A Lesson in Love
A sweet forbidden love story
Agnes Canestri
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
About the Author
Chapter 1
“If you’re not downstairs in two minutes, we’re leaving without you.”
Rose Wilson snorted. Every morning, the same thing. But to avoid any conflict she called out, “I’m almost done, Elliott.”
She switched off the music with a sigh. As the smooth Arabic melody died off, her thoughts returned to the present. She grabbed her iPod from the charging station, together with her earphones, and stuck them into the side pocket of her backpack. Her glance fell on the paper that she didn’t finish last night.
Oh, crap. Maybe instead of daydreaming about him, she should have completed this assignment.
But she couldn’t help it. Ever since signing up for Rasheed Morgan’s creative writing class, Rose didn’t have a minute in which her thoughts weren’t whirling around the man’s dashing eyes and ebony hair.
But it wasn’t just his looks.
Contrary to most of Rose’s teachers, the young professor was actually good at what he did. He didn’t employ an overly intellectual style to prove his superiority over his students. Instead, he enticed their fantasies and encouraged their willingness to try themselves with humor and wit.
The honk of the car horn cut through Rose’s contemplation.
She fetched the unfinished essay and folded it beside her books. Perhaps in the break between her morning and afternoon class, she’d be able to come up with a suitable ending to it.
As she hurried to the stairs and turned the corner, she bumped into her father.
“Slow your pace, young lady,” he grumbled while smoothing out his suit where it got wrinkled by colliding with Rose’s backpack.
“Sorry, Dad,” she mumbled. “Elliott and Stacey are already outside.”
Her father gave her a look that could only mean, “then why are you still here?“ and went into his bedroom.
Rose stared at his back with a frown. It was Monday and her father was probably worried about the outcome of the board meeting, but it still didn’t justify the cold way he acted with his children.
She shrugged, then taking the stairs by twos, arrived at the entrance in no time.
“Don’t forget that today you need to come back with the bus.” Her mother yelled after Rose as she went to close the door.
Rose paused and adjusted the straps of her bag. “I won’t,” she replied.
Of course she wouldn’t. She was looking forward to the days when she didn’t have to rush home and listen to Stacey and Elliott have some senseless argument in the car.
Why did her parents need to decide to have three children only a year apart from each other? Rose sometimes got the feeling that their reasoning was, if the siblings were close enough in age, then one car would be enough for them. After all, they went to the same university.
She shook her head and stepped outside. A wave of heat smashed against her face as she came out of from the shadowy shelter of their terrace. She drew her palm cross her forehead and wiped away the tiny droplets of sweat that formed almost instantly.
The warmth of the desert was something different.
Before moving to the Red Sea in the Middle East, she thought she knew what hot weather meant. After all, she had lived in many places, including a longer stay in Southern California, thanks to her father’s continuous job hopping. But none of her previous homes had prepared her for the force of the sun in this part of the world.
It was nature’s pure potency in action—majestic but also irritating at the same time. Especially when her intention was to arrive at any place without feeling like a grilled cheese.
Elliott opened the car door. “C’mon now, Rose, before the car turns into an oven again.”
Rose hopped inside, squeezing herself beside her sister.
Stacey was painting her nails, and the stench of nail polish mixed with the AC’s dry smell made Rose’s stomach churn.
“Couldn’t you have done this at home?” Rose asked.
Stacey lifted her eyes from the bright pink color that she was smearing and pursed her lips. “I did, but one nail wasn’t glossy enough. Do you want me to do yours? It would make you look pretty for once.”
Rose shook her heard. “No. But thanks.”
There was no point in arguing. Rose and her sister had very different opinions on what pretty meant. To be fair, Stacey’s was probably closer to the mainstream thinking, but the hours Rose’s sister spent each morning to achieve the perfect curls and spotless complexion was something that Rose couldn’t bring herself to do.
Elliott started the engine, but before driving out of their carport, he turned to Rose. “Stacey’s right. It wouldn’t hurt you to be a bit more feminine. None of my buddies will pay attention to you if you keep the grey mouse look.”
Stacey flashed Rose a gloating smirk. “You see, Elliott is with me on this. You’ll never get a boyfriend if—”
Rose’s nostrils flared. “That’s enough. Who said I was in search of a boyfriend? And Elliott,”—she blinked at her brother—“your friends are a bunch of brainless idiots. No offense.”
Elliott grinned. “None taken.” He snapped his head back to the road and stepped on the gas.
Stacey turned her attention back to her nails, but she murmured, “I can’t believe we share the same blood. “
Rose’s heart sank. Stacey’s comment wasn’t that weird. Rose had wondered about the same thing a few times already.
She peered at her sister’s lustrous golden mane and her eyes moved to her brother’s broad shoulders and blond beach-boy cut. Yes, both of her siblings were just like their mom and dad. Lean, tall, and gorgeous.
