Professor Adorkable

by Edie Danford

  I shove my bare feet into boots, grab a coat, and run for the car.

  At eleven on a Tuesday, traffic is actually reasonable. A very good thing, because by the time I get to the salon and park in its tiny lot, I’m so fricking hyped, I’m not sure any traffic snarls will be able to stop me. Would drive right over the top of them.

  The big glass front door is locked. I take a deep breath. Pounding on it and screaming, “Let me in!” would be ridiculous. I mean, people might stop—the street is a major thoroughfare in the neighborhood and random sidewalk traffic is happening due to the restaurants across the street and on the corner. If they see me freaking out, they’ll think…that I’m freaking out.

  And what will I say in response? “One of my thousands of exes is holding my…my client, my friend, my boss, my professor adorkable—holding him hostage in his evil salon chair! And giving him a wicked-sexy cut. Help!”

  I do the reasonable thing. Pull out my phone and send a text. I’m here.

  I bounce in my boots as I wait. One minute. Two.

  Finally, I see Ro, a shit-eating grin on his pretty face. Fucker.

  He makes a big production of waving and making a kissy face and then takes his time unlocking the door.

  The second the door opens, I push my way in. Before I can run around and find Marek, Ro grabs me into a hug. “Sweetie! So happy you came. We’re having so much fun.”

  The citrus scent of my fave shampoo swirls into my nose, along with a like-whoa whiff of wine breath.

  “Aren’t we having fun, Mar-Mar?” Ro hollers as he grabs my hand and pulls.

  “Mar-Mar?” I raise my eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Marek’s voice echoes across the airy space. “Fun.”

  Ro guides me around a floor-to-ceiling unit that houses a drinks set-up—espresso machine, wine fridge, shelving filled with sparkly glasses.

  On the other side is Ro’s station. As I catch my first in-person glimpse of Marek’s hair, I remember why I used to think it was worth it to shell out a couple hundred bucks to Ro every six weeks.

  “Wow,” I whisper.

  “I know, right?” Ro sounds gleeful, voice busting with the pride of a man who knows he’s done brilliant work.

  “Do you like it?” The tentative note in Marek’s voice has me focusing on his face.

  His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are shiny. His lips are being held hostage by his teeth—first his front teeth over his bottom lip and then the opposite.

  Okay, so he isn’t having the kind of fun that makes him happy and relaxed. I notice other details. His long fingers gripping the chair’s arms, his feet—clad in his snow boots—shifting restlessly on the chair’s footrest. The trashed bottle of wine on Ro’s station. A half-empty bottle next to it.

  “Of course he likes it!” Ro’s voice trills to the warehouse-style rafters. He approaches the chair, spins it a quarter-circle, and twinkles his fingers over the buzzed stuff at Marek’s nape. “It’s fucking fantabulous. He’s a frickin’ star. I was thinking Daniel Day-Lewis, back when he was at his most fuckable—remember, Pete? When Adrian—” He glances down at Mar and explains, “Adrian Lukas is my old roommate—he was a dancer, traveled the world for a while, and is a complete anglophile.” He turns his slightly bloodshot eyes back on me and says, “We had those who-would-you-do marathons and Adrian was obsessed with Daniel Day-Lewis. I think we watched My Beautiful Laundrette eighty-three-hundred-gazillion times. Like watching a horror movie for me, really, DD-L’s hair was so fucking bad.”

  As he’s saying all this, he’s playing with Mar—tousling the longish hair on his crown, playing with his ears, the pink-looking skin along the newly shorn hairline. “And that was back when you, Peter-bo-beter, were obsessed with uber-buff blonds. Remember the guy on your show who you were fucking for a while? He was like Zac Efron’s doppelganger? God, he was a piece of—”

  I clear my throat. Loudly. “Yeah. I remember. And I hope that you’ll remember my request from when I first moved back to Chicago. All L.A. conversations are off the table. Permanently.”

  Ro raises his shoulders, all cringe-y. “Oops. Sorry.” He must realize that the look on my face is genuinely displeased because he suddenly gets all professional and says, “Let me go get some product samples for you guys. Be right back.”

  Mar’s shoulders are two jutting points under the purple robe. I see a shiver quake down his arms.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Ready to go home?”

  Another nod.

  Ro, chatterbox that he is, is still talking—loudly—from the other side of the salon. “I’m thinking we totally have to post the before-and-after pics on my Insta. This is some of my best work in months. Maybe later in the week, you could come back for a shoot, Mar-Mar? I’ve got a stylist who does amazeballs shit with makeup. Really subtle but gorge. And clothes—oh my God, we could do great things there too.” He scoots back to his station, placing a crammed-full silver and purple bag on the counter. His eyes light up as he surveys Marek—the master viewing his latest fab creation. He leans down and plants a big ole smacker on Mar’s cheek.

