His home? He wanted to take her home?
“But, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, so if you prefer, we can go to my office. It’s small and rather disorganized though … that is, if you’re still interested in the project.”
Lydia wavered. For her to abandon him after everyone else had would be cruel. Plus, he’d given no indication of anything but proper thoughts about the meeting. She shouldn’t make too big a deal out of this. Yes, it was unusual, but would last only a few hours.
“Wherever you feel is good is … fine,” she said.
He nodded toward a cobalt blue pickup. “You can ride with me. Unless you have transportation?”
“I have a car. Maybe, I should follow.”
He gave another nod and shook a set of keys from his pocket.
Aarin lived in a moderate-sized home on a street of similar ones, all single story brick ranch-styles of about two thousand feet. The garage door rose at his approach, and he pulled inside, but signaled her to remain in place once he’d exited. He disappeared from view, reemerging with a large black-and-white umbrella held overhead. He made his way to her door, carrying it aloft, water dripping off the tines and down his back.
A dash into the garage did little to prevent them both getting wet anyhow. He laughed, folding the umbrella and propping it in the corner. “I always say you get wetter using those things than doing without.”
He was right. Lydia shook her head, drops spraying outwards.
“Here, we’ll go in, and I’ll get you a towel.”
The door from the garage led directly into the kitchen. A single light on the stove cast a blueish glow across what appeared to be newly remodeled space. Aarin flipped on a light and vanished around the corner, returning with a large bath towel in one hand. He offered it to her, and she mopped her hair and blouse. Then, setting it on the kitchen counter, she raised her gaze.
A rock lodged in her throat. His shirt was damp, the fabric clinging to his chest, every outline and contour plain in her view. He glanced down and back up again.
“I’ll put on something dry,” he said. “Why don’t you go in the living room? I’ll be out in a few …”
Left alone to find her way, Lydia walked slowly, the fingers of one hand trailing along the wall. In the center of the living room, the couch behind her, an armchair on either side, she stared out the rain-slick window.
Being here and not at the dorm seemed odd, the stormy weather adding to the dreamlike feel. No one’s fault. Mr. Kai hadn’t caused the rain and, similarly, wasn’t responsible for the others backing out, or being stuck with old curriculum. He needed someone to do what he couldn’t and had said he valued her thoughts. Still, being in his house was strange … and a little exciting. She figured his being so very attractive caused that. After all, if he was old and gray and ugly, she wouldn’t be thinking like this. Students worked with their teachers all the time on any number of tasks.
A shuffle from behind turned her gaze. Aarin had changed into blue jeans and a light gray t-shirt. The shirt was askew, the bottom of it caught in his waistband, revealing a trim figure and a hint of skin. Her gaze shifted to his hips, and, her face heating, she caught herself and forced it upward.
He had a stack of books in his grasp, one spilling over the other. “I’m afraid I’m about to drop these,” he said.
She rushed forward, taking a few off the top, and noticed his hand again. Concerned, she dropped the books on the couch. “It’s hurting?” she asked. Without thought, she took hold and flipped it over, with gentle motions, straightening his fingers in her palm.
He winced. “Worse than usual tonight. It’s the rain,” he said, nodding toward the window.
“The doctor doesn’t give you anything for the pain?”
Their eyes met, his washing with emotions she couldn’t quite grasp. But what she did recognize was persistence. Whatever he faced, he wouldn’t back down. Did that come from personality or maybe his hockey training? In either case, he’d handled adversity and learned to rise above it.
“He does, but I don’t like the side effects. It makes me fuzzy-headed, and I’ve found distracting myself helps.”
Releasing his hand, she lifted the rest of the books from his grasp and placed them on the couch.
“Well, then, I’m here to distract you.”
She didn’t mean that as intimate as it sounded and tried to play it off. Rounding the couch, she sifted through what he’d brought out, opening a few of the books and reading the copyright dates. “Nineteen forty-two?” she asked. “These books are over seventy years old.”
At his lack of response, she searched for his gaze and found it caressing hers. His hands at his side, his stance rigid, he never blinked and something new replaced the look she’d seen before.
Loneliness. He was lonely, and in pain, and she’d bet the second made the first that much stronger. She wouldn’t ask, but being younger than the other professors might cause them to overlook him socially. Though, as nice as he seemed to be, she’d think he’d have other friends. There could be many reasons why he didn’t – maybe he wasn’t from here; maybe no one he’d met had similar interests. She’d certainly spent a lot of time alone, particularly in recent years, and so couldn’t fault him for that.
Thinking further, the low light, the hum of the rain, and their vicinity to each other combined to create an ambience it’d be best not to encourage. She looked away, returning to her perusal of the stack, but with the swish of his breath, the rustle of a chair cushion, was aware of his presence more than ever.
“The problem I have with most of this material isn’t its age,” Aarin said, waving toward the scattered stack of books. “It’s the thinking. Today’s students are more progressive-minded. Yes, we’re reading the same books. Yes, the classics are still the classics, but in the light of the electronic age, most of the conclusions reached in these manuals are false.”
