Grading the Curve

by Nicola Cameron

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2013 Nicola Cameron

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-559-4

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: JC Chute

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To every student who ever sat at a desk, stared at the gorgeous creature in the front of the class, and dreamed...

  GRADING THE CURVE

  Romance on the Go

  Nicola Cameron

  Copyright © 2013

  "It's finally over!" Dianne caroled, clinking her glass against the three others in the air. "Thank God."

  Ellen echoed the line, hearing the genuine relief in Keisha and Amita's chorus. Five hours ago they'd all finished their final for English 314, a torturously long essay/multiple-choice question test, on the mechanics of technical writing. She knew she'd passed with a high B at the very least, and it was the last test of the last class of her last semester. By this time next week, she would be a newly minted college graduate. She'd even scored a technical writing job at a telecom company — something that put her ahead of most of her fellow graduates.

  And yes, there was a certain amount of relief about graduating. She definitely wouldn't miss studying her ass off for scholarships, working at least two side jobs to pick up the slack, wearing couture a la Goodwill, and having to drink ice water when the four of them went out because she couldn't even afford a Coke Zero.

  But there were some things she would miss about college. Amita, Keisha, and Dianne were definitely at the top of the list. The four had been friends since they met in dorm orientation and almost blew up a microwave that first night.

  And then there was the other person she'd miss.

  "Essay questions," Amita moaned into her margarita. "I mean, who the fuck asks essay questions about technical writing? I swear to God, Cord's a sadist."

  "That's an insult to sadists," Dianne said, sipping her drink. "He's the only man I know who makes Gordon Ramsay look warm and cuddly."

  Ellen smothered a grin. Professor Alexander Cord was, if she had to be honest, a bit of a tool. In his mid-forties, intelligent and bitingly sarcastic, the head of the English Department had a stringent teaching style that came as a shock to students used to more laissez-faire instructors. From what Ellen had heard, even his colleagues tended to tiptoe around him. The only one who didn't was the departmental secretary, but Mrs. Tomasek held the English department's filing system in an iron fist, no velvet glove required, and Professor Cord treated her with the appropriate deference.

  Everyone else, however, was fair game. Cord had a policy of addressing all students by an honorific and expecting the same in return. Ellen remembered one student making the mistake of calling him "Alex" at the beginning of the semester. Cord proceeded to deliver a blistering half-hour lecture on propriety and manners towards a professor. The student transferred out the next day, and no one ever repeated his mistake.

  Ellen suspected she was the only person in the class (and quite possibly the history of the university) who actually enjoyed Cord's teaching style. Yes, he set down strict rules for how his course would be run, and expected everyone to follow them to the letter. And yes, his barbs could draw blood at times. But he didn't require students to second-guess him or play head games in order to get good grades. If you worked hard, turned in papers on time, and didn't act like an asshole in class, you were golden. And that was just fine with her.

  "Cord's not that bad," she said.

  "Riiiiight. So says the teacher's pet," Amita said with a snort.

  "Yeah, Miss 'Blow the Grade Curve Out of the Water,'" Keisha said, her Texas drawl thickened by her second margarita. "Of course you like him. You're the only one who never got ripped open in class."

  Ellen shrugged. "I'm not his pet. He trashed my first paper."

  "Bullshit. He told you to buy a dictionary and stop relying on spellcheck," Keisha said, gesturing with her glass. "The prick actually asked me if I was getting treatment for my learning disability."

  "He asked me if English was my first language," Amita chimed in. "I was born in Cleveland, for Christ's sake."

  "He's damn lucky I didn't slash his tires after that blonde crack," Dianne said darkly. "The only reason I didn't is because he told that dumbass football player he had a fabulous career as a stripper ahead of him. I thought that meathead was gonna blow a vein, he was so pissed." She nodded at Ellen. "So yeah, honey, if anyone qualifies as a teacher's pet, I think it's you."

