Page 3 of Do It With Me

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HOLDEN

I’d given this same opening lecture every semester for the past five years. At this point, I could do it backward and blindfolded. It was the usual academic foreplay of explaining some of the basic concepts, general admin, and what I expected from them while they were taking this class.

Tonight, however, the words refused to come out in the right order, getting jumbled on my tongue even though this had become second nature to me. And it was all because my eyes kept drifting to the girl in back row.

She’d been flushed and breathless when she’d appeared, her cheeks glowing and her vibrant red hair windblown, wearing a T-shirt that was so rumpled it had to be intentional.

Maybe that was a new style thing. I struggled to keep up with the trends these days, but if that was the new thing, then none of the kids who followed it—including her—would make it very far in the business world.

Despite that, no matter how hard I tried to focus on the syllabus in my hands, I kept glancing back at her. She was half-hiding behind her hair, slouched low in her chair, clearly wishing she could disappear. Which, of course, had the opposite effect.

I forced my attention to the rest of the class and explained a few basic principles of business models, but the words felt mechanical, like I was reading off cue cards in a language I barely understood.

Normally, this opening-day lecture was easy. Familiar. It was supposed to be grounding and predictable, but tonight, that predictability had gone straight to hell.

Every time I looked her way, my concentration slipped another notch. The frog shirt looked like it had lost a wrestling match with a dryer, and I was really struggling to figure out if it was some kind of ironic fashion statement or if she’d just had a really bad day.

After my initial intro was finally done, I passed out the syllabi and tried to get my shit together. As gorgeous as the redhead was, I had a job to do and I wasn’t about to let some cute little homeless-looking woman derail me.

The rest of the class blurred by in a mess of slides, questions, and polite nods. When I finally dismissed them, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Students packed up and filtered out, chatting in low voices as they went.

I gathered my notes, stacked them neatly, and told myself whatever weird distraction that had been, it would be gone by next week. Except, when I looked up, she was still there. She hesitated by the door but then seemed to decide against bolting and walked up to my desk instead, clutching the strap of her bag like it was armor.

“I’m sorry,” she said without preamble. “I didn’t mean to be late.”

“It’s not me you have to apologize to.” I pushed my sleeves further up my forearms and back into place near my elbows. Her eyes, electric and green, darted down to them and back up, and her cheeks flushed a pretty pink hue. She had no business being this adorable in a shirt that horrendous. “Apologize to yourself. You’re paying good money for this class. You’re only robbing yourself when you’re late.”

She blinked and looked away, past me at the white board behind my back scribbled with notes. “I’ll do my best not to be late again.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“I didn’t do it on purpose.” Her voice had an edge and she seemed to notice. She licked her lips and brought her green stare back to meet my eyes, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. “I suppose nobody does.”

“I have some more advice, but I worry you’re going to take it the wrong way.”

Fuck, Holden. What the hell are you doing?

Her reddish eyebrows lifted and that pretty face tilted up ever so slightly, open to what I might have to say. But her eyes remained guarded. “When you start like that, you’re probably right.”

“There’s technically no dress code for class but⁠—”

“Oh, here we go.”

I sighed. “See? I knew you were going to get upset. You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms, chin tilted up in a kind of unspoken challenge. “Go ahead.”

I held back an amused smile. “Some of the people in this class could end up being your colleagues one day. You might have to negotiate deals with them. Part of being successful is looking successful. And this?” I gestured at all of her. “Nothing about this screams successful.”

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut, then opened again. The delicious pink flush deepened and spread from her cheeks to her neck, accentuating the few freckles splashed across the bridge of her nose, but I realized I’d hit a nerve when her nostrils flared and the elegant curve of her throat worked like she was actively holding back an insult of her very own.

Why did I want to hear what she was thinking so bad?

“Right,” she said stiffly after a brief pause. “Well, thanks for the tip, Professor.”

Those eyes held mine for one more beat. Then she turned and walked out, her shoulders tight and pace clipped, like she couldn’t get away fast enough. I stood there for a moment, staring at the door after it closed behind her.