What am I supposed to do with this? Was this his way of indirectly asking me out? First, set up some meeting where we’re no longer in an uncomfortable setting like my work. Or did he really think I could be of use to the program?
I don’t know the first thing about this man. I shove the card back into my day planner. He could be married with six kids. Or worse, divorced with six kids and looking for a new mother for his wild brood. I’m not sure which one bothers me more. I’m not opposed to children. But do I want to take care of six of them? Do I want to stay home and be any man’s trophy wife?
I remind myself that he is exactly the type of man to have a trophy wife. Rich, entitled, thinking he’s secretly saving the world. He probably has some high-stakes job that rakes in millions each year but forces him to spend all his time scrambling for investors. That sounds exhausting, networking with clients, traveling across the country day in and day out, throwing galas and event dinners.
I mean, I guess it’s not too bad. Wouldn’t make much of a husband though.
I collect my things. I’m going to be late for this class. My pulse is already racing by the time I enter the lecture hall.
Soul Collector, huh? Let’s see how terrifying you really are.
* * *
I claim a seat in the middle of the lecture hall.
The steady flow of students trickles in, so I prepare my notebook and find any way to distract myself from what’s happening. I can do this. I’ve come up with an excellent proposal. I’m a great student. I can handle this man’s class and whatever meticulous, off-the-wall revisions he decides to throw at me.
The murmur of conversations swells to a dull roar.
“I heard no one gets an ‘A’ in his class,” the girl behind me says. “This is going to wreck my GPA.”
“Yeah, but I’ve also heard people describe it as an intensive course,” her friend chimes in. “Like you don’t hate the personal trainer, just because he pushes you outside of your comfort zone.”
Did she just compare the supposed Soul Collector to a personal trainer?
“I’ve heard he’s gorgeous,” the student in front of me whispers. “But he loves his privacy. That’s why there are barely any photos of him anywhere.”
“I’ve heard he’s strict,” her companion says, “but like in a hot sort of way. You know, like you wouldn’t mind getting disciplined by him.”
I groan. If this is how the rest of my semester is going to be, I’m going to start day-drinking.
The door at the front of the lecture hall opens. It slams shut behind the professor toting a stack of notebooks and his laptop bag. The room falls silent. Never in my life would I think I’d use that phrase to describe anything. And yet it is the only accurate depiction of his entrance. Not a subtle fade into hushed tones. No one has dared to speak a word since he’s entered.
Complete, submissive silence.
The true hallmark of fear.
I squint past the few clusters of heads blocking my view. I’m on the end of my row, but our professor has positioned himself in such a weird angle that I can’t make him out.
“You should all have these resources online, but I’m going to hand out a couple of papers that you should keep handy for the next few weeks.”
A shiver ripples down my spine. Why does his voice sound so familiar?
“In case, you have somehow landed in the wrong classroom, this is Personalities, Traits and Disorders.”
No, I’m in the right classroom. This isn’t a joke. I can’t even rightly say it’s a dream. I pinch myself.
Ow!Why would I do that? I know who this man is, and I know this isn’t a dream.
“You will need to keep a weekly dream journal,” he says, his voice closer. “Something that will allow you to decode the symbols in your life which are often filtered in through your dreams.”
Great. And what if the only dreams I’ve had lately are of a man bending me over the customer counter and taking me right there on the spot?
And what if that man turns out to be your professor?
I stare down at the floor. Every sensitive corner of my body seems to acknowledge his presence. My breasts tighten, sending cold fingers of electricity across my chest. Tingles weave their way up my thighs, meeting at the core between them.
I try to talk myself down, talk myself away from this catastrophe I have wandered into. I can’t want my professor. There are rules against things like that. Aren’t there?