  Ellen focused on her glass, ignoring the small, secret glow from their words. "All I did was study and pay attention. He won't even remember me after this semester."

  As much as she hated to admit it, her heart ached at the thought. Cord had held a mandatory meeting at the beginning of the semester with each student. She could still remember standing at his office door, hearing the peremptory call to enter. Taking a seat on the still-warm chair across from his desk, she'd folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to finish reading something from a pile of papers.

  And then he’d looked up at her. It felt like a physical blow, that first glance. She knew he was handsome in an old-fashioned sort of way, with eyes that were a startling ice blue with a darker rim of navy, fringed by thick golden-brown lashes. She'd never found men with eyes like that attractive, thinking they looked cold and somehow alien. But with Professor Cord it was different. His icy eyes suited him.

  He'd favored her with a small, dry smile. "Miss Ragsdale," he'd said. "While I find that your English composition is surprisingly acceptable, your grasp of grammar tends toward the woefully unbalanced, and I fear that you've never been exposed to the Oxford comma. You will correct all of that while you are in my class. Understood?"

  She did and had, driven by the desire to maintain the GPA required by her scholarships. His comments on her papers were crisp, acidic, but laced with a grudging approval that increased with each paper she submitted. Their interaction in class ran along similar lines, his sardonic comments to her leavened with what she could only call amused respect. He'd even given her an appreciative smile after she'd debated Keisha on the necessity of the Oxford comma.

  So yes, she worked hard for his approval. And if she indulged in the occasional fantasy of gaining his approval in other, more physical ways, it was her own fucking business and she wasn't ashamed of it. She'd enjoyed fantasizing about Cord's long, lean body on top of hers, his beautiful hands pinching her nipples, fingers slipping between her thighs to play with her clit, that low, rumbling voice ordering her to come. But that was just stress relief. No one could blame her for it.

  And it would never happen, anyway, she thought. Real life didn't work that way. At least mine doesn’t.

  "Thank God for small favors," Amita said, startling her. "Sweetie, I know you've got the hots for him, but trust me, you can do so much better. He probably keeps girls chained up in his basement and tells them to put the lotion on the skin or they'll get the hose again."

  "Silence of the Lambs?" Keisha said. "I was thinking more Saw."

  "Nah, he's got Misery written all over him," Dianne said, taking an emphatic suck of her Jack and Coke. "'Oh, you dirty bird.'"

  Ellen sighed. She loved all three of them, but there were times she really regretted telling th
em how she felt about Professor Cord. "Could you all just stop, please? It's getting old."

  "Whatever." Amita tossed down the remains of her margarita and looked around for their server. Large brown eyes accented with heavy strokes of liner widened suddenly. "Holy shit. El, he's here."

  "Mita, I'm serious—"

  "So am I! He's in the back booth. Take a look."

  Ellen turned her head just enough to get a wider view of the room, and swallowed hard. Professor Cord was indeed at Abuela's, sitting in one of the booths against the back wall and reading what looked like a Michael Chabon hardcover. "Oh."

  "Yeah, oh." Amita's eyes took on an evil glint. "You know what? Ignore what I just said. Go over there and talk to him."

  Ellen's head spun back so hard she heard her spine creak. "I am not going to bother him," she said between her teeth. "Besides, he's eating."

  "Yeah, by himself. Just go over and say something."

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know — 'great class’? 'Thanks for being a hard-ass’? 'Wanna do me on the table?'"

  Keisha snorted. "Nice, Mita."

  "Tasteful," Dianne added.

  "Okay, maybe not that blunt," Amita said, waving it off. "But come on. Are you going to see him again after tonight?"

  Ellen hesitated. "Well, no."

  "Then this is your only chance."

  Keisha saluted them with an empty margarita glass. "Mita's got a point, El. It's time to cowgirl up and break that mustang."

