Damn him.
Chapter Seven
Tyler
I should have known. I should have damn well known. Mills is a snowball warrior of unparalleled viciousness and cunning, sometimes pelting me with snowballs two at a time, throwing them so hard they make me oof even as they splash apart on my parka.
"Are you trying to kill me?"
"I played softball for six years. I know how to throw."
"That isn't a no."
"Right, it isn't."
Before I can get her with a good one, her kid hits me square in the back between the shoulder blades and I go down in a snowbank under her first-floor neighbor's window. I may have oversold it a little. The kid, a ten or twelve-year-old fireball in pajamas and a parka, is laughing her head off at me.
"Don't laugh so hard," Mills says, and beans her with a snowball.
Now they're throwing at each other. I join the offensive, pelting Mills until she's begging for mercy, laughing and red faced, steam puffing with every breath.
"Okay, okay," she says, clutching her side. "I surrender."
Her kid looks up at me with the easy, friendly way of kids. "Do you know how to make a snowman?"
"Who doesn't know how to make a snowman?"
"We should make a snowman."
"We should go back in, it's cold," Mills says. "You're going to get frostbite."
"Oh," I say, "Let it go."
She glares at me. "You fu—" her eyes snap to her kid, "—uuuunny guy, that was great, but it's cold."
"Come on, Mom!"
Mills huffs and brushes snow out of her long, loose hair.
"Fine, but go put on some warmer pants and come back out. Go. Shoo."
When she's run back into the house, Mills turns to me.
"What are you doing here?" she demands.
It takes me a moment to answer her, because I can't without staring at her first. The snow is falling faster now, flakes sticking and melting in her dark hair. The snowfall forms a bright halo around her, like she's glowing. The cold has her cheeks and nose tinged naturally pink and she looks naturally, unconsciously, gorgeous. I'd like to feel how warm she is in the cold pressed against me and kiss her.
"I was bored. I have nothing better to do."
"I told you," she starts.
"People tell me lots of things."
"Tyler!"
"Stop being so paranoid," he says. "There's nobody here, and even if there was, I guarantee you I'm not the only student shoveling their academic advisor's walk today. Nobody is out to get you, Mills."
"That's Doctor."
"Yeah, do you make your kid call you that, too?"
Before she can answer, her kid, Becky, flounces out of the house in warmer pants and carrying a box of supplies. Mills grunts and looks at me, visibly irritated.
"Get started without me. I need real pants."
She returns a few moments later as I'm showing her kid how to form the body of the snowman, rolling and shaping a bigger and bigger ball of snow. We set him up near the door and clothe him in an old baseball hat and ratty scarf. Becky hunts down sticks for arms and we carve a face.
"We don't have a carrot."
"Actually," I say.
I lurch over to where I left the box that I brought with me and grab a carrot, sticking it in place to make a good nose.
Mills looks a little misty.
"Want me to take a picture of you with her?" I offer.
She blinks, nods, and hands me her phone. They take up spots on either side of their snowman and I snap a few to make sure one comes out right, then hand it back.
"It was nice of you to do this with her," Mills tells me, reluctantly. "We should get back upstairs. I didn't realize how late it is. I need to make her some dinner."
"Well," I say, "About that."
I walk over and heft up the cardboard box I lugged over here from the dorms and haul it onto my shoulder.
"What's that?"
"Dinner."
"Tyler—"
I look around. "Are you going to make me walk home in this?"
"You walked here in this."
I lean in close. "Look around. No one is watching. No one is going to see me. Come on."
She looks at me, at her daughter, and relents. "Fine, come upstairs."
After I follow them up, I set the box on the counter. Mills' cat winds between my legs, letting out a little sound, and Becky scoops her up, carrying her into the living room while I slip out of my parka. Mills stares at me. I wore a compression shirt underneath so I wouldn't get soaked with sweat. It's tight enough to look painted on.
She swallows and licks her lips in an unconsciously hungry way and turns away, cheeks now pink from something other than the cold.
"What did you bring, exactly?"
"Your cupboards looked a little bare and I had to stock my own kitchen, so just a few things."
We unpack the box together and she eyes me.
"What can you make with all this?"
I chew my lip, thinking, and check her fridge.
"I'll make you up some stir fry."
"Need help?"
"Another pair of hands wouldn't be a burden."
Mills, surprisingly, lets me take charge as I cook. I have to make do without a wok but she has a big frying pan and it works. Soon the whole apartment has a rich smell, and Becky and the cat come out into the kitchen to see what we're doing. Becky feeds the cat little scraps.
"What's the cat's name?" I ask.
"Hamilton!" Becky says, cheerily.
"Hey there, big guy," I say, leaning down to scratch him.
"He's a girl," Becky says, annoyed. "Oh."
"I gave her a boy name because I thought she was a boy," Mills explains. "I adopted her when she was a kitten and the shelter thought she was male."
"Ah," I say. "Well, soup's on."
"Where's the soup?"
"It's a figure of speech."
I grunt when Mills serves the kid microwaved macaroni and cheese—if you can call it that—leftovers with my cooking, but don't protest. Becky prods a bean pod on her plate.
