Dausset turns to Madison, arms folded across her chest. “Is it really your business why a professor feels a certain,” her arms flail as she finds the word she needs, “text should be read by his students?”
Madison retreats, shrinking into herself as she shakes her head.
“I will remind both of you,” Dausset adds, turning back to me, “that while fraternisation between staff and students is generally frowned upon, between a professor and a student it is strictly prohibited.”
Madison’s mouth drops open. Holding back a cough, I tilt my head to the side.
“I’m well aware.” I hold Dausset’s gaze, determined not to let her win the staring contest we have somehow entered.
She raises an eyebrow before she turns on her heel, clicking her way back towards the exit.
“I want to discuss your lesson plan,” she calls before she opens the door. “Come see me in my office.”
As she leaves, the air in the room cools. I blow out a sigh, leaning back against the podium.
That was close. Too close.
“I guess that’s why we only had a week.” Madison muses.
I nod. Words feel impossible right now. Because I know we only had a week, and I know we have to stick to the rules that have been laid out for us. But one week with Madison will never be enough.
MADISON
Standing in the hall, I can hear the chatter from inside the faculty break room. Every inch of my body screams at me to turn and walk away. My feet bury themselves against the hard linoleum floor, my knees locked.
I don’t want to meet with teaching staff, and I especially don’t want to mingle with my fellow scholarship students. There is nothing worse than social events like these.
No. There is nothing worse than sitting in the front row of your first lecture for the year, only to discover that your professor is the insanely attractive man you had been fucking for the past week. That was definitely the worst.
But this faculty meet and greet is an easy second.
I cringe when footsteps make their way down the hall behind me. Not wanting to get stuck one on one with an overachieving creative type, I force myself to move.
Inside the tea room, the noise is overbearing. A hundred conversations float through the air and my brain muddles as it tries to focus on them all. I avoid taking pause to search the people around me. I don’t want to know if he is here.
He most likely is. I just don’t want to see him.
It was hard enough seeing Oliver this morning. Seeing Professor Fraser this morning.
We never discussed the possibility that I would be in his class. The signs were there. The copy ofOn Writingon his bedside table. The way his gaze lingered on the pile of textbooks on my desk. The fact he is an acclaimed non-fiction writer. But we chose to ignore them all.
I’m glad we did though. We might not have enjoyed ourselves as much if we knew the true size of the hole we were digging.
It certainly would have been nice to have a heads up before this morning though. Creative Non-Fiction was the unit I was most looking forward to in this course. The one that has potential to improve my writing and give me a chance at writing a best-selling book. I want to write what I love, a true blend between romance and travel writing. Fictional stories of people falling in love in real places. But with rejection after rejection, I need to work on the real places part of my writing skills.
Now, I dread the thought of sitting through another lecture. Not because of Oliver. Professor Fraser. But because of us. Because of what we shared. Because of how much more we could have been if the circumstances were only a little different.
The way I feel about him after only a week is stupid. I know that, but I feel it anyway. Sure, we connected on an incredibly physical level. But it was more than that. It was deeper. Like our souls were talking to one another all along.
I should have cut it off as soon as I felt myself falling, but I couldn’t. And so, I hit the bottom of the hole and then somehow fell even further. And I have no ladder to help me out of this mess.
A pit forms in my stomach, feeling somewhere between hunger and anxiety. I make my way to the refreshments, wishing I could down a shot to ease my nerves.
Soft drinks line one half of the table, the other loaded with various chips, dip and, oddly, what looks like cut up wedding cake. Pouring myself a drink, I wonder how long I need to stay. I suppose I need make my presence known to at least one faculty member before I leave.
“Hey.”
The deep, rusty voice is right by my ear, and I turn to find a young man standing far too close to me. I try to move back, but the table blocks my escape.