  "Unless you want one of us to go over there, instead," Dianne said, flipping her long blonde hair back. "I wouldn't mind doing him. He kinda looks like Daniel Craig, if you jammed a really big stick up his ass and froze his face afterwards." She sighed. "But I'm a giver, so I'll take one for the team."

  "No," Ellen blurted, horrified. She knew Dianne would be more than happy to try and pick up Alexander Cord, just for the hell of it. "Don't go over there. I'll go talk to him. Just — stay."

  "Woof," Keisha said with a wink.

  "Bite me." Ellen got up and started walking towards the back of the restaurant like a prisoner heading to the firing squad. Twenty feet. She just had to cross twenty feet, say something polite, then turn around and come back.

  Assuming he didn't give her a dismissive glance. Assuming he didn't verbally fillet her for disturbing him.

  Look, they're right. He never trashed you in class. Hell, there were a couple of times he behaved like he actually liked you. This is the last time you'll see him. Just be a grownup and say goodbye.

  But she still felt like her shoes were lead-lined, dragging each step. I wanted to thank you for the class. I hope you have a good summer. And a single, deliciously wicked thought: Mind if I slip under the table and blow you? I've never done it before, but you could teach me how.

  When she was five feet from his table, he sighed, shook his head and put his book down.

  She froze. Oh, shit.

  Eyes narrowed slightly, he tossed his napkin on the table and stood, coming towards her.

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit—

  And walked right past her, without a single glance.

  Humiliation washed over her, making her skin prickle. Oh. Okay. He thinks you're stupid. And now you know it.

  She turned blindly, retracing her steps back to the table where her friends were now buzzing with protective rage. "That man is a total douche canoe! What the fuck is wrong with him?" Amita growled. "Goddamn, he just walked right by you."

  "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry," a distraught Keisha said.

  "It's okay," Ellen said, forcing the words through numb lips. "It's not like I'll see him again, right?" She felt her eyes burn. "I just — I have to go to the bathroom."

  Ignoring their offers to come along, she headed towards the narrow hallway that led to the restrooms, stiff-arming the Ladies' Room door. The room itself was blessedly empty, and she ran cold water in the sink, splashing it over her face and staring at her dripping reflection.

  Well, what did you think he was going to do? Be polite? Pull you into his arms and kiss you? You're an idiot — this just proves it.

  She grabbed a handful of paper towels and scrubbed her face, hating the way her gut burned at his dismissal. At least she knew. That was something. More importantly, she was going to graduate, she already had a job lined up, and she wouldn't have to work her ass off anymore just to stay afloat. She could finally have some fun, for a change. Maybe she'd even find a guy, a nice one, and go on that magical thing called a date.

  And Professor Alexander Cord could go fuck himself. Sideways.

  She tossed the crumpled paper towels into the trash and yanked open the bathroom door. She had a little extra cash squirreled away for emergencies, and this counted as one. She was damn well going to have a margarita, even if it meant she ate ramen for the rest of the week. After tonight, goddamn it, she deserved it—

  She slammed into someone coming out of the Men's Room, a hard shoulder and arm whacking against her own. "Ow!"

  "Oh, damn. I'm sorry."

  That crisp British accent stopped her in mid-curse. She looked up into Alexander Cord's face. "Oh."

  He blinked down at her, blue eyes almost black in the dim hallway. "Miss Ragsdale. I didn't see you. My apologies."

  Her shoulder ached and she wanted to rub it, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "Uh, that's all right."

  "Was that you I passed in the restaurant? I'm sorry — I literally didn't see you. My allergies flared up this afternoon and I had to take out my contacts." One long-fingered hand came up, rubbing his eyes. "I should have left my glasses on, but I don't like reading with them. It gives me a headache."

  He hadn't seen her. He wasn't being a douche — he just hadn't seen her. "Maybe you should get progressive lenses," she added, unable to stop the sharpness in her tone.

  To her surprise, he smiled. "I have them, but despite what my ophthalmologist thinks I don't really need the reading prescription to read, so I just take them off when I eat by myself."

