by Amanda Faye
I cut her off before she has a chance to apologize, again, and chop my manhood in half.
"Paul. Talk to me about Paul."
She shakes her head wildly side to side, her straight red locks twirling around her.
"It's fine. I can handle Paul."
"Like that's working out so well. We need to report him. Now."
"No," she says, and there's a forlornness to her voice that arouses my anger at the man.
"It's his word against mine, and I did go on a date with him after all. Besides, he hasn't technically done anything yet. Just pesters me until my brain wants to implode. He's on the student advisory board. As obnoxious as he is, and please don't tell him this, he's still pretty good at his job. I simply need to avoid him until I lose his interest. It shouldn't take long."
She's nibbling on her finger. I scoff at the idea that any man could lose his interest in her. Polite as a Southern belle, with a sheet of red hair and hips that could cure cancer, she draws the attention of every man who watches her walk through the hallways.
"You said he was there last night?"
She nods, letting her head fall with the skin of her finger between her teeth. I let go of my breath in a long exhale, trying to shut down the side of my brain that remembers what her teeth feel like with my lip between them.
"Then maybe seeing us together today will scare him off permanently. If he bothers you again, tell him to come see me."
Her head rises in a rush, and a beautiful flush careens over her pale flesh.
"Thank you, Dr. Summers, but that's not necessary. Really. I've done enough to embarrass myself around you as it is. I've started looking into options to leave the school. Maybe the country. I haven't decided yet."
Her lips twerk into a cheeky little grin, and I let the sides of my mouth curve up in response.
"I take it kissing strangers isn't a habit of yours?"
I watch over steepled fingers as her pale rose-blushed skin deepens to rival that of the deepest red cherry. It's intoxicating.
"No," she breaths out, unease coating her features. "That was a one-time-only mistake."
"Hmm," I grunt out, happy to leave it at that. Good to know I'm so regrettable.
"Are you sure you don't want me to report Mall Cop to administration? Believe me. It would give me great pleasure to do so."
At my reference to his nickname, she bursts into giggles, using her hands to try to smother the sounds.
"How do you know that name?" she asks, wonder lacing her voice.
I shrug again.
"The next time he tries to talk to you, don't even give him the opportunity. Tell him you're taken, then kick him in my direction. I'll make sure he doesn't bother you again."
Her eyes bulge out of her head, but really, I don't see what the big deal is.
"Do you have a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Both?" I ask, and she gives me that little half-smile again.
"No."
"Then I don't see the harm in letting him think you're dating someone. At least until, as you say, he loses his interest."
Fat chance of that.
I see the wheels turning in her head, processing the truth in what I've said.
"I'm a tenured professor and a department head. Trust me when I tell you he won't want to mess with you when you're under my protection."
That finger, already dented with the impression of her teeth, takes root in her mouth again, and if I didn't know better, I'd say a shiver runs through her.
I wish I could read what's going on in that beautiful head of hers.
"It would probably get around campus that we're—that we're dating, Dr. Summers. Won't that cause you problems?"
I shrug again, and since I'm not known for my communication skills, she seems to take it in stride.
"Call me Eli, and it's fine. There's not a rule, per se, against dating students in the advanced programs. Not that I'm aware of, at least. We're not in the same department. My other lovers won't mind sharing."
Her chin drops in silent exclamation then tilts into a giggling smile when she realizes I'm joking. She does have the most infectious laugh.
"Dr. Summers." I glower in her direction. “Eli,” she quickly corrects, "I don't want to put you out more than I already have. This—this whole thing is blown out of proportion. I don't want to inconvenience you more than—well. I don't want to put you out."
I give up being nice and let some of my anger slip through. Nice isn't my default mode anyway.
"What'll inconvenience me is if I'm worried about you pinned up against a classroom wall when I'm supposed to be critiquing performances. It's my choice, my idea, and my pleasure to help you with that sleazeball."
"You want to—to fake date?"
Reluctance drips from her words, and still, all I can do is shrug. It makes no difference to me what she wants to call it. So long as I never see her crowded into a corner by Paul again, she can label it as she wants.
She hesitates, gnawing away on her knuckle, before a gorgeous, all-encompassing smile blooms over her features.
"Well, then. Yes, Eli, I'd love to be your fake girlfriend."
CHAPTER THREE
NATALIE
He knew my name. Despite everything that’s happened over the last 36 hours, that errant fact seems to keep floating to the surface of my brain. He knew who I was. I’ve run our two interactions over and over again through my memory, tearing them apart and analyzing the smallest details.
The night I kissed him; we didn’t share a word. As soon as my limbs regained their function, I grabbed Steve by the hand and ran like my life depended on it.
In the classroom, he spoke to me first. Not the other way around. Somehow, in a school of almost a thousand people, in a hallway that I’ve previously spent little to no time in, Dr. Summers—Eli—knew who I was.
I wake up three hours before my alarm is set to go off the next morning.
Sleep is like the most important thing in my life. Sleep and music and food. Food I have to pay for, though, and the other two are free. Naturally, I sleep as much as I can.
