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He isn’t too far that I can’t smell him; that strange scent that I can’t quite pin, as confusing as it is intoxicating. I try not to inhale him, try not to stare at the stubble that adorns his neck, wondering how it would feel under my tongue.
What iswrongwith me?
He shoves the door open and straightens.
“After you,” he tells me, and I clear my throat beforecrossing the threshold. I make a beeline toward the seat I’d been sitting in earlier and glance around, finally setting my bag down with a huff to get on my knees. I’m sinking down, pulling my wide leg pants up to accommodate the movement when he speaks.
“No, no. Let me call it for you.” He’s holding his phone up as if to show that he means well.
I glance up toward him, sitting back on my feet, my hands on my thighs. He’s still by the door and I wonder if he doesn’t trust himself near me the same way I don’t trust myself.
“Sure…” I trail off, uncertain of how I feel, giving this man my phone number. But it seems innocent enough. I rattle off my number, staring down at my hands as I do.
“It’s ringing,” he announces, just as I hear the chime from a few feet away. I wear a frown as I lean forward to see it under the third seat.
“That’s strange,” I murmur, crawling toward it and wincing as I stretch awkwardly to grab it. The unknown number staring back at me disappears from the home screen as he ends the call.
He now has my number.
I now have his number.
I sit there for a second, trying not to feel anything about it.
“Are you okay?” he asks and I jump when I realize he’s right behind me. “Let me help you up.”
I stare at his open hand before me for a beat before I set my free hand in it, marveling at its warmth. And then I remember I was crawling on the floor and my hands are probably gross. With a grimace, I pull my hand out of his and wipe it on my pants. Staring down at them, I notice the dirt marks on my knees.
Well, shit.
“My hands are dirty,” is all I manage to offer him as I skirt around him to grab my bag. But once I’m pressed against him, he places his hand on my wrist.
We’re both silent as I stare at the physical contact, afraid to look up into his eyes. Afraid of what the deep brown would reflect back to me.
Afraid that I’d be more than willing to throw caution to the wind and become another student caught up in his charismatic charm.
“Why don’t you look at me,Stellina?”
It sounds so close to my first name that I almost don’t notice that he’s called me something else entirely.
“Why do you continue to put me in these compromising positions?” I ask his chest.
“I could make a very inappropriate joke, but I think you will take me for a pervert, no?”
My brain flits through potential responses, about positions and what it would be like to be touched by him and the edge of my lips quirk in response.
I know how to flirt and I’m good at it. But I don’t know how tonotflirt with Professor Pugliesi. I don’t know how to walk away from this game he’s forcing me to participate in.
“I’m flattered that you value my opinion of you,” I challenge, finally meeting his eyes. “’My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.’”
“Ah,” he starts, a smile spreading over his dark features, painting him beautiful. “There’s the romantic I know.”
“Why do you insist on flirting with me?” I lean back, awkwardly perched on the seat behind me, eyeing him as he processes my question, still wearing the remnants of his grin.
“You fight it. It makes me want to see how beautifully you’ll crack.”
“You’re so sure.”
“It’s my nature when I want something badly enough. I can never seem to let go.”