  Mar’s skin gets—unbelievably—more pink. He licks his lips and says, “You do incredible work, Ro. I truly love it. I had a fun time. But no pictures for public views. Okay?”

  Ro goes still. Looks into Marek’s eyes. Nods.

  Yep, when Mar’s voice gets serious like this—heavy on the professor and almost no sign of adorkable—it’s kinda impossible not to obey him.

  Ro takes a step back. His gaze bounces from Marek to me. “So. No blue?”

  “No blue,” I say. My gaze fixes on the latte-colored curls that have been swept into a corner at the other side of the station. Couldn’t save those. But by God, I can save the color.

  “Maybe next time.” Ro gives Mar’s head another pat. He reaches for the half-empty bottle of wine. “Damn, where are my manners. Petey?” He offers up the bottle.

  I shake my head. “I have more studying to do tonight.”

  “Still having trouble with concepts?” Mar asks, gaze lasering in on mine.

  “Yup.”

  “How are classes going, anyway?” Ro leans against the counter and takes a swig of wine.

  “Um…”

  “They are going very well,” Marek answers for me. “He got a B-plus in math last quarter.”

  Ro smiles. “B-plus, huh?”

  Marek nods. “Yes. This, despite troubles on his midterm. He pulled it together for when it truly counted. He is amazing.”

  Ro shoots me a look, like, Oh my God, there he goes being adorable again!

  “Marek is an excellent tutor,” I say. “And I hate to say it, but we’re going to have to break up this fun party and go home so he can explain statistics shit to me.” I don’t really care about my exam at that moment. Mostly I feel the overwhelming urge to get Marek—with his unfamiliar hair and unbearably hot cheekbones and sexy neck and intriguing jawline—back to familiar territory. Before I do something stupid like scream to Ro, and the world in general, He’s mine! Do not touch!

  “Yes, it’s getting late.” Marek climbs out of the chair and begins untying the robe.

  Under ordinary circumstances, Ro would protest, beg me to blow off “boring shit,” suggest umpteen places to go for cocktails. Tonight, though, he stands there clutching his wine bottle and beaming at Marek.

  Mar—who looked like he might be on the verge of an anxiety attack when I’d first arrived—has perked up about the prospect of going home to discuss statistics. He quickly shrugs out of the robe and begins folding it clumsily, his eyes scanning the space. “What happened to my shirt?”

  Ro ogles Marek’s bare chest, and I find myself trying to see Marek through someone else’s eyes—the eyes of a player like Ro, for example.

  Marek is skinny, but his muscles are nicely defined. The lines of his waist are downright sinful as they rise over the jut of his hipbones. The khakis are an abomination, but the belt he we
ars—wide, hand-tooled leather from some relative in the Czech Republic—emphasize lean hips and an undeniably hot ass. Which Ro’s eyes are currently glomming.

  I nudge him with my elbow. “Shirt?”

  “Oh. Right. In the dressing room.”

  Marek nods. “I forgot.” He shuffles off to the dressing room. I watch Ro watch his ass.

  “He’s off limits to guys like us,” I murmur as soon as Marek’s out of earshot. “I mean it.”

  Ro rolls his eyes. “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He told me how you set him up with Steph Novak. Jesus, Pete, what the fuck were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that Steph is nice, brilliant, and amazing-looking. And mature. Also, because he’s a bigwig on the Art Institute’s board, he would actually know what he’s talking about when he shows Mar around on their date this weekend.” Unlike me, who would say shit like, I really like the blobs of colors in that picture—what do you call that effect? Blobbing?

  “Maybe so. But showing guys around is kind of a thing for Steph, right? He’s like one of the biggest players in Chicago, honey.”

  “He was. Not anymore. According to the guys who work for him via Domesticated, anyway. His best friend is getting married and it’s sent him into a settling-down crisis. Besides, I told Steph that fucking was off the table first date. It will be strictly friends.”

  Ro throws his head back and laughs. “You set him up, and you’re dictating boundaries?” He looks at me with glittering eyes. “Oh my God, you’ve got it bad.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Do so. You shoulda heard the way he talked about you, hon. And the way you came running when I texted? The vibe you both give off is craaaazy-in-love. Wouldn’t be able to get my crowbar between you two, even if I wanted.”

  I want to tell him that, absolutely, he needs to keep his goddamn crowbar to himself. But I don’t have time to go into the complicated stuff between me and Marek. And, smack my lying, hypocritical ass, but I’d rather have Ro believe Marek and I are in love than have Ro think Marek is available. It’s my job to protect Marek from the vicious trolling vipers who are the single gay men of Chicago, right?

  “Also,” Ro’s saying, “from the looks of you, you’re off the market in a permanent, I don’t-give-a-fuck way. Pete Schulz in grotty sweats says it all.”