Rose picked a strand of hair and pulled it in front of her face. Could it qualify as a brown-sugar or toffee color like those fancy names displayed on the Love Your Brunette hair dyes?
No, not a chance. Her tresses were plain brown. The emphasis being on plain, like the rest of her features, for that matter. Nothing about Rose screamed look-at-me-I’m-pretty, but she’d never minded it. She didn’t have the urge to be noticed like her brother and sister.
Or at least, not until recently.
She recalled Rasheed’s muscular figure standing on the podium, explaining the secrets of how to tap into their muse and her chest tightened. She had a year and a month left until she finished her master’s, which meant almost two hundred painful hours of seeing the man of her dreams ignoring her existence.
Rose pressed her head to the glass and let herself get lost in the sandy dunes.
Why did she have to be so messed up and crush on her university professor? There was no chance in this world she could ever become the woman a man as dashing and sophisticated as Rasheed desired. Wouldn’t it be wise to stop ignoring her sister’s advice after all?
The group of girls who always sat in the front row in Rasheed’s class came to mind. They all shared Stacey’s vision about what constituted an attractive look. But Rasheed had never showed any signs of noticing the special effort they put into enhancing their charms just for him.
Rose gulped. Why would h
e? He was a professor after all. Maybe not much older than they were, but still a teacher.
Somehow remembering the insurmountable rule that prohibits students and teachers from dating warmed Rose’s heart. She had an excuse for why she could only dream of being with Rasheed.
Elliott hit the brakes, and the sudden movement made Rose’s head bounce against the window. “Ouch, Ellie, what the heck?” she grumbled.
“We’ve arrived, Rose. It’s time to get going. Thanks to your delay, we’re late as it is.”
Her brother steered the car to an empty space in the Shamri-Ala University’s parking, and they got out.
Stacey and Elliott had to walk toward the Economics wing, while Rose’s first class was in the Human Sciences department.
Elliott waved to Rose. “See you at home, Rose.”
“Stay out of trouble.” Stacey winked.
Rose nodded and smiled. “Will do. Have a great day, Stace.”
Stacey’s eyes were already on Rob Baker, the captain of their university’s football team, whose car just rolled into the parking.
Rose opened her bag and put on her earphones. It was better to shield herself on the long walk to the building. She didn’t want to feel embarrassed about not chatting with her fellow students. Most of them probably didn’t even know her name.
She switched on her iPod and the soft tunes of a ney flute filled her ears. The melody was soon enriched with the balanced beats of the drums. Rose sighed. There was at least one good thing about having to live in the Middle East. Had Rose’s father found a job somewhere else instead of Sauda, this tiny but relatively liberal Arabic country, Rose would have never learnt how gripping true belly-dancing music was.
Rose had to force her hips not to bounce to the riveting rhythms. No, she couldn’t make a fool of herself on the university grounds. In her room, she could pretend to be the dancer that she wasn’t.
She continued toward the large brick wall which delimited the Literature Department.
Her heart picked up its pace as if synchronizing with the music. Or was it the unavoidable thought that she needed to get through the entire morning before her creative writing class? Before seeing him?
A gentle tap on her shoulder snapped her out of her thoughts. She turned to her friend Emily smiling at her.
“Hey, Rosie.” Emily gave her a calculating look. “Did you finish Professor Lewis’ assignment?”
Rose shook her head and pulled out her earphones. “Nope, got distracted last night.”
Distracted by her foolish fantasies to find a plausible excuse to meet Rasheed outside of school. But even if Emily was her best—well, probably only—friend, Rose didn’t feel comfortable revealing her hopeless infatuation with their teacher.
Emily yawned in her palm. “Ah, yeah. Me, too. I watched The Gambler’s last episode. You know what…shall we sit in the back in CompLit this morning? If we’re lucky and Professor Smith leaves us alone, we could complete the exercise before we get to Professor Lewis’ class?
Rose gave her a thumbs up. “I’m in.”
Emily hugged her shoulder and pulled her toward the lecture hall. “Let’s go then, before all the back seats are taken.”
Chapter 2
Rasheed Morgan straightened his back and rubbed the skin between his eyebrows with two fingers. He focused his eyes again on the paper lying in front of him, ignoring the growing sense of frustration that tensed his stomach.
Was it his fault that these students seemed incapable of putting two words together without it seeming like a rip-off from some famous writer or sounding just simply dumb?
He picked up his pen and jotted a few questions marks in the margin and a hasty comment about how the story had no structure.
Before putting a grade down, he chewed on his lip for a second. The faculty head, Mr. Quabar, had scolded him once already. He said that Rasheed was too severe with his evaluations. His students were all kids of wealthy and important businessmen. Rasheed was supposed to factor in that their tuition fees were more than the average yearly salary of a man in Sauda.
Rasheed had to be grateful that, despite his young age and lack of experience, he had been allowed to teach a class.