  "Oh. I guess that makes sense."

  "I do my best, Miss Ragsdale," he said, still smiling at her.

  A pink heat spread over her cheeks. "I didn't expect to see you here," she blurted.

  "I had a taste for Mexican, and Abuela's makes excellent flautas. It's also a bit pricey, so I usually don't have to worry about running into students here."

  The blush now stung. And he's back to being a douche canoe. "Uh, I'm sorry," she muttered, turning to go.

  "No, wait." He shocked her by putting his hand on her shoulder. "You're not included in that statement, Miss Ragsdale. You've always a pleasure to see, even if I didn't see you clearly earlier." He grimaced a bit. "God, I seem to be tripping over my tongue tonight. Please, forgive me."

  And now he was apologizing to her. She could feel the warmth from his hand through her shirt, and wanted to lean into it. "Okay," she said slowly. "I guess it's been a long day for you."

  "For both of us, I would assume." He let go of her shoulder, almost reluctantly. "I believe my final was your last, yes?"

  "Yes."

  "Ah. Are you relieved that it's all over?"

  Words. Ellen. Use your words. "I ... think I'm still trying to wrap my head around it, to be honest," she said. "It's going to be different, not being in college anymore."

  Those pale blue eyes studied her. "True, but I think the real world is going to suit you just fine," he said. "You're a very levelheaded young woman, after all. I know you'll do well in whatever career you choose. Although I admit, I'll miss having you in my class."

  Her throat closed at that. "I'll miss ... your class, too," she said. I'll miss you. God, I'll miss you so much.

  He nodded as if he could hear her thoughts. Lifting a hand, he brushed his fingertip across her cheekbone. "Did you know that you always blush when you talk to me?" he said quietly. "It's charming. You look like a medieval maiden receiving her first suitor."

  It felt like someone had painted fire across her skin.
She ducked her head, staring dumbly at the hallway's scarred paint. He couldn't know. Nobody knew that about her. It wasn't that obvious.

  Was it?

  "Interesting." She could hear the smile in his voice. "I meant it as a compliment, but perhaps I struck closer to the truth than I'd intended." He moved closer, and she could feel the heat from his whole body now, warming her like an invisible caress. "Are you?"

  She swallowed hard. He couldn't be asking what she thought he was asking. "A-am I—"

  "A maiden. A virgin. I believe a popular term is 'unicorn bait.'" His voice dropped, turning into a soft rumble. "I have to admit, I'm puzzled as to how someone as lovely and intelligent as you could still be virginal."

  Her entire face now burned under his gaze. She'd gone on the occasional date, usually doubling with Keisha or Dianne, but once the guys found out what her schedule was like they didn't bother calling again. "Too busy, I guess. Working, studying."

  To her surprise, cool fingers slid under her chin, gently turning her face up. "What a shame," Cord said, his voice low and soft. "But if it's of any consolation, men your age do tend to be rather slapdash and impatient when it comes to women. I assure you, you haven't missed out on much by skipping the undergraduate sexual circus." The façade of the academic disappeared. Underneath was a man she didn't know, warm and standing so close to her. "That being said, I wonder ... would you be willing to consider me?"

  "What—" Her throat clicked, it was so dry. She swallowed and tried again. "What are you saying?"

  He tilted his head to the side. "I want to take you to bed, Miss Ragsdale. I want to kiss that pink mouth of yours, undress you ever so slowly, play with those gorgeous breasts and suck your nipples before I caress every inch of your body. I want to bury my tongue between your legs and lap at your clit, and when you're dripping wet I want to bury my cock in you. I want to see that sweet mouth of yours open and scream my name as I make you come over and over again." Now she could smell his cologne, something masculine, woody, and underneath that, the musk of clean male. "Come home with me tonight, Miss Ragsdale. Let me make love to you. I promise you, you won't regret it."