Not last night though. I tossed and turned every few minutes, and when I did manage to doze off, I dreamed about Dr. Summers pinning me against the wall. No one interrupted us, if you know what I mean.
Being the modern woman that I am, I do what any sane person in my position would do; I Google fake relationships. There’s a surprising lot of information on the subject. It’s a familiar trope after all, even if I don’t know all that much about it. There’re rankings of movies and rankings of books. There are the practical websites with how-to instructions for putting the plan into action.
I take a minute to scoff at the ridiculousness of that notion. Who in the hell would ever need to fake a relationship? Then, I remember that I’m on this website, at four in the morning, because my brain won’t stop thinking about Dr. McHottie and his plan to save me from the Devil’s Spawn.
I send my sincerest apologies for my rudeness into the universe, lest anything sinister befall my fake boyfriend before we can get this show on the road.
Rule number one seems to be that communication is key.
Gotcha. No problem there.
Except—
I don’t even have Dr.—gosh darn it! Eli!—I don’t have Eli’s phone number. I would have to look at the school website to know what his office number is. Why would I have it? He’s a teacher. An anti-social, grumpy one in a completely different department. The more I think about it, the more it boggles my mind. Time to move on.
Rule number two. Make sure you aren’t in a real relationship first.
Well, that’s certainly not an issue. Not on my part at least. I can’t remember the last time I had a boyfriend. Or was even kissed. Besides approximately thirty-seven hours ago. That kiss had enough juice to keep me fulfilled until I’m at least through the master’s program.
Rule number three. Don’t lie to your family.
Again, a non-issue. My family is all the way bac
k in Georgia. I don’t see a situation where I’m fake dating one of the professors comes into the conversation.
Next, it says to set PDA ground rules. I snort through my nose, rolling my eyes at the screen. I’m well past that one, aren’t I?
Last, but certainly not least, make sure you both get something out of the arrangement.
There it is. The issue I’ve been chewing on since Eli made this ridiculous suggestion. What could he possibly be getting from this situation? Maybe there’s an overzealous teacher following him around campus. Or maybe he gets a kick out of rescuing damsels in distress.
Perhaps this is a yearly thing for him?
He could pick a new project each semester, like choosing a student to mentor. Only instead, he chooses a graduate student to—to what?
I check the time on my phone, and it’s still super early. My first diction class isn’t until eight, and it’s barely six o’clock. But if I sit here much longer, my mind is going to wander from rescue scenarios to ones where I’m locked up in his basement while he plays the soundtrack to Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band on repeat.
Slipping into my school clothes, which consist of yoga pants and a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt, I gather my school shit and head out of my apartment. I have a private practice space as part of the advanced program. I’ll rehearse until it’s time for class. Nothing clears my mind like singing excerpts from Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Twelve-hour days are usually reserved for the end of the semester and the weeks before a performance.
Not for the third day of class.
That’s what you get, I guess, when you arrive on campus an hour before sunrise. The day’s not even over yet. I have a two-hour hold over then the community band has their first rehearsal.
I tried to leave my saxophone in the auditorium, but there was another practice already going, so I’m stuck dragging it to the coffee shop. I consider leaving it in my practice space, but then I’d have to walk all the way back to this building before hoofing it to the other side of campus. Easier to just bring it with me.
My Spidey sense kicks in, and I freeze in my tracks, searching the crowded hallway for what’s made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Instead of Paul, however, I spot Eli, watching from the end of the hallway.
He licks his lips, and I feel it in my knees.
Down Girl.
It doesn’t matter that he kisses like a Greek God; he’s completely off limits.
Aaand—he’s walking my direction.
I pull a smile on my face, ignoring the way other students scatter out of his path. He’s not that intimidating. A little broody? Sure. But everything I know about him now says he’s a pretty good guy.
Though, what I know about him could fill up a post-it notes.
A small one.
“Natalie.”
He takes me in, eyes lingering on the baritone saxophone case I’m resting my arm against.
“Eli,” I say, and no, my voice doesn’t sound breathy. “Imagine seeing you here.”
“You mean on campus, where I teach, and spend sixty hours a week? What a surprise, huh.”
I’m shocked at the playful way he answers me. His voice is dry and flat, but there’s warmth and humor sparking behind his eyes.
I make a spur of the moment decision and rise on my tiptoes, placing a quick kiss on Eli's cheek. His face remains impassive, and he doesn’t say anything about my breach of etiquette. His hand, however, rises to rest on my hip to steady me on my toes.
That simple gesture sets my blood to boil again, but I tamp it back and lock it in its cage.
But—he’s supposed to be my boyfriend after all.
“I’m on my way to the on-campus coffee shop. I still have a few hours before band practice starts. Will you join me? My treat.”
Those four little words make my blood pump so fast the room almost spins. Did I just ask Eli out on a date?
“You mean drink the swill they sell here on campus?”
He looks like I just offered him pig’s blood. The open disgust on his face makes me smile.
