Snowed In: A Billionaire Winter Novella

by Linnea May

  I have dug myself in too deep, and I'm not quick-witted enough to come up with a good lie.

  I give her a short version of the events that happened during Mr. Portland's introductory lecture, hoping she'll be satisfied and leave me alone for the night.

  Of course, she doesn't.

  "Oh, Lana," she says when I'm done. She is shaking her head and laughing at me. "You're unbelievable!"

  I draw in a stuttered gasp. "What? Why? Those were legitimate questions!"

  Celia winks at me.

  "Sure, they might be," she agrees. "But that doesn't mean you have to ask them in the way you did! And scolding him for not doing things like a real professor - really?!"

  "That's not exactly what I said," I defend.

  "But it's what you implied!" Celia insists. "And he knows that!"

  She leans in a little closer to me, narrows her eyes, and throws me a knowing glance.

  "Besides," she says in a soft voice. "I know what you're like. You’re not exactly polite about it when you think it's time to lecture someone."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" I huff.

  "You know exactly what I mean," Celia says, moving away from me then and turning around to continue painting her face.

  "I bet he's pretty mad at you now, which can't be good for your grade."

  "Well, remember, he's not grading us," I remind her. "It's probably best that he doesn't anyway. He's not qualified whatsoever."

  Celia snorts and rolls her eyes. "Yeah, and I'm sure you made sure he's aware of that."

  "He doesn't need me to tell him," I say. "But you might be right... I should have been nicer and a bit more careful."

  Celia's eyebrows arch up in surprise. "What makes you say that?"

  "When I was about to leave, he asked my name," I explain. "And he had this brooding look on his face. Very odd. Scary."

  "Uh oh," she says, chuckling. "Seems like he's taken note of you, girl. Not surprisingly."

  I don't say anything more. My eyes fall to my lap, where I'm nervously playing with my fingers, twisting and turning the only piece of jewelry I wear on a regular basis - a black ceramic ring. My face softens every time I look at it. It was supposed to be a lucky charm for something I wanted a long time ago, and I’ve been wearing it for close to ten years. In a way, it has become a symbol of terrible neglect, but I refuse to look at it that way.

  "You know that doesn't have to be a bad thing," Celia says, thinking that I'm worried.

  I look up at her quizzically, our eyes connecting in the reflection of her makeup mirror.

  "That he took note of you," she explains. "It doesn't have to be a bad thing. Maybe he's impressed with your attitude or something. Who knows?"

  "Yeah, maybe," I say. "He said he liked me."

  "What?!" Celia exclaims, abruptly turning and nearly falling out of her chair. "He said he likes you?! And you're just telling me this now?"

  I sigh. Why did I have to blurt that out? I made it sound as if he declared his love for me or something. How silly.

  And where are these sharp palpitations coming from? Why does my heart do these silly jumps every time I recall that moment? "I like you." Those words coming from his mouth had a sting-like quality, as if he was poking straight into my insides. I don't know how to process that feeling. Did it feel good? Bad?

  It certainly doesn't feel familiar.

  "He said something along those lines," I admit, avoiding Celia's amused smirk. "After I accused him of wanting to take revenge on me."

  Celia bursts out in laughter.

  "You dirty girl!" she asserts. "Flirting with the hottest guest lecturer this school has ever seen. I knew there was a little bad girl hiding under there somewhere!"

  I shake my head in defense. "I wasn't flirting with him!"

  Celia casts me a saucy smirk before she turns her back to me to finish applying her makeup for the night.

  "Sure you were," she insists. "I have a feeling you're quite smitten with him-"

  "I am not!" I object.

  "I was gonna add that you wouldn't admit it.”

  She checks her reflection in the mirror one last time, grimacing and spraying a few loose strands of hair into place with hairspray before jumping up from her chair.

  "I gotta go," she announces. "Give you some time to dream about Mr. Perfect."

  "I thought he was Mr. Awesome?" I ask.

  She winks at me. "Whatever you prefer."

  ***

  Celia is out the door before I get a chance to react to her final words. I exhale loudly and lean back against the wall, my feet dangling off the edge of the bed.

  I don't think I could ever admit it to Celia's face, but she may be right about some things she said. Of course, I didn't flirt with Mr. Portland. He may not be a real professor, but at least for this semester and for this class, he is a teacher. My teacher.

  But there is something about him.

  Obviously, he is handsome as hell. It's that obvious kind of gorgeous that hits you right in the face. I would be an idiot not to admit it. Tall, dark and mysterious. What woman wouldn't be attracted to that?

  Yet that's not it.

  It's the way he looked at me. That intense gaze. There was sincere interest behind his stare. His eyes found mine again and again during the lecture, even after I stopped interrupting him with my disruptive comments. At first, I thought he was just checking to see whether I'd raise my hand again. That thought made me feel powerful, almost as if he was scared of me.

  But after a while, I began to realize that he kept glimpsing at me for other reasons.

  He wasn't checking for my reaction to what he was saying. He was just looking at me. Just looking. As if it was something he enjoyed doing.