"Just eat it," I say.
Surprisingly, she cleans her plate. Mills is the one who has trouble, almost gagging a couple of times, visibly ashamed to struggle with it in front of her kid.
When she finishes, the girl rinses her plate and bowl and runs off with the cat into the living room.
I keep my voice low.
"She eats her vegetables."
"Her father's family loves the rabbit food," Mills replies, softly. "I figure it's not so bad if I treat her. I never really learned how to cook."
"How's that?"
"Well, why are you so good at it?"
I sit back. "Well, my father was a marine. He wanted me to be totally self-sufficient. It was a big thing for him. He knows how to cook, how to sew, all that. He always taught me there was nothing shameful or unmanly about taking care of yourself and if you can change your oil but not cook a steak you can't really do that."
"No one ever taught me to cook," she says. "I grew up pretty poor. I ate the way we ate here. Well, I did on special occasions, anyway. Dinner most nights was cheese sandwiches or tuna gravy on toast."
I nod slowly, amazed that she let that out, even a little surprised.
"Sounds like you grew up pretty rough."
She glances over at her daughter.
"My father left when I was nine."
"Where'd he go?"
"Prison," she says, very softly. I can barely hear her, almost like I imagined it. "I lived with my mom in an apartment smaller than this one. I did pretty well in school, got a half decent scholarship and some aid, and went to college. Haven't been back since."
"I can't imagine not going home," I say. "Well, I can, but not like that. My dad's a bit of a slave driver. He never wanted me to play and he tried to talk me out of history. As a major, I mean. He wanted me to major in business or economics and come back to join him running his car dealers
hip. He's a proud Ford man."
She snorts.
"So you actually wanted to be a history major."
"Yes," I tell her, leaning forward slightly. "I was too flip with you before. I really did want to major in it."
"You're just saying that because you think I want to hear it."
"No," I shake my head, "it's true. I want to write, actually."
"Write?" she says.
"I figured if I make the pros I can play for five, ten years. Not get stupid, you know? No mansion, no supermodels, bank the money and retire before my knee gets destroyed or something like that. Go out on a high note. Players make a lot of contacts now too, you know. I mean, he's not a football player, but LeBron James is producing movies."
"I didn't know that."
There's a light in her pale eyes. Her inky dark hair spills loose down her back and all around her shoulders. She's still in the same hooded sweatshirt and loose jogging pants she probably slept in. I'm a little amazed that she just rolls out of bed and looks so good. Or looks so good after a snowball fight, for that matter.
"You're staring at me."
"Maybe," I say. "You're staring at me."
"I'm trying to figure you out."
"Why's that?"
"You’re not what I heard you were, or what you presented yourself to be."
"Yeah, what did you hear?"
She takes another glance at her kid to make sure there's no eavesdropping going on and turns back to me.
"I heard that you're a womanizing 'player' that's had a different girlfriend every week since your first day on campus, sometimes two at a time, and that you're arrogant, lazy, defiant, and think you can coast by forever on your physical skills. When we met, I had an immediate sense that you instantly looked past my degree and position and even my clothes and just saw a piece of meat."
"What I saw was a woman."
"Then you save my drunk ass from getting run over or worse after I make a total fool out of myself and treat me with remarkable compassion and, uh, honor."
"Honor?"
"Yeah. The guy you're supposed to be wouldn't have pulled back when I kissed you while I was drunk."
"You remember that?"
Her face reddens. "Yeah, I remember that. Came back to me. I was just sauced, I wasn't blacked out. I can hold my liquor. You, Tyler, have no idea what I'm capable of."
I reach across the table and put my hand on hers.
"I can't," she says, almost a moan.
"Doc, I'm not going to make a move while your kid is here."
"I know that," she pulls her hand away. "I actually trust you."
"Then you understand that when I give you shit in front of my classmates that I don't mean it."
She blinks.
"Then why—"
"If I treated you different from any other prof, people would notice. People pay attention to what I do. Believe me, it sucks."
"If people are paying attention to what you do, then you shouldn't be here."
"Don't worry. It's a snow day. Everyone on campus is drunk, high, fucking their brains out, or all three."
"Language," she hisses.
I flinch, glancing past her at her kid, who is now lying back against the foot of the couch, playing her game with an intense look of concentration.
"If things were different, I'd invite you to stay," she says. "But this is where it has to stop. I'm sorry."
I stand, stretch, and grab my coat. "I guess I'll head out then."
"Bye," Becky calls. "It was fun playing in the snow."
"Yeah, it was. See you around, kid."
I step into the hallway. Mills follows me a brief few steps, I guess to say goodbye.
I take one look at her and I know I have to do this. With one arm, I pull her close, dive in, and kiss her. Her lips leap to mine like we're drawn by magnets and she melts, turning liquid against me, an undulating being of pure sexual heat that lifts one foot off the floor to grind her thigh against my leg.
She breaks away, panting and brushing her hair back, and stands there briefly panting. Her hair falls over her face, briefly, before she looks up at me, bottom lip tucked under her teeth, eyes blazing, and ducks back into her apartment.