“Yes, dear,” I jab back, and he rolls his eyes at me. “It’s not that bad, I promise. Besides, I had something I wanted to talk to you about anyway.”
He stiffens instantly. His spine lengthens, shoulders tipping back, and I swear I see heat pour off him in waves. It’s a little frightening.
“Did Paul touch you again?” he asks, and I almost trip over myself to get my words out.
“What? No! No, it’s nothing like that. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you that impression. It’s just…” and now I’m nervous and regretting my decision to get out of bed this morning. I lean in close, looking around to see if anyone can overhear us. We’re all but alone in the corridor.
“I don’t really know anything about you. I just thought maybe you’d let me buy you a cup of coffee, and we could get to know each other.”
He hesitates for a moment, and I wish I could read the expression on his face.
“Yes, of course. I’d love to have coffee with you.”
I smile at him gratefully, and he softens around the edges but still stands a smidgen too straight, like he’s trying not to bolt in the other direction.
This is going to be harder than I thought. I should just go home, take a Benadryl, and pray when I wake up in the morning this has all been a bad dream.
He holds the door open for me, and I maneuver the wheeled case out the door behind me.
“What are you doing with a saxophone?” he asks. “Especially one that weighs as much as you do.” He checks me out, eyes trailing from the tips of my ears, which are now flaming as red as my hair, and following my curves down to the ten-dollar Walmart tennis shoes I’m wearing. “Maybe more than you do.”
I have to close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing before I can answer him.
“Well, growing up I played—well I played everything. If you could blow it, I can play it.”
I realize too late the way that sounds and bite my finger in embarrassment. The quick burst of pain brings my thoughts back into focus.
I can feel him watching me as we walk down the sidewalk, but I resolutely refuse to look in his direction.
“Umm, yeah. So, I played the saxophone and the clarinet and anything else the teacher had a need for. I learned the bassoon because they had sheet music they wanted to use with a bassoon solo, and we didn’t have a player.
“When I was accepted to Chanler, I had to choose between voice or instrumental. I chose voice, because that’s what I thought I was better at, but within days, I was missing my instruments. By the end of the first month of classes, I was a weeping, depressed mess. I love to sing, but I love the feel of the keys under my fingertips. The bass line of the baritone, keeping the rest of the woodwinds on beat and in check.
“I was bereft, grieving, for an instrument, as pathetic as that sounds. My advisor suggested I join the community band. My dad drove my instruments up the next weekend. Like I said, I can play any woodwind, but the bari and bass clarinet are my favorite.
“Some days I think I’ve made the wrong decision. That I don’t belong on the stage, I belong below it, in the pit. But it’s too late now.”
We’ve reached the coffee house, and we come to a stop with his hand on the handle.
“You didn’t,” he says, and it catches me off guard.
He’s staring at me, eyes solemn and deep.
“Excuse me?” I ask, not following his conversation.
“I’ve seen you sing. You didn’t make the wrong choice. No matter how much you enjoy a physical instrument, your voice is spectacular. You chose right.”
My breath comes in a tiny gasp, and I feel the blush light over my cheeks. Coming from him, that is a high compliment indeed.
“Thank you,” I say, and he nods and pulls open the coffee house door.
CHAPTER FOUR
NATALIE
“Why did you insist on coming to a coffee shop, and th
en order tea?”
We’re sitting at a table in the back, and he’s put his messenger bag on the table. My saxophone case is on the floor next to us, and I dip my tea bags in and out of the hot water.
We generated quite a bit of attention walking in and sitting together, but people have gone back to their own business. Or, at least, they’re hiding their gawking better.
“For one, it’s one of the only places open on campus after six p.m., and I don’t want to leave school only to have to come back in an hour. It’s too much of a hassle. Two, she doesn’t charge me for the hot water. I usually bring my own tea bags.” I shake the two empty packages in his direction. One orange blossom, the other earl grey. “I only got the Earl Grey because I didn’t sleep very well last night and need the extra caffeine.”
“Mmm,” he responds and brings his black coffee, no sugar, splash of cream, to his lips. “Why didn’t you get coffee then?”
“I could have, especially if I knew you were going to insist on paying. Thank you, by the way. But I don’t actually like coffee. I love the smell of it. But can’t drink it. Doesn’t matter what flavor or how I doctor it. I simply can’t stomach the stuff.”
He laughs at me, his eyes crinkled up in amusement. It transforms him completely. His eyes are the clearest blue I’ve ever seen, and his voice reminds me of the honey in my tea. Warm, smooth, and comforting.
I like it.
“You’re going to travel the world, a new time zone every other day, and not drink coffee. Oh Natalie, what a life you live.”
At his comment of traveling the world, I remember the websites I pulled up on my phone this morning.
“Speaking of which, we need to get to know each other more. Or, well, I want to get to know you. So, we’re going to play the first date game.”
His legs are crossed at the knees, Italian loafers covering his feet. It’s ridiculous, really, since he’s wearing jeans and a shirt that reads, I Play the Cello and I Know Things. He closes his eyes, and I can’t help but think he’s praying for patience.