  I told myself that the reason I stayed behind after class was to ask him about the syllabus, but I knew I was lying to myself.

  Seeing all those other students staying behind and swarming around him discouraged me, and I was almost ready to give up and leave. But he saw me standing there, lingering, waiting. If I had run away at that point, I would have looked stupid. Like a coward.

  Now I kind of wish I would have just left, because as soon as I was alone with him, I was back to being my snooty self, trying to lecture him. I couldn't help myself. He agitates me. His entire being challenges me.

  I was born into a family of scholars. Both of my parents are professors and highly regarded in their respective fields. They did everything in their power to make sure that my older sister and I were not only able to follow their example, but surpass their achievements. We were already born by the time my father finally earned tenure at a renowned university. My mother achieved hers two years later, not at the same university, but in the same city. Even as a young child, they inspired me. They loved what they did, they lived for it. Not once did I ever hear them complaining about Mondays the way other people do. Not only that, they were highly respected. I saw it in the way my teachers and friends’ parents talked to them. It’s ridiculous, really, because it’s all in the degree and the title that comes with it.

  Still, throughout my entire childhood, I was certain that I wanted to follow in their footsteps and become a scholar like them.

  Or so I thought. There’s one thing that I lack, and it’s something that cannot be forced: passion. I chose to pursue the same major as my mother, sociology, but the only satisfaction I get from it are good grades. Straight A’s fill me with pride, but the work I have to do to get them doesn't make me happy. Not in the way it did for my mother.

  There is something that I enjoyed doing, and it still exists in the back of my mind: coding. When I took my first computer class in junior high school, I was intrigued right from the start. While that was years ago, long before smartphones and apps became commonplace, I'm still intrigued by the technology. It fascinates me that rows of inscrutable words and lines can lead to a functioning program that can do pretty much anything. Coding languages can turn a simple idea into something real, something that hel
ps to improve people's lives.

  I've yet to be convinced that writing academic papers and scholarly, peer-reviewed books that are so out of touch with everyday reality have equal merit.

  My mother thinks they do, and so do my father and sister. They dwell on theories and intellectual games that seldom if ever touch the world and people they write about. To me, that's just odd.

  Yet I'm about to embark down the same road.

  I sigh and look down at my ring again, turning it around on my finger, just as I always do when I’m lost deeply in thought.

  In his introductory lecture, Mr. Portland focused on everything that went wrong in his life. Failure. I’m not familiar with failure. I've always been good at what I do. But I wear this ring to remind me that I lack the passion for it.

  I never failed, because I never tried.

  His words hit a spot deep inside me. It’s more than just that I don’t respect him as a teacher that what he said agitated me. With just a few words and that piercing look, he opened a door I thought I had closed years ago. I've had this ring since junior high school, and I've worn it almost every single day since then, but my thoughts hardly ever travel back to its original meaning anymore.

  Until now. Thanks to him.

  I'm not superstitious, but the way he looked at me was unsettling on so many levels. It was as if he stripped me naked with just his eyes – and not even in a sexual sense. The intimacy is there, but it's not lust.

  Not just lust.

  I feel my cheeks and ears burning up again.

  Fuck, he's getting to me.

  I want to know more about him. I want to know who he is, I want to understand him. I want to understand why he unravels me the way he does. Why is he making me so fucking angry - and so confused?

  He'll continue to talk about himself throughout the semester, but I feel like whatever he is going to tell us won't be enough for me.

  I pull my legs up, hugging my knees as I pull them close to my chest, as if the action could calm my racing heart down. I feel feverish, dizzy.

  "Idiot," I hiss to myself.

  I'm one of them. Blushing and swooning as my thoughts can't seem to let go of this man. This arrogant bastard. Why did he have to look at me like that? Is that what he does with so-called ‘challenges’ like me? He said he liked me, "students like me.” What does that even mean?

  I let out a groan of frustration and roll over on my side, curling up on my bed, my thoughts continuing to linger around Mr. Portland – Mr. Awesome.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JACKSON

  The faculty lounge is not my favorite place to be, but Professor Clark asked me to show up here at least once a week for the informal staff meeting. He's the person who invited me to lecture in the first place, and he's also the one who made sure that I'd be allowed as much freedom as possible when it comes to the content of my class.

  His request had been a surprise, and after I got over my initial confusion at being asked to lecture among all the options that existed, I actually found myself flattered.

  A school that never wanted me as a student now wants me as a teacher. Oh, the irony of it.

  "I'm not an educator," I told him. "I have no idea how to teach, let alone what to teach a bunch of entitled brats such as the ones going to this school."

  To my surprise, he wasn't offended by my words, but laughed.

  "That is exactly why I think you'd be a refreshing change in our noble halls," he said. "Our students could use a little insight into the real world, especially from a man like yourself, a man of action, a man of results."

  It worked. His compliments made me realize that this would be a good platform for me to see whether it really was that simple. If the division between academics and the real world was really as sharp as I always felt it was. I want to see how these students react to my teaching, how they react to the idea of doing something different than the norm. For most of them, their path has been laid out early on. Maybe even before they started school. You don't end up as a graduate student in an Ivy League school without a long-term plan.

