I take another bite of pizza for courage, counting each chew as I figure out the right words before I say them.
“I didn’t want this. I wanted something fun and carefree and loose. But I think I found more than that. And I hate that we have to stop.”
Staring down at my food, I blink away the tears. We met with me crying, I refuse to let that be how we end.
“What if you’re my—”
“Don’t say it.” Oliver’s hand tilts my chin until my eyes meet his. “I don’t want to think about that. Whatever happens, it’ll be okay. This week has been incredible, but it will be okay.”
The corners of his lips drop, and I catch the hiccup in his words. He doesn’t believe it any more than I do. But he is right, whatever happens, it has to be okay. We set a timer for our fun, and now the alarm is ringing.
OLIVER
In front of me, the machine whirs to life, coffee dripping into the mug. I’m on my third cup this morning, and although my hands are starting to shake, I still feel exhausted.
We had a week, and it was a blissful one.
After the night in the bar, and the evening that followed it, Madison and I fell into step with each other. The boundaries were drawn so clearly, without either of us saying a word. We knew we had a week, and we knew not to ask questions. I don’t know what she is studying, she doesn’t know what I’m teaching.
Last night, our bodies wrapped around one another, we said goodbye. See you soon. This was fun.
It shouldn’t have hurt the way it did, but I also should have known I had gone too far.
From the moment I saw Madison smile I knew I needed her. When I found out I couldn’t truly have her, I selfishly took everything she had to give. One night with a forbidden love is one thing. A whole week is another. We were doomed from the start.
“Late night?”
The high-pitched voice startles me, but I manage to compose myself before turning around.
“Morning.” I attempt a smile at the old crone, but her cold stare has my spine tingling.
Professor Heather Dausset runs a tight ship. Known for her strict staff expectations and no-nonsense attitude toward students, she is the head of the Creative Arts Faculty. My boss. And the woman who never wanted me working here in the first place.
According to her, I am too young to run such a ‘crucial’ class. My accolades as a writer meant nothing in her search for perfection. Lucky for me, no one else wanted to teach Creative Non-Fiction. Or unlucky, considering the foul taste that becoming a professor has left in my mouth. The thought of my first class sits like a frog in my stomach, bouncing around when I need it to be still. I became a professor to make a difference, but now that I’m part of the faculty, I’m doubting that’s possible.
“Your first class starts in eight minutes.”
I hold back a sarcastic remark. It won’t do me any favours.
“Yes, thank you, I was just heading there now.”
Her head bobs once before she turns on her heel, heading towards the group of tutors lingering on the couch.
Knowing that I sacrificed time to meander by making my coffee, my steps are brisk as I race across campus. Coffee balancing in one hand, I juggle my texts and notebooks in the other.
I’m right on time when I walk into the class and pay no attention to the students already seated. Behind the podium, I pull my drive up on the screen, opening today’s presentation before sharing the screen to the massive projector screen behind me. I run through the motions like a robot, following the steps I planned and practiced when I first took the position.
“On Writing” my first slide reads. Because you can’t write a creative non-fiction masterpiece if you can’t write a good story. Eyes down, focused on my notes before I start my very first lecture, I can’t escape the tiny gasp I hear from the front row.
Looking up, I see the worst thing imaginable.
Madison. In my class.
My thoughts scramble and I drop the papers to the floor. Murmurs erupt behind her, no doubt laughing at my clumsiness. They have no idea.
Madison herself isn’t the worst thing, she’s the best thing I’ve ever seen. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a tight, low ponytail. Sleek and straight, it’s nothing like the messy bundle it became in my fist. The sleeves of her dark green jumper are pulled up, revealing a hint of the floral tattoo on her forearm, and her denim skirt sits tight across her knees.
I want to run my hands along her thighs, pushing that skirt up until I can see if she is wearing those perfect black panties again.
