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I held her gaze, challenging her to continue making a fool of herself.
Whitney looked down at me from the stacked seating, her eyes glowing against the blue-hued light cast by the projector. I waited for her response, but none came, and eventually she dropped her eyes back to her laptop and began typing furiously.
I narrowed my eyes on her before turning back to the projector screen and flipping the off switch. “That’s enough for today. I’ll see you all next week.”
I ignored the murmur of confusion from the stands as I walked to the far wall and turned on the overhead lights. My students began to funnel out of the room.
“Miss Dahl,” I said sternly and without looking up from my laptop, “I need to speak to you.”
Whitney, who had been walking toward the door, halted her progress and turned to me with a murderous look on her face. I glanced at her once, then dropped my gaze back to my laptop until the last of the students left and the door shut behind them.
“Yes, professor?” Her voice was as sweet as honey but held an edge of bitterness that didn’t go unnoticed.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“With me?”
“Yes.” I shut my laptop and leaned my weight against the podium. “I didn’t realize you were so passionate about the ancient Picts. After what just happened, I’m inclined to believe you’re writing your thesis on them.”
Her cheeks flamed red, but she said nothing.
“Did I offend you in some way?” I continued. That did it. Her vicious gaze shifted to something softer, and with a pang of immense regret, I noticed the glint of tears beginning to well in the corners of her eyes.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Then what the hell is going on with you?” I stepped away from the podium and walked a few paces in her direction before coming to a stop. “You called me out several times today, questioning my own research. Published, peer-reviewed research, I might add.”
“Are you saying you can’t take criticism?”
“That’s not what that was,” I ground out. I wanted to say she’d just made a fool of herself in front of her classmates but bit down on the words. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Whitney—”
“I didn’t realize you also functioned as the school counselor!” She whirled toward the door, her hair flying free of the braid she’d worn to class today.
Her hand was on the doorknob when I added, “My door is always open if you need to talk.”
She paused, her fingers curling over the knob and tightening until her knuckles turned a ghostly shade of white. She didn’t so much as turn around before pulling open the door and letting it slam shut behind her.
I exhaled the breath I’d been holding and shook my head, gathering up my materials for the class I’d just let out half an hour early.
Maybe I’d been wrong about her. Maybe she wasn’t the star pupil I thought she was.
But that didn’t seem correct. Everyone had off days, and it was painfully obvious whatever Whitney had gone through had little to do with the Picts or my class.
I shut the door to the lecture hall behind me and started walking toward my office. The hallways within Hollis Hall were quiet save for a few groups of students milling about. I turned the corner and was almost to my office when I heard low, snickering voices coming from just down the hallway in a sheltered seating area within an alcove. I couldn’t see the group, but fortunately, I could hear them loud and clear.
“She’s a good lay, I’ll say that much,” Christian Brockford said with a smug laugh. Someone whistled, and a few jests were thrown in his direction.
“See? What’s the point in being tied down, Chris, when you can have any girl on campus you want?”
“I know I can,” Christian laughed. “Trust me, I can. Whitney knows it too.”
“What does Whitney think of it?”
“I don’t care what she thinks of it. We’re together, and she’ll marry me. Our families have it all planned out. It’s what her parents want and what my parents want. So it’s happening. I made that very, very clear this morning.”
