Page 7 of Stranger to Love

“If you are late to class, do not bother turning up. If you try to sneak into my lectures late, or sign yourself in and leave early, you will be removed from this course.”

She swivelled back to the front of the classroom. She didn't ask if we understood; she didn’t need to. The universal look of raw terror on every face said enough.

I, however, was desperately fighting to hold back a smile. Damn. Okay, threaten me again.

I let a small, defiant smirk settle on my lips. Dr. Carter returned to her laptop, her eyes flicking up to the class, seemingly satisfied with the collective response, until her gaze locked onto mine. My stomach twisted violently as her eyes narrowed—just a fraction—before she dismissively looked back at the screen.

Well. I couldn’t tell if that was a good reaction or a bad one. But either way, I was noticed. So... good?

Dr. Carter tapped a key, and the slide changed to a dense block of text detailing the course structure. She didn't look at us, instead keeping her attention on the screen.

“This course involves three summative pieces of coursework this year,” she stated, her voice maintaining that crisp, no-nonsense rhythm. “Each component, along with its weighting and deadline, is visible now, and, naturally, all details are available on the student portal. Your first deadline is in four weeks. I suggest you start thinking about it today.”

She scrolled through a few key administrative points—attendance policies, mandatory reading lists—dispensing essential information with the speed and precision of a rapid-fire drill. The class was frantically scribbling notes, but I kept my pen down, already having scanned the deadlines. I knew how to check a portal. Instead, I let my gaze linger on the sharp lines of her profile, the way her hair strained against the clip. She was so clearly in command, and the effect was staggering.

Holly nudged me gently. “Four weeks? That's soon!”

I barely glanced at her, muttering, “It's fine. We'll manage.”

Dr. Carter clapped her hands together once—a decisive, startling sound. Every head snapped up.

“Now,” she announced, planting her hands on the podium, leaning forward slightly. “We are going to begin. The introductory slides contain several basic concepts that those new to Economics should be familiar with. In your tables, I want you to go through the first five bullet points on the screen. Discuss them. Define them. If you cannot do that collectively, you are already behind.”

Her gaze swept the room one last time, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air. “One final thing. Where you are currently sitting—that is your permanent seat for every seminar, effective immediately. If you try to move next week, you will be directed back to this spot.”

Her eyes flicked past my table, and this time, the warning felt pointed.

Permanent seat. I glanced at Holly, then at the twins, Mo and Abdul. I was stuck there, right in her sightline, with this group. A slow, private smile curled my lip. This was either going to be the worst decision of my life, or the start of something wildly distracting.

“Right,” Holly whispered to me, already turning to the twins. “I guess we need to figure out what 'Opportunity Cost' means.”

I nodded, tearing my eyes away from Dr. Carter, who was then pacing the front, waiting. My attention should have been on the textbook, but all I could hear was the click-clack of those heels.

Dr. Carter didn’t wait for us to start talking. She picked up a clipboard resting on the podium, its metal surface reflecting the projector light, and began to move methodically through the aisles. This was less an introduction and more a register for her records.

She reached our table first. She paused, her gaze fixing on Mo and Abdul, briefly noting their names before ticking them off her sheet. She moved to Holly, offering a curt but professional nod. She was completely no-nonsense, yet I noticed a subtle, almost academic patience in her posture—a hard line for most, but one she seemed to walk easily.

Then she stood opposite me. As she ticked my name on the sheet, her eyes—the same dark brown that had dismissed me moments ago—locked onto mine again. It was only a second, but it was long enough for me to feel that familiar twist in my gut, a nervous energy that had nothing to do with Economics. She didn't smile or offer a pleasantry; she simply acknowledged my existence on her register and moved on.

I forced myself to concentrate, leaning in as Holly started trying to define 'Scarcity' using examples. I managed to offer a slightly academic angle, eager to prove I wasn’t just a slacker.

The discussion was momentarily interrupted by the soft sound of the classroom door opening and closing. Dr. Carter, who had returned to her laptop, turned and spoke quietly to the new arrival for a moment. Then, she straightened, her commanding voice drawing the attention of the class once more.

“Class,” Dr. Carter announced, stepping aside to reveal the woman. “This is Ms. Davies, a teaching assistant and our department aid. She will be available for extra support and practical application exercises throughout the course.”

I turned and instantly had to clamp my teeth down on my lip to stop a burst of delighted, shocked laughter.

Oh, hi Blondie.

I was desperate to laugh, to cheer, to immediately call Mia. Blondie—or rather, Ms. Davies—offered a gentle smile to the room. “I’m sure I’ll get to know you all soon.”

Then came the moment I would replay in my mind over and over again. Her gaze swept the classroom and landed on our table. She froze, looking like she was about to spontaneously combust. I smirked and leaned back in my chair. The brazen ease with which I met her eye visibly stumbled her; her mouth opened and closed almost comically.

My eyes flickered to Dr. Carter, who was watching Ms. Davies as if the department aid was having a minor stroke. Ms. Davies visibly snapped herself back to reality, taking a steadying breath. She forced a stiff smile, turning back to Dr. Carter. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”

I took the opportunity to look her up and down again. She was dressed impeccably: straight-legged trousers that cupped her arse perfectly, a cute floral blouse tucked in with a thin belt. Her faculty ID was clipped to one of her trouser loops. She looked good. Saturday night slammed back into my mind—the sound of her moaning in my ear, her hot, ragged breath on my neck.

She turned toward the door, and her eyes instantly flicked to me. I smirked again, not even trying to hide the fact that I was checking her out. She tried to pretend she wasn’t blushing as she practically fled the room.