  But what happens if someone shows up and messes with your head? Is there a possibility for me to change something? A student's life, maybe. A career, or even an entire idea about life and education.

  I have little hope that will be the case, but at least they’ll be forced to listen to me for an entire semester.

  If she doesn't decide to drop out of my class after our first encounter this week, little Miss Harlington will be one of them.

  I can't let her get into my head too much, but it's hard to keep her out of it. She poses a challenge, a dilemma, and she speaks to a desire deep within me. It's been a while since I’ve had the pleasure to act on it.

  I open the door to the faculty lounge, my eyebrows knitted deep in thought. It's still early and the meeting won't start for another twenty minutes, but there is already a handful of teaching staff in the room.

  I lift my chin in greeting, and my gesture is met by the eyes of about half the teachers present. Most of them are the stereotypical college professors, drinking coffee by the gallon and lamenting their profession.

  I sit down in the far back of the room, putting some distance between me and a group of three others, two younger female lecturers and a professor whose name I've forgotten.

  "So the rumors are true?" I hear one of the two younger staff members ask, as I open up my tablet to answer a few work e-mails. After all, being a guest lecturer for one semester doesn't mean that I can completely ignore my business.

  "As nasty as it sounds, yes," the other woman says.

  "I'm having trouble believing this," the professor interjects.

  He leans forward, as do the two women, making the whole group look like three little rodents sharing a carrot.

  "No man in his right mind would risk his career for something like this," he whispers, but not softly enough to escape my ears.

  The women shake their heads.

  "Oh, men would," one of them insists. The blonde woman has a disproportionately big head on top of a skinny body, making her look like a lollipop.

  "Having a cute little student swooning all over them - isn't that every professor's dream?" she asks. The other woman nods enthusiastically, while the older professor is now the one huffing with disgust.

  "A man in his right mind, I said," he repeats. "I'm not talking about the idiots who lose track of what matters just because they're chasing some skirt. I always thought Professor Dawson was one of the former."

  "Well, clearly he's not," the blonde argues.

  She looks over her shoulder then, and our eyes meet before I can turn away and act as if I wasn't listening in on their conversation. Her eyes widen in apprehension, and she looks as if I just caught her with her hand in the cookie jar.

  "Mr. Portland," she says, blushing and nodding toward me. She knows my name, but I have no idea who she is.

  They all turn around to look at me, the other woman displaying a similar expression on her face as the first, while the professor harbors an absent-minded gaze.

  "I'm sorry if we were disturbing you," the blonde says.

  "Not a problem at all," I say, waving her off. "I wasn't aware that the teaching staff at such a renowned school is just as prone to gossip as people at any other workplace."

  All three of them lower their eyes for a moment, and the professor is the first to recover from my remark.

  "Gossiping is only human," he states. "And after all, we're all humans."

  Humanities. I guess that's where it’s taught that even disrespectful behavior is nothing to be ashamed of. We're all human, after all.

  "Besides," the blonde adds. "This concerns matters of principal."

  "How so?"

  "Well, um," she stutters, fixing her blouse nervously. "I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. Lilia Esquin, Sociology."

  The others straighten in their seats and nod. Time for pleasantries, I see.

  "Robert Warwick, Sociology
, as well," the older guy says.

  Not surprisingly, the third one in the bunch, Mindy, also outs herself as a lecturer in Sociology.

  "Portland," I introduce myself. "But you already seem to know that."

  The blonde lets out a girlish giggle and nods. "Well, it's not like your face and name aren’t well recognized around the world."

  I nod, but don't say anything. The distance between them and me is a little too large to hold a proper conversation, but instead of letting it go after our little round of introductions, they seem to decide in unison to move over to my area. They seat themselves in the armchairs surrounding the small coffee table in front of me. They encircle me as if I had invited them over to listen to my tale, which couldn't be further from the truth.

  "The thing is," Lilia Esquin continues, leaning forward to include me in their gossip session. "We were talking about a colleague in another department. I'm not going to say who, but-"

  "You already mentioned his name," I point out, looking at Professor Warwick. "Professor Dawson, wasn't it?"

  He snorts. "It doesn't matter."

  "He's not working at the university anymore," Mindy interjects, as if I showed any sign of interest in finding out who this guy was.

  "They let him go because he...," Lilia whispers, leaning in even closer, too close for comfort. "He slept with one of his students."

  Her eyes are wide, and she's nodding, inviting me to join in her indignation.

  "Was it consensual?" I ask, unimpressed.

  The expression on her face changes, giving way to confusion. "What do you mean?"

  "Was it consensual?" I repeat. "Did the student and professor both agree to have sex - or did he rape her?"

  The three of them exchange looks as if they were silently asking each other what I was talking about.

  "I'm assuming it was a her?" I clarify, if only to mess with their heads a little more.

  "Yes, yes, of course," Lilia retorts. "But what do you mean, consensual? Why would that matter?"

  Now I'm the one who widens his eyes with shock.