“What?” he asks, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You’re the psych major,” I tease. “Shouldn’t you be able to figure me out?”
His eyes trail down my body, and I feel a slow thrum pulse through me when they linger on the short hem of my cutoffs. “Not even close.”
“Looks like you need to spend more time studying if you want to be called Doctor in the future.”
He laughs as we cross the street and head toward campus, pointing a finger at me. “You’re trouble.”
I wink and flash my dimples again. “You have no idea.”
I continue to tease and flirt as we make our way toward the psych building, where my first class is, and—presumably—his too. I slow as we approach the lecture hall, and notice he’s slowing down alongside me.
Turning to me, he grins a little shyly, reaching behind his head to rub his neck. “Want to grab a cup of coffee later?”
I take my time to answer, loving that I seem to be making him nervous the longer I make him wait. Finally, I lift a shoulder. “Sounds like that could be fun.”
He gives me a lopsided smile and pulls out his phone and hands it to me, and I punch in my number and call myself to swap numbers.
I hand it back to him then wiggle my fingers. “Later.”
I turn to head into the classroom, nearly bumping into him when he does the same.
I frown, my eyebrows drawing together in confusion. “This is me.”
He looks at me for a minute like he can’t quite process my words. “You?”
I laugh. “My class.” I hook a thumb toward the lecture hall, moving to go in. “Right in here.”
The look on his face makes my stomach drop. Because he follows me in, right on my heels. “This is my class,” he says, his voice heavy with disappointment.
It takes me a minute to fully realize what he means. But when he continues passing by me and heads for the desk at the front of the lecture hall, it’s all totally clear. It’s his class.
As in he’s the professor. And I’m the student.
Fuck.
51
Oliver
“I’m Oliver Mason, a grad student here at NYU, and I’ll be your professor this semester.” I address the class as calmly as I can.
But I can hardly focus on going through my standard introduction and syllabus explanation as I stand at the front of the lecture hall. I can’t keep my eyes from going back to her over and over, the realization pissing me off. This girl—Ana, according to the class roster—is my student.
I want to grind my teeth together. It shouldn’t upset me as much as it does. I mean, I don’t even know her. We literally spent fifteen minutes talking to each other. But I’m not gonna lie. I was seriously excited about the idea of having coffee with her later.
And now I can’t.
From the minute she opened her mouth on the train, I was fascinated. Totally drawn in. Not just because she’s fucking sexy, those long, long legs so smooth and tempting. But because I can tell she’s way more than the flirty image she puts off.
I sigh and try to get this over with. When I’m done, breezing through the first day bullshit in record time, I ask, “Okay, anyone have any questions about anything?” I just want to get out of here.
And of course, her hand flies up. I meet her eyes. Teasing. Laughing. Taunting. I want to groan. She’s going to make this semester hell for me. I can just feel it.
“This end of semester project? The study of social mores. Are there any limitations to what we can explore?”
I’m torn between feeling dread at what she might say next and being totally turned on that she seems to get this stuff. This topic that I love so much. I can just tell she’s as into it as I am. That’s sexy as hell to me.