“Forgive me if I’m wrong… but don’t you have class in twenty-five minutes? With a professor who would never allowyou to bring coffee into his room?” His eyes glitter and I fight the urge to wince away from his look and his disdain.
I don’t know what I’ve done for him to dislike me so much, but it’s clear that the feeling hasn’t lessened since the first day of the year.
“I just need some caffeine,” I mutter, like I have any room to argue. “It’ll be gone before your class, professor.”
“Not if you don’t order it, Love.” God, the way he says my last name still does the worst things to me. I’m happy he can’t know my thoughts, and I don’t give him any outward signs that it’s the one thing I enjoy about him.
Other than staring at him in class. He is exceptionally pretty to look at, after all. When I glance back across the campus grounds, the feeling of something being wrong has evaporated. Though I don’t know if it’s that or that all of my feelings have scuttled under the proverbial carpet to hide from Professor Solomon’s glare.
Either way, I feel a lot better about getting coffee now. I walk through the door he’s holding, mumbling a thank you, only to be met with a sound of distaste that I want to pull my hair out in response to. I haven’t done anything to him, but he acts like I’m the most disappointing creature to exist since the dodo, and twice as stupid.
“Sorry,” I say once more, throwing a probably unfriendly glance back over my shoulder at my professor. I wouldn’t dare act disrespectful towards him, but I certainly don’t have to like him.
“For what?” he asks, his voice quiet as I stand in front of the counter. With the baristas busy, all I have to focus on is the way I can feel his eyes burning on the back of my neck. God, I hope I remembered to scrub there last night. It would be embarrassing if he’s staring at some almost invisible speck of dirt I’d missed.
“For inconveniencing you,” I say, and fix a smile on my face as the short, brown-haired and round-faced barista comes over to take my order. “Could I get an iced caramel macchiato, please?” I ask, my hands gripping the granite of the counter.
“Sure hon.” Her hand hovers over the stack of cups and she asks, “What size for you?”
I should say small. After all, he’s right. His class starts in less than twenty-five minutes, and I’ll have to throw it away if I don’t finish it all. But I cast a quick look up and over my shoulder, finding that Professor Solomon is looking at me with boredom etched in every fiber of his being. I smile, turn back to her and say, “Extra large, please.”
Even over the sound of her shaking the cup free, I swear I hear himsnortbehind me. Deftly and politely, I step out of the way once I’ve paid, content to go wait at the end of the counter for my too large drink that I wouldn’t even get if I had all the time in the world to drink it.
But fuck it, and fuck him. Because I really don’t need hispermissionto get a drink. Nor does he know what I can do in twenty minutes… or in this case, how fast I can drink coffee. It’s probably a weird flex, and absolutely means nothing, but I can’t bring it in myself to let it go. Especially when they hand me the huge cup of caramel, cream, and espresso and I nearly want todieat the size.
I couldn’t drink this in a year.
Professor Solomon gets his iced black coffee a second later, and toasts me dramatically. “Just remember, Love,” he says, in a too-sweet, too-friendly voice, “no drinks in my classroom.” and with that, he brushes past, his sunglasses dropping back into place from the nest of his hair, and breezes out the door while I wonder if I could use my drink as a weight to do strength training with.
By the time I make it to the arts building and the hallway outside of his classroom, I’ve only managed to drink a third of my macchiato. My teeth ache at the sweetness, and I lament at the fact that I’m going to have to throw it away. Even worse, I think as I pass by Professor Solomon’s office and see him at his desk with his mostly empty coffee, he’ll probably hear me do it and know that I failed.
His eyes don’t even flick up as I walk past, and I’m so busy staring into his office like he’s going to jump out of it that when I walk into a larger, taller body that smells of spicy-sweet cologne, I gasp and nearly spill my drink all over them.
“Whoa, whoa—” Smartly, Oliver’s hand comes up to cup my drink, fingers brushing mine to keep it from spilling. “You’re okay, Blair. It’s just me.” I turn to look at his dazzling smile, and for just a moment my heart dips when I think that Ireallyneed to tell him that I know he’sletsplayjay.
Right? A good friend would let him know. A good friend wouldn’t wish she could still swoon over his streams before doing her own.
A good friend wouldn’t have nearly spilled coffee all down his black tee.
“Sorry,” I murmur, frowning up at him. “I was just distracted.”
“He’s not a gargoyle, unfortunately,” Oliver points out, and I swear his voice raises in volume like he wants Professor Solomon to hear. “Just because you stare at him doesn’t mean he won’t move. I hate to break it to you, Blair. But you’re never safe.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, and step back to disentangle myself from Oliver. He beckons me over to the couch he’s occupying, dropping onto it and taking up over half. I don’t mind, though I have to remind myself that I can’t sit with my legs curled upunder me like normal. No, instead I have to sit like a proper lady who isn’t interested in flashing half the art department.
“That’s a lot of coffee,” he points out, glancing up at the clock above us. “Are you going to be able to drink that in ten minutes?”
“Thirteen, if I leave it to the last second to go in,” I say, feeling defeat creep in from every angle. “I was hoping to make a point… I saw him in the coffee shop and he was all—” I lower my voice then say, in a nasal tone, “Remember I don’t allow drinks in my class, Blair. Don’t forget, Blair.” I roll my eyes, feeling like they’re going to rocket off into orbit if I keep doing it at the mention of Professor Solomon. “So I turned my small into an extra large, hoping I could drink it all and throw it into the trash can in front of him to make a point. But I definitely overestimated myself.” Only now does it occur to me I should’ve dumped some out either in the grass or in a sink.
Now it would be too obvious. He’s too observant to not know.
“Want some help?” The offer shocks me, as does Oliver flopping over onto my side of the sofa, head almost on my shoulder.
“You like caramel macchiatos?” I ask, not really finding a reason to say no. I doubt he has foot-and-mouth disease or mono, after all. “And you really think you can drink this that fast?”
“Absolutely.” He gazes up at me with soft, bright green eyes and grins. “Then you can slam dunk it into the trash can while he watches if we succeed.”
“Just don’t get sick or something,” I snort, feeling like the responsible one as I relax and hold the straw up to his mouth.