“The red door being the red door,” she said.
He nodded. “Exactly. They find analogies where they don’t exist and frankly, it gives me a headache.”
At his mention of discomfort, though he’d been facetious about it, Lydia’s expression became soft. She’d inspected his hand earlier, the gentle press of her fingers somehow lessening the pain, and his mind had detoured from the job here tonight to the fact he hadn’t had that sort of care in a long time.
His mom called frequently, his sister not quite as often, but both lived far away from here in other states, so his days and nights were spent primarily alone. He’d thought when he’d taken this job that he’d make more friends. But with the exception of his brief contact with other professors and attending an occasional college celebration, he found himself as detached as he’d been years ago attending classes with twenty-year-olds at age sixteen. Being used to that mentality, he’d withdrawn rather than pursue new friendships, his natural inclination anyway. His mom had forever been encouraged him to get out, take part in things, when he was a boy, but not until hockey had he made any big effort.
And after leaving the sport, he’d fallen back into old patterns. If his hand ached, he dealt with it by himself, either ignoring it entirely or taking the pills that knocked him out. He tried to use those only on extreme occasions, not liking the impact, and probably, had Lydia not been here, would have done so tonight. Only, as she said, she was a distraction, a pleasant one.
Having someone to talk to during the evening was nice. Her being such a lovely, intelligent young woman made it even nicer. He’d needed that, found her thoughts refreshing, and her company engaging. That had worked to dull the pain better than any drug.
“So focus on the classics like you’d planned,” Lydia said, “but dwell on the story instead of the moral of the whole thing. That’s what people read for anyway … to be entertained. I think students, entertained, will put way more thought into what they’re reading and, subsequently, what they’re writing than they’d do bored stiff by endless prattle.”
W
aking himself from his wandering thoughts, Aarin smiled. Her words confirmed what he’d decided. The steadfastness of her gaze set him to thinking about her, once more.
He wasn’t big-headed or vain. He never thought of himself in terms of attractiveness, but was aware, from comments he’d overheard, that others talked about him. This had brought on the jokes with his students. He’d found making light of it helped the topic to die a quick death. But Lydia’s expression, right then, caused him to reconsider it, the intensity of her eyes blending in with the blush of her cheek.
“I like what you’ve planned,” she continued, her gaze absorbed, but her voice composed. “I think with a little organization, you can get everything together in no time.”
“Then I guess we’re finished for tonight,” he said.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a nearby flash of lightning and crack of thunder plunged them into darkness. A gust of wind slammed rain against the front window, rattling the glass.
He stood and strode over, pulling the drapes together tight. “I think I have some candles around.” Finding them would present a task, however. He stubbed his toe on the armchair and kicked a floor lamp in his progress toward the kitchen. Inside the dark space, he fumbled along searching for the right drawer. He located it well enough, but bungled his grasp of what was inside, and a straight pin stabbing into his arthritic hand, he released a curse.
Jerking his hand back, his elbow glanced on Lydia’s shoulder, and he turned. “You okay? I didn’t see you there ….” He plucked the pin from his finger and made to try and search again, but she reached past him.
“I’m fine. Here, let me look … I think I’ve found one.”
Moments later, a candle flame flickering between them, he stared into her eyes and willed the pull toward her to cease, but, a lock of her hair dangling on her cheek, her lips puckered in concern, indulged it instead.
“You have a candlestick holder?” she asked.
With a jerk of his chin, he awakened himself. “Upper cabinet by the phone.”
She revolved, with her free hand swinging the cabinet door open. Tugging the glass holder free, she fitted the candle into it and shifted it to the center island.
Lightning flashed again, and the rain slashed harder.
“I can’t let you go out in this,” he said. “Looks like you’re stuck.” Why was he relieved by that? And did he imagine it, or was she pleased as well?
“I guess so,” she replied evenly. “You might have to put me up on the couch.”
“I’ll do you one better. There’s a twin bed in the spare room. I promise to not say a word to anyone about you staying.”
The flickering light of the candle fluttered, seductive, on her face. “You didn’t create the rain,” she said, “and there’ll be sunshine in the morning.”
A positive outlook that lightened the mood, despite the noise echoing around them.
The scent of bacon awakened her from a troubled sleep, and the demons that’d plagued her in the nighttime vanished in the light of day. A fresh wash of sunshine pressed through the dusty window glass, leaving an uneven square on the carpet.
Lying there, listening to the noises from the kitchen, Lydia wondered how she’d ended up here. The rain? Could she blame it on the weather? It’d not been that severe since she’d moved to Florida. But surely, she could have managed to escape somehow. She might have been wet, but she wouldn’t have to explain to her roommate where she was all night or look Mr. Kai in the eyes during his next class, knowing where she’d been.
Her stomach growled. One hand mashed over it, she kicked the bed covers away and pushed to her feet. A glance in the mirror hanging over the dresser confirmed she needed a shower and a change of clothes. But those would have to come later because first she must get past the ball of nerves rolling around in her gut.
