research on which hair product brands smelled like that bluish-purple flower.
No, Andrew. Stop this.
“So tell me before we get started, Ms. Farsey,” I began, but she interrupted me.
“You can call me Maye. I mean, it’s just the two of us working in here together, and it’s going to be all summer. I don’t mind if you drop the formality,” she offered with a shy smile that rendered me speechless.
Why, though? I couldn’t pinpoint it, but I attempted to respond—twice—and nothing came out. Christ, this behavior had to stop, or she wouldn’t come back tomorrow. I was acting like an obsessed creeper, and it was ridiculous.
“Thank you,” I finally said and had no idea what I was thanking her for exactly, but it was better than standing there just staring at the woman.
“And what would you like me to call you? Dr. Chaplin? Professor?”
Okay, this was comfortable territory. I’d had this discussion with my classes at the start of each new semester. If we dropped the title, it would feel way too personal.
“Yes, either of those is fine.”
It took a few silent moments between us for me to remember what I had started saying. When I had my wits about me once again, I started over.
“So tell me why you’re interested in grant writing as a career path.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked without a hint of disrespect. “To help people. I know universities, companies, individual students, public school districts—well, the list could go on and on, couldn’t it?” She held my attention with her lively blue eyes while she spoke. “They all need financial help to some degree. I’ve read the statistics about how many grants go unawarded because applicants don’t submit proper application packages.”
She was rambling, and I was mesmerized.
“How sad is that? People want to help but can’t because connecting the two parties has become so difficult.”
She finally came up for air, and I was too lost in a dream world to respond.
Say something, you idiot.
After clearing my throat, I said, “That’s an impressive answer. You’ve given it some thought.” I said it as a statement, not a question that required her confirmation. It was obvious she found a field where her compassion, humanity, and intellect would be used to their fullest.
“Thank you,” she nearly whispered, and I was baffled why such a capable woman would be so shy about receiving a compliment. With all her attributes, her self-esteem should enter every room before her. She could channel her passion into measurable success with a little direction.
