I gape. “Didn’t you read the Code of Conduct? You’re not supposed to discriminate based on age, sex, orientation—”
He waves a hand imperiously. “Fine, don’t tell me. And call me Beck or Beckett. Professor makes me think of graybeards with food in their teeth. Did you get all my emails?”
The abrupt shift in topics sends my already malfunctioning head-to-mouth filter into full meltdown. “Sure did. All eight hundred of them.”
Oh my God, I’m so fired.
But to my shock, his eyes crinkle with mirth. “You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you? I was told you’d have no other assignments beyond your course load. Is that correct?”
I nod again, less enthusiastically. What mere weeks ago had seemed like a gift from the heavens has degraded in the last fifteen minutes to a silent plea of, Please let me survive this quarter.
By the amount of work he’s assigned the students and his insistence that his TA have no other duties, I’m now relatively certain he wants me to be his assistant-bitch for the next twelve weeks.
And we’re off to such a promising start.
When he doesn’t say anything else, merely pinning me with his focused stare, I feel my neck heating beneath my scarf. Whatever his thoughts, the look he’s giving me is not appropriate between teacher and student.
At length, he murmurs, “You seem familiar.”
“Familiar how?” I ask nervously.
He blinks, shaking his head a little. “We haven’t met before? You are over eighteen, aren’t you?”
In a flash of sickening insight, I recall a particularly lurid article about his reputation as a whiskey-swilling philanderer.
He thinks I’m a one-night stand.
Ew.
“We haven’t met,” I say forcefully, then summon a modicum of the poise I’ve been lacking since I slept through my six a.m. alarm. “Professor, I’m very much looking forward to assisting you this quarter. Did you receive my schedule and contact information?”
He nods. “It’s Beckett or Beck. And I did, thank you. I saw that you’re also taking my Advanced Fiction Writing class Wednesday evenings. And you’re on my docket for a meeting tomorrow, is that correct?”
“Yes, to review progress on my thesis.”
Which will probably end in me stabbing myself in the eye with a pencil.
“Good, good. Seems we’ll be seeing a lot of each other for the foreseeable future.” He reaches for the door handle, flashing that dangerous grin at me. “The former Director spoke very highly of you, Ms. Eliot. I look forward to learning what makes you tick.”
On that titillating and terrifying note, he sweeps back into the room. I stare at the floor, realizing several disturbing truths at once.
1. My heart is racing a mile a minute.
2. My knees are weak.
3. I haven’t felt this alive in years.
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Also by L.M. Halloran
Double Vision
The Muse
Breaking Giants
The Reluctant Socialite
The Reluctant Heiress
The Fall Before Flight (Fall 2018)
About the Author
When not writing or reading, L.M. enjoys walking barefoot, subjecting her husband to questionable recipes, and chasing her spirited toddler. She's a rabid fan of coffee, moon-gazing, and small dogs that resemble Ewoks. Home is San Diego, CA, but her heart lives in Portland.
lmhalloran.com
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