Turning the knob, she exited and angled across the hall to the restroom, then shuffled toward the kitchen. Aarin’s tall, masculine form blocked the light from the kitchen window, giving him an unearthly glow. The spatula in his hand made him look triumphant.
She laughed once at the image, the sound drawing his gaze.
“You’re up,” he said. “I figured since I have a guest I should make something more substantial than a toaster pastry.”
“You mean you don’t start your day with a glass of raw eggs?”
He made a face. “Never. Back when I could work out more, I’d drink protein shakes. Some of them weren’t too bad, but I admit, the hand makes me lazy.”
“You don’t look flabby to me,” she replied, unthinking.
His gaze grew deep. “I do what I can.”
Looking away, Lydia stepped forward and took a seat on a bar stool. “I used to jog,” she said, willing the awkward moment to pass. “Hard to do that and juggle classes. Philosophy is going to kill me, I think, for all the same reasons you dislike those analogies … too much thought.”
He returned to the stove, his back to her, and the need to fill in the space between them lifted somewhat. Fitting the spatula beneath a pancake, he flipped it over, his weight slanted on one hip. He’d dressed partially, in tan slacks and a button up, but the tail untucked, his feet bare, had a bit left to do before he’d look like a professor.
“How’d you end up teaching here?” she asked.
He glanced behind. “Well, hockey fell through, so I leaned on my love of books to pay the bills. Have a degree in literature from Florida State and thought I ought to use it.”
“Does it feel odd being so young?”
He looked away, sliding the pancake onto a stack of others. Setting the hot skillet to the side, he shifted the stack to a spot near her, placing butter and syrup alongside. He pulled bacon from the microwave.
“You prefer coffee? Orange juice?”
“Juice is good.”
Again, he turned aside, filling two glasses and handing her an empty plate. “Help yourself.”
She took one, smeared it with butter, and a light dot of syrup.
“To answer your question,” Aarin said, taking a seat, “I’m used to being the wrong age. Graduated from high school when I was sixteen and went to college with kids your age a couple months later.”
Kids her age. Their age difference grew larger. “And hockey?” She shoved it aside.
“I detoured from my plans to play hockey, something I’d done growing up in Minnesota.”
“You’re from there?” she asked.
He shook his head. “California, actually. But I spent five years in the frozen north on a Junior League. Went back to Cali after, but missed hockey. So when I had the chance to play, I took it. I was forced to quit when I injured my hand.”
Her gaze strayed to his fingers.
“It’s better today,” he said, “more tolerable.”
They quieted, consumed for a while with eating their food, then Lydia rose and gathered the dirty dishes, setting them in the sink. She plugged the drain and filled the basin with soapy water.
“You don’t have to do that,” Aarin said to her back.
“No, I do. My mom once told me to show appreciation where it’s due, and I know you wouldn’t want to go against that.”
“I guess not,” he replied. “She raised a good daughter.”
Up to her elbow in suds, Lydia let his compliment hover in the air between them and heard him rise and put away the other things. She was struck in the silence by the domestic scene, that what should be difficult wasn’t, but had an easy contentment.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
After rinsing and drying the plates, she washed out the sink and wiped off the counter. She wandered into the living room and stared at the mess they’d left the night before. With time on her hands, she straightened that, too, and was facing away from him when he returned.
He coughed, and she whirled.
“Look at you,” she said. “You’ve gotten your shirt done up crooked.” Walking up to him, she fixed his collar, adj
usting it to hang straight, and his face creased with amusement and something else—well-being.
Her hand at the base of his neck, her palm warmed and, in a flash, her face as well. “I … I should go.” She reversed, not bothering to look behind. Her knees bumped the arm of the couch, and she crumpled. Sitting there, one leg propping her weight, she followed his gaze down her extended limb. His jaw tightened, and he made of fist of his good hand.
“Let me help you up,” he said. He stood her to her feet, holding onto her fingers. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
A spark lit in her brain, a glimpse of something she shouldn’t entertain.
See him in class, where she’d have to pretend none of this had happened, that she hadn’t spent hours in his house, slept in his spare room, that he hadn’t made her breakfast. Nor held her hand, however brief. Nor stared at her like he was now. Where she’d have to deny she’d considered him someone other than her professor.
“Tomorrow, yes,” she said, reclaiming her fingers. She curled them into her palm.
“I think, for our next meeting, we’ll discuss what order the subjects should go in. I’m pretty set, but there’s a few places where I could shift things earlier or later. I’m free Friday if you like. I have some late night meetings and can’t get free until then. Unless you have a date?” he asked.
Lydia swallowed on a dry throat. “No,” she shook her head. “I’m all yours Friday night.”
CHAPTER 3
The leftover disorder of the previous day welcomed Aarin into his classroom, the imprint of his students evident in scuffed tile, smeared hand prints, and the presence of a dropped pencil. He surveyed the scene, a king in his kingdom, then proceeded forward, dropping his briefcase in his desk chair. The cushioned seat released a whuff of air and the seat rolled backwards a few inches.
Sunshine In The Morning (Spring-Summer Romance Book 1) Page 2