by Noelle Adams
“I’ll send you those chapters.”
“I’ll read them this weekend.” I clench my hands at my sides. I’m not going to touch him, no matter how much I want to. I really want to take the lapels of his jacket in my hands. I want to stroke his short hair with my fingers.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He sniffs and shifts from foot to foot. “Good.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
This is ridiculous. One of us needs to move. It’s going to be me. Otherwise, I’m going to humiliate myself by hauling the man down into a kiss. “Okay,” I say brightly. “I think I’m going to head home to grade papers.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
He still doesn’t move, so I do. I stumble over to my desk, throw my stuff into my bag, and turn off my computer.
He’s still standing in the same place, looking at me when I hook my bag strap over my shoulder.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say.
“Goodbye, Beck.”
Shit. I love how he just said my name.
I want him to say it again.
And that’s the very last straw.
I get out of the office as fast as I can.
Three
THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY, I come into campus at around nine thirty. Since I don’t teach on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I don’t feel a great need to get to the office at the crack of dawn.
I stop by the financial aid office to say hello to Jennifer since she didn’t answer my text last night and I want to make sure she’s doing all right.
“Hey,” she says as soon as she sees me. She’s standing up at her desk, searching through a pile of files. “Sorry I never answered.”
“It’s fine. I know you have things that occupy your time.” I cause my voice to lilt slightly so it’s clear what I’m teasingly referring to.
Jennifer snorts. “It wasn’t that. Marcus didn’t actually come over last night at all. He was helping his dad on the farm, and I was with Grandma all evening.”
My smile fades. “Is she okay?” Jennifer’s grandmother had a major stroke two years ago, and she’s in a nursing home now. Jennifer visits her faithfully.
“She had a bad day, but she’s hanging in there.” Jennifer’s expression changes, softening into a smile. “So how are things in the office?”
I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Okay, I guess. As okay as they’re going to be.”
“Did he interrogate you on the chapters of his book you read over the weekend?”
“Oh yes. First thing yesterday morning.” I giggle as I recall his studious expression as I gave him my thoughts. “He took notes.”
“He did not!” Jennifer laughs with me. “I kind of like this guy.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I know him through you. And he’s my kind of guy. He works hard and takes things seriously and doesn’t mess around. You should get along with him well since you’ve had so much practice with me.”
“But I know what you’re thinking most of the time. I have no idea about him. The man has walls a mile high and half a mile thick. It’s frustrating.”
“Surely he’s not that bad. You’re only annoyed right now because he quizzed you on your dissertation last week, and you don’t like thinking about it. You seemed to be getting used to him before that.”
“Maybe.” I think through what she said and decide she’s probably right. “It was downright painful, let me tell you. I was so uncomfortable.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Jennifer says, lowering her voice although we’re alone in her office. “And I wonder if he maybe thought it was a date.”
I almost choke. “What? No way!”
“Are you sure? He made a point of asking you, and he went off campus and he bought your coffee.”
“Guys don’t go on dates like that and then interrogate girls on their dissertation!” I’m blushing, and I have no idea why. I’m usually not particularly embarrassed about talking about men. Even men I like (and I don’t like Evan much at all!).
“How do you know how he dates? Maybe he’s socially awkward and the only way he can relate is talking about scholarship.”
This gives me pause since I haven’t thought about it before. But then I shake my head firmly. “No. No way. I’d know if he was even remotely interested.”
“Like I knew with Marcus?”
I’ve been holding my bag, but it’s full of books and getting heavy, so I drop it to the floor. I count off on my fingers as I reply, “First off, you were blind with Marcus. I could tell he was interested. Everyone could tell he was interested. Only you couldn’t.” Before Jennifer can object to this, I continue, “Second of all, Marcus kissed you. That was a sign even if nothing else was. Evan hasn’t even shaken my hand since the first time I met him. Thirdly, I’m not his type at all. I’m sure he’s looking for a serious, uptight, buttoned-up girl who will match him. Fourthly, you’ve never seen him around me, so you have absolutely no way to judge. Fifthly... well, I can’t think of a fifth point, but I don’t need one. The first four should be convincing enough.”
Jennifer’s laughing softly. “Fine, fine. I’m really just teasing you. But I won’t do it anymore if you’re going to be so sensitive about it.”
“I’m not sensitive!” I don’t know why I get defensive, but I do. I’m usually pretty easygoing about teasing. It doesn’t bother me.
Jennifer raises her eyebrows. “Okay. You’re not sensitive.”
“Well, I’m not normally sensitive. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’m just used to feeling settled in my own skin and comfortable around other people, and he disturbs me for some reason.”
Jennifer seems to be hiding a particular expression.
“Not for the reasons you’re thinking,” I insist.
“Of course not. Who’d want a boyfriend who does nothing but ask about your dissertation?”
That makes me laugh, and I feel better after that.
FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, Evan and I fall into a pattern of interacting in the office that seems to work. We talk about our work and our classes. I avoid asking him any personal questions since when I do he clams up. The only personal thing I learn from him is that he drives out to Richmond every Saturday to have lunch with his younger sister, who is evidently still in high school. I’m not sure why he has lunch with his sister and not his parents, but it’s clear from his expression that he doesn’t want to answer questions like that, so I don’t ask.
Otherwise, I try to avoid overly personal questions. We don’t try to make conversation all the time, which helps take off some of the pressure.
And a couple of times Evan even smiles at something I say.
It’s improvement. I’ll take it. If it keeps up like this, then I’ll be able to make it through the year with him as my office mate.
On a Sunday evening in October, I decide to take a walk.
If it’s not clear by now, I’m not big on exercise. I hate gyms, and my body isn’t built for running, and there’s no conveniently located pool for me to swim laps. But I do walk fairly regularly—usually a couple of miles. Occasionally I get involved in planning out a paper or a lesson plan in my head and forget how far I walk. On Sunday, I’m thinking through possible topics of conversation with Evan, and I end up walking more than two miles before I think about turning around.
Despite my size, I’m in decent condition. I can walk five miles without collapsing. But it isn’t easy for me, and I hadn’t been planning to do that this evening. I’m annoyed with myself as I turn around for the long walk home.
And annoyed with Evan. It feels like this might be partly his fault.
I recognize the injustice of this, but it’s not an easy feeling to fight.
It’s a long walk and a tiring one. I’m drenched in sweat when I get back to my neighborhood since Octobers are still warm and humid in this part of Virginia. I’m sure my face is beet red, and my hair is all coming out of the b
raid I tried to contain it in. Hopefully I can make it home before I run into anyone I know. I particularly don’t want to see any of my students.
There’s someone else I’d rather not see, and he’s exactly the person I do see.
Dr. Evan Jones.
I don’t recognize him at first because he’s on a bike—a nice one by the looks of it—and is wearing a helmet. But he pulls to a stop on the road beside me and I blink at him in confusion, wiping sweat away from my eyes with the back of my hands.
He takes off his helmet to reveal his handsome face. His cheeks are flushed from the wind, and his skin is slightly damp from perspiration. (Not nearly as sweaty as me.) He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and I’ve never seen him look so casual before.
I gulp as I see him. My legs are already weak from exertion, and they wobble dangerously as I process a wave of raw attraction. I’ve only ever seen him in suits.
I’ve never seen him like this.
He looks less defended somehow. Like he’s a real person.
A person I really want to touch.
“Good evening,” he says. I have no idea if he’s happy to see me, unless the small tilt of his mouth is a smile.
“Hi,” I manage to gasp.
I really, really, really wish I wasn’t so hot and sweaty and sloppy right now.
I pull my T-shirt away from my skin since it’s sticking from all my sweat. “It’s hotter than I realized,” I say, hoping to explain away the state I’m in.
“It is.” He’s still astride his bike but not on the seat. Both his feet are on the pavement. His brown eyes are running up and down my body—my bare legs, my hips, my shirt clinging to the heavy curves of my breasts and belly—and there’s a new look in his eyes.
I’m not sure what it is, but it makes my skin flush even hotter. In another man, I’d say it was lust, but that can’t be right. Not with Evan. Not with the mess I am right now.
He’s probably surprised to see me exercising.
“Do you walk a lot?” he asks, after we stare at each other in silence for too long.
I shrug. “I walk most days but not this much. I went farther than I realized.” I look down at the ground before I tell myself I have no reason to feel self-conscious. “How often do you ride?”
“Not as often as I’d like.”
I know from what he’s told me that he works out at a gym every morning, so he must save the bike rides for evenings and weekends. “I haven’t ridden a bike in ages.”
He cocks his head. “You want to try?”
“No, I don’t want to try!”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll probably fall over and wreck your pretty bike.”
He chuckles. It’s a real laugh. It might be the first time I’ve ever heard one from him. “You’re not going to wreck my bike.” He swings a leg over so he’s standing next to it, holding it upright. “Get on and give it a try.”
I experience a moment of panic—the kind I feel when I’m trapped in a situation I don’t want to be in. I absolutely do not want to ride his bike. I can’t imagine myself doing it. But he’s being nice right now, and I don’t want to throw it back in his face.
And I also don’t want him to think I’m unable to do something so simple.
So I take the handles he offers me and silently pray I’m not about to make a fool of myself.
I feel off-balance and awkward as I try to get into the seat and position my feet on the pedals. He reaches over to help me, so his hands end up on my body. One on my shoulder and one on my hips, very close to my bottom.
I really like how they feel, and it gets me even more confused and fluttery. When I start to pedal, I wobble back and forth dangerously.
He laughs and reaches to stabilize the bike.
“I can do it,” I gasp. “I told you it’s been a while.”
“Do you want me to run beside you and hold it upright like a kid off training wheels?”