Rasheed snorted. Of course, luck had nothing to do with it. It was rather the scandalous disagreement between Sir Henry, his predecessor, and Mr. Quabar. All the more reason Rasheed should try and stay under his boss’ radar.
Rasheed rolled his eyes then gripped his pen tighter. D-plus. And he was being generous. There was no way to give a higher grade to the clueless ensemble of words he’d just read.
He stashed the paper in the marked bunch and reached for a new one. He had to be done with it all by five p.m.
His eyes flashed on the name of the new document he fished from the to-be-done pile and his heart stuttered.
Rose Wilson.
The long caramel tresses and large blue eyes popped into his mind. Rose was the only student for whom it was worth showing up. She not only listened to Rasheed’s explanations with apparent interest, but she also had an undeniable talent for writing.
He scanned the first few lines in her paper. Yes, thought-provoking and original, as always. Rose would be a perfect candidate for the LeGrand scholarship. Rasheed meant to speak to her about it, but somehow he always put it off.
He scratched his chin. Why was he so reluctant to encourage Rose to apply for something that would advance her writing career? After all, he was convinced that she had talent. Was it because he feared how he’d do if she was at Oxford for a year?
He recalled the girl’s shy smile and he shuddered. No, that couldn’t be the reason. He was certainly not putting his own fuzzy feelings first before Rose.
He put his pen down and rubbed his face with both hands. It was just his protective paternal instinct that she might not get the prize and end up being disappointed. The girl looked so sensitive.
Rasheed could hear his sister’s mocking voice in his ears.
Paternal instincts? Are you kidding me?
He sighed. This last thought might be a bit of a stretch. He was only five years older than Rose, so technically he couldn’t even qualify for the role of her father.
His phone rang.
Rasheed peeked at the screen and his nose wrinkled. How was it possible for Aisha to always pick the time when he had her in his thoughts? Maybe it was the special bond between twins that people often talk about.
He tapped the green button and switched on the loudspeaker so he’d have his hands free to correct the papers. Aisha had the tendency to keep chatting even if he was at work.
His sister’s loud voice filled his office. “Rasheed, am I interrupting something?”
Before even waiting for his answer, Aisha launched into an account of her morning and how one of her students had dropped out of the competition due to a broken ankle.
Rasheed listened with one ear, while he tried to pay attention to Rose’s words on the paper.
“Brother, did you hear what I said?”
Aisha’s shrill voice proved he wasn’t juggling the two tasks evenly.
“I’m sorry, sis. Can you repeat your last few sentences? I’ve been distracted,” he said, while he let his hand draw small circles on a piece of clean paper.
His sister huffed. “Uhm, and with what? What can be more important than the fact that I’m in serious trouble?”
Rasheed stopped and looked at his drawing. The lines he’d been tracing looked worryingly similar to the word Rose. He dropped the pen. “Nothing. I’ve been grading student papers. I need to hand them back in today’s class.”
There was a silence on the phone, then Aisha asked. “You’re reading her work, aren’t you?”
Rasheed’s heart jumped to his throat.
How could he have been so stupid as to share his growing interest toward Rose with his sister? Ever since he did, Aisha assumed that her brother’s thoughts only revolved around the girl.
It wasn’t like that. His glance dri
fted back to his drawing, and a prickle spread along his back. At least, not always.
He cleared his voice. “I’ve graded her paper also, yes.”
“Brother?” Aisha’s tone was half-teasing. “Confess. Did you speak to her about the LeGrand scholarship yet?”
Okay, he definitely needed to reduce the amount of faculty information he revealed to his sister. Not only did Aisha have the memory of an elephant, she also felt entitled to mix herself into Rasheed’s life, justified by the fact that she meant well.
He smacked his lips. “I’m doing it this afternoon.”
“Are you now?” He could picture Aisha arching her thick eyebrows into an incredulous frown. “Good for you. It would definitely be safer for you to have Rose a few countries away. ”
Rasheed couldn’t deny that Aisha was right.
The thumping in his chest that he felt each time before entering the lecture hall and raising his eyes to row ten where Rose usually sat was a clear sign that he wasn’t controlling his emotions well enough.
He didn’t want his career to end in a scandal, nor hurt Rose’s academic success in any way. But he wasn’t sure how long he could resist having her around without trying to find out if she could be interested in him.
He leaned closer to his phone. “You might be right. But enough talking about me. You called because you’re in trouble. What can I help you with?”
Aisha clicked her tongue. “You need to help me find a replacement for Marika. I need a new dancer for the competition.”
Rasheed chuckled. “And where do you suppose I should recruit a belly dancer for you? In the faculty?”
“I didn’t say that,” his sister snapped, but her tone became softer. “I’m sorry I sounded hostile. I’m just nervous because it will be the first time that my school competes on the nationals. Marika was a good dancer. I’m not sure how to replace her.”
A Lesson in Love: A sweet forbidden love story Page 1