I want her so badly it hurts.
Angry the way only a guy with a bad case of blue balls can be, I jog down all the flights of steps to the front walk. She was right, the snow in the trench I cut is a foot deep anyway, and the rest is deeper. A snow plow rumbles steadily forward, light on top spinning as it crushes a wave of snow away from the middle of the road, leaving a white, packed down mess that will be a skating rink by morning.
So, I start back, trudging through the snow, using the shovel I brought with me where I need it to get through. In the twilight, I stop and start shoveling, to fulfill my end of the bargain with the old lady who let me borrow it from her.
Finally, sweaty and freezing, I stumble into the dorm, brush past my suitemates, and lock myself behind the door.
Once it's shut, I rip out of my clothes like they're burning me and flop on the bed. I can't fucking stand it anymore, I need release and I can't get her out of my head. The way she feels, her lips, the scent of her, the way her voice is soft and purring when I'm alone with her and harsh and sharp when she's with other people. I practically rip my clothes off and take matters into my own hands.
I've got it for her bad. Just visualizing her straddling me and sitting down on my shaft almost brings me to the edge. Her body is a mystery to me. That bit of tattoo I glimpsed—is that all she has? What if there's more? I try to picture the shape of her breasts, how perfect and round her big ass must look. The feeling of grabbing her by the waist and driving into that warm slickness—
Damn. I cry out, loud, as I climax. A minute later, there's a half-hearted knock at my door.
"Hey man, are you okay in there?"
"Fine," I call back, too winded to sound irritated. "Dropped a book on my foot."
I hope when I get my hands on her, and my cock inside her, I can make it last a little longer than that. I want her all night long. Just the thought of her going wild under me as I pin her down and make fierce love to her makes me—
Wait.
When I get my hands on her? When did it become when?
Something has clicked in my head, and I realize I'm committing to this.
I'm going to win her over. No matter what it takes, no matter how long, I'm going to make Cassandra Mills mine, and she's going to love every second of it. I'm tired of girls. I had a little taste of a woman and you know what the man said, a taste is worse than none at all.
Step one: Impress her. Master this shit.
Wait.
Step One: Wash my hands.
Step Two: Impress her. Master this shit.
I throw myself into the books, knowing that she's going to expect us to have kept up with the reading during the snow days. I even check my student email account for maybe the third time since I started school here. Yes, she sent an email.
Syllabus adjustments are forthcoming. We will hold class next Wednesday to make up for the missed Friday session.
Forthcoming. I can hear the message in her clipped, professional tones, straining to keep the bubbling passion inside her restrained under her cool exterior. It hits me like a lightning bolt.
Those wool suits and glasses and severe hairdo aren't a suit of armor, they're restraints. They're not about keeping me out, they're about keeping herself in.
It also hits me that I just got turned on by a woman using the word "forthcoming" in a professional email she sent to my entire class.
Fuck it, let's do this.
I wash up. I hit the books.
I'll show her that it matters to me, too.
A smile curls my lips. I have an idea.
Wednesday morning arrives, and I haven't heard a peep from Mills. I was supposed to meet with her today—assuming the campus was open—about the internship. Since campus is not open and the announcement came out
that it won't reopen until Monday, there's no meeting. So I'm making a meeting.
Strapping on boots, I pack myself into my parka and stomp along State Street to her apartment. The streets are solid sheets of ice, the snow run over and packed and run over and packed.
The snowplows make it worse. Down here they don't get much in the way of snowstorms and no one knows how to handle it. A mild panic is in the air. Being from a little further north, I just laugh at them.
When I reach Mills' building, there's no answer at the buzzer, so I buzz again.
Finally, she answers.
"Morning, Doc."
"I said stop calling me that."
"Morning, Doctor."
"Better. That's you, isn't it, Tyler?"
"Are you telling me in your entire teaching career no one has ever called you 'Doc' before?"
"My reputation precedes me," she says, before adding coldly, "what do you want?"
"We're supposed to meet about my internship."
"In my office, not my apartment."
"It's cold out here, Professor. Can I come up?"
High above me, the door to the Juliet balcony from her attic apartment swings in and she pokes her head out. Her hair is loose in an inky, damp cascade. She's freshly showered, in a bathrobe.
"Not today, Tyler. It can wait."
"I really don't think it can. I have some questions about the reading material for the seminar."
"Then email them to me."
"Okay," I call back up to her. "If that's how you want it, I'll see you Monday."
I start walking, and I can practically hear her sigh.
"I'll buzz you in. At least get up here and warm up for a minute."
Jackpot.
Inside, I take my boots off and clap off the loose snow and carry them up with me, setting them inside her apartment door. I shrug off my parka and hang it on a hook like I own the place, and—
"Hi, Tyler," her daughter calls from the living room.
Well, shit. I wasn't planning on that.
Mills gives me a wry, knowing smile. "Still have questions about the material?"
"Yeah," I say, dogged as ever. "Hey there, scout."
My dad used to call me scout. I think kids like it.
"Hey yourself."
Stuck With You Page 8