I suck in an indignant breath and flash my eyes over to him. Then I realize he’s teasing me.
Teasing.
Dr. Evan Jones.
Teasing me.
I give him an exaggerated huff and try again. This time I keep my balance and I’m able to make the bike move. It’s not comfortable. The bike is large and not made for a woman. But I make it down the block, do a U-turn, and ride back to him.
Figuring I’ve done enough to prove myself, I’m finally allowed to get off.
“Good job,” he says with a smile. It changes his whole face. His eyes warm and soften.
I can’t look away. I do manage to swing my leg over the seat and hand the bike to him. “I can’t believe I still know how to do it.”
“You know what they say,” Evan says soberly, his voice slightly thick. “Riding a bike is like... riding a bike.”
He made a joke!
“You made a joke!”
I’ve never been good at keeping my feelings to myself.
He frowns at me. “Why are you surprised?”
“Because you’ve never made a joke before.”
“I haven’t?” He’s totally serious. I can see that for sure.
“No! I didn’t know you ever did.”
“Well, I do. Occasionally.” He smiles at me again.
I smile back like a dope.
We smile at each other for way too long, and I’m hit with that wave of attraction again—made even stronger because it feels like I really know him for the first time.
“Well,” he says.
“Well.” I wipe some more sweat from my face with the back of one forearm. I hope I don’t look too terrible.
“Well,” he repeats. He wipes some sweat away too, but he uses the bottom of his T-shirt. It exposes an expanse of firm, flat belly and a trail of dark hair leading under the waistband of his shorts.
The sight nearly knocks me off my feet, and the surge of lust terrifies me so much I make a quick escape. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” I tell him, trying to smile naturally. “Thanks for letting me try your bike.”
He stands without moving. “You’re welcome.”
Our eyes meet again before I make myself turn away. I walk in the direction of my house. I don’t look back, but I’m sure he’s still standing there.
Watching me walk away.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I have no idea what to expect when I get to the office.
I tossed and turned way too long during the night, thinking about Evan, imagining myself kissing him, touching him, having sex with him. It was a highly disturbing state of mind, but I couldn’t talk myself out of it.
So I’m tense and jittery as I hurry to campus on Monday morning, just in time for my eight-o’clock class.
Evan is in the office already as usual, working on his lesson plans in one of his suits.
“Good morning,” he says, giving me a little smile.
I’m so surprised by the expression that I jerk to a stop, smiling back. “Hi.”
“I hope you enjoyed your walk last night.”
“I did. I’m sore this morning though. I walked too long.” I’m about to say something else when I remember the time. “I’ve got class in five minutes!”
“I know. You better get going.”
I put on my jewelry and knot up my hair as fast as I can. Then I grab my books and run for the door.
I wish I could talk to Evan more. I like the mood he’s in right now.
But I have class, so I don’t have time for anything else.
Maybe we can pick up our discussion again later today.
I RETURN TO THE OFFICE a little after eleven, having finished my three classes in a row.
I’ve been distracted all morning with thoughts about Evan. I’m not normally like this, so I don’t know why I’m all uptight about him.
Yes, he’s attractive. And yes, he’s like a challenge. But that doesn’t explain why I can’t get him out of my mind.
When I get there, he’s busy at his computer. He murmurs a he
llo but doesn’t turn around to talk to me.
I stare at his back for a minute before I put down my books.
Well, fine. If that’s how he wants to act.
I don’t need to talk to him either.
I’m feeling ridiculously huffy, and even though I know it’s silly and irrational, I can’t talk myself out of the feeling.
He’s working. It’s a Monday morning. Of course he needs to focus on his work and not on me.
I’m not sure why I expected anything else.
I’M FEELING GRUMPY the next day. Partly because I’m disappointed about Evan (even knowing I don’t have any reason for it). And partly because I have three classes of papers to grade.
I’m determined to get through them all today. They’re the first short paper in the semester, so they’re not very long, and I don’t have anything else scheduled all day.
But grading papers is my least favorite part of my job (other than endless, pointless committee meetings), and I’m out of sorts all day.
I do okay in the morning. Evan is out of the office because he teaches two classes today, and I force myself to plug through paper after paper. Many of them rushed and thrown together. Most of them boring. Only a few of them good.
A normal batch of sophomore history papers.
But Evan returns to the office at lunchtime. He didn’t talk to me much yesterday, aside from the brief conversation in the morning, and I haven’t seen him yet today since he didn’t come back to the office between his classes.
“Hey,” I say, staying focused on my computer. I do all my grading in Track Changes and comments in the Word documents students submit.
“Hello. How are you?”
“Grading papers.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. I’ve got seventy-eight of them.”
“Ugh. You should stagger the due dates so you don’t get them in from three classes at the same time.”
“It’s too hard to do that. It messes up the rhythm of my schedule. I prefer to have all my classes doing the same thing at the same time.”
“I understand, but you could easily make the assignment due dates different while still—”