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“Have you heard about the new professor yet?” Miley asks, ignoring my weak threat, flipping her hair over one shoulder as she looks around.
She’s impressive, her raw energy making me admire her in a way I never had the chance to admire anyone else before. Not when I didn’t have many women to look up to in my life.
“No,” I answer, as I notice even more students start to fill the quad area. “What does he teach?”
“He’s a big shot director, so something with movies I’d assume,” she tells me, waving her hand as if that detail isn’t important. “But he did that last Tristan Kane movie.”
I recognize the name. He’s up there with Brad Pitt and Colin Farrell. Sexy and serious roles.
So some famous director is teaching a class here for the summer semester. No wonder the campus is such a shit show.
“What’s his name?” I ask, but some guy is entering our bubble, a big grin on his face, his eyes zeroed in on my friend. “I’ll see you after class.”
My words fall on deaf ears as I step away, realizing I don’t have much time before my next class, halfway across campus.
“Shit,” I mutter as I adjust my messenger bag over my shoulder and speed walk through the crowd of other students. As I approach the building my class is in, I notice the mass of bodies crowding the doorway and groan.
“Excuse me,” I offer a few times as I push my way through. Inside the building is no better and I stop being polite and start shoving people out of my way. Somehow, I make it inside the room everyone is crowding, the door shutting behind me with a loud bang.
Everyone looks up at me and I press my lips together as I make my way down the steps of the lecture hall, toward an empty seat.
The problem is, the room is packed. And as I scan each row, walking down the aisle of seats, a male voice in front calls out, “If you just walked in, you’re in the wrong class.”
“Excuse me?” I spit out, hitching my bag closer to my body, hating that everyone is now looking at me. I can’t seehim from behind one of the students who just stood to grab the backpack they’d left on the floor next to their seat.
“I have the exact number of seats for my roster here,” the voice calls out again, holding up a clipboard and I finally catch a glimpse. But with his second sentence, I’d already placed that damn accent of his.
Holy shit.
It’s the movie man. The scruff of beard, the thick dark waves of hair that hang just the slightest bit over his forehead. Even the irritated tick of his jaw only highlights how sharp his features are.
His face doesn’t fill with the recognition that I thought it would, that I’m almost certain mine does. So I clear my throat and pretend right along with him.
“My schedule says otherwise,” I tell him, determined to not look like a fucking idiot. “Care to take a look?”
He waves the hand holding the clipboard, as if he deigns to do anything to remedy the situation. I’m still standing, looking around as he calls out names. And when he gets to mine, I press my lips together before clearing my throat again.
“Here,” I answer, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do.
“And do you intend on standing there for the entirety of class?” he asks, an edge of irritation in his tone that angers me in juxtaposition to the way his accent that curls around his pronunciation excites me. What the fuck is his problem?
“Would you like me to sit on the floor instead?” I challenge, lifting a brow. I glance around the room once more to see if I maybe missed an open seat and he leans back against his desk as he regards me, crossing his arms.
“You may do whatever you’d like…” he glances back down at the clipboard, “Sabrina Milas.”
Beautiful motherfucker.
And I’m dismissed as he continues on his list.
No one stands for me, no one even bothers to look my way as they watch him with rapt attention.
Am I in the fuckingTwilight Zone?
I pull out my schedule, ignoring the people who look at me as I rifle through my bag.
History of Film, Beginnings to 1959
Professor Pugliesi