  He smirks as he scans my body, and I glance at the full-length mirror in front of me. I hadn’t paid attention to how I looked when I’d shot out of Hyde Park a half hour ago. Gray jersey sweatpants I usually sleep in, baggy and bulging out around the tops of my boots. They’re my “work” boots—the utilitarian ones I keep by the back door to take the trash out and shovel snow, no leather and zero style. The jacket—oh shit, the jacket is actually Marek’s and I hadn’t even noticed. It’s huge and hangs on me like an old wool blanket. I’ve gained about twenty pounds since leaving L.A., no hiding it, but this get-up makes it look like I’m carrying an extra fifty.

  Self-conscious now, I ruffle my buzzed, boring hair. Hair that badly needs a real cut, a style, and some color. I scrunch my nose. Have I ever looked this bad in my entire life? The nose-scrunching makes my cheap-o glasses go skew-y. I wrench my gaze from the mirror and over to Ro, who looks fuckin’ fabulous as always. His smile turns all smirk.

  And—miracle of miracles—I don’t care.

  I haven’t all the way boarded the body-positivity train yet. But I’m on board with being a person who isn’t so obsessed with surface shit that I’ll risk allowing my drunk employer to get blue hair, all because I’m too busy looking for the perfect shoes to wear while rescuing him.

  I’m debating whether to tell Ro to straighten out his damn priorities with his mega flat-iron hair wand, when Marek returns, buttoning his shirt.

  He looks into my eyes and smiles. A really sweet one that I’m realizing he tends to give only to me.

  And, oh my God, he looks so amazing I want to cry. The haircut is just a haircut. I know that. But I’m a guy who used to care very, very deeply about such things. And this haircut is one of those makeover-of-the-month-worthy ones that has the power to actually make you look at someone differently. He’s the same, but not the same, and I regret it. Because I want him to be the Marek I’ve come to know so well. The Marek I love—

  Oh fuck.

  Did I curse out loud? Must’ve. Because Ro glances at me and winks. He says, “You’ll have to beat them back with your broom when y’all go out now.”

  Mar gives him a confused look.

  “You ready?” I ask him.

  “Yes. I just have to pay Ro.”

  “It’s on the house,” Ro says. “A genuine pleasure to do it. And a favor for an old friend.” He fixes his gaze on me. “You’re welcome for the hot boyfriend, Petey.” He blows me a kiss.

  The old me would’ve cackled. Given him shit. Flirted. Kissed. Thanked. But the new me is reeling under the salon’s too bright lights.

  Love. Boyfriend. Hot. The words keep blowing around hairdryer-hot in my head. They are words I have no business thinking. Marek needs care and friendship, not my lusty thoughts.

  I have rules for this job, goddamn it.

  I let Marek do the hugging and the thanking. And the promising that he’ll be back in six weeks and pay full price. Ro asks him something about music, or maybe a bar. They’d probably discussed all kinds of shit in the couple hours Mar has been here. While they’d been sharing wine and laughter. And pictures. And Ro had been touching—

  And, no. I am not going to let “jealousy” be the next all-wrong word to enter my head.

  “Bye, sweetie!” Ro says to me as he unlocks the door to let us out.

  “Bye.” The word gets clogged in my throat and I’m not sure if he hears, but the door shuts behind us, and he waves like a happy lunatic through the window before turning out the salon’s front lights.

  “Are you okay?” Marek asks.

  I nod. But he’s probably guessed I’m not all the way okay. Because when he uncharacteristically offers his hand, I uncharacteristically take it.

  He keeps looking down at me instead of paying attention to the sidewalk. I have to bump and guide him along to the parking lot.

  “Shall I drive?” he asks.

  “How much did you have to drink?”

  “Oh. Right. I had, um…”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna drive.” I drop his hand—even though my own stupid hand doesn’t seem to want to let go—and wave him over to the passenger side.

  The car chirps as I unlock it, but before I can open the door, Marek puts his hands on my shoulders. “What?”

  His hold is steady, firm, his body a warm, solid wall behind me. He turns me, gently tugging and pushing my shoulders until I face him. Then he steps forward. I don’t want our bodies to bump, so I take a step back. My ass hits the car door.

  His gaze is as steady and firm as his hands. For a second—in the yellow-orange light from the streetlamps—he looks like a stranger. A hot, sexy stranger with action on his mind. His eyes glitter. They seem to be focused on my mouth. The planes of his face, super-defined now because of the shadows and his newly shorn hair, gleam like the marble countertops in our—his—kitchen.

  I open my mouth to ask him if Ro gave him a skin treatment, but I only get out two words, “Did Ro—”

  His shoulders hunch, his chin dips, and then, oh my fucking God, Marek is kissing me.

  He only gets half my mouth on his first pass. His lips are warm and soft, his breath a little shaky. He smells like wine and hair product and Marek. I lick my lips. It’s that last scent that I really want more of. I want to taste him, let my tongue dive and dip and explore the most Marek-y parts of him. Then I’ll get more answers to questions I feel like I’ve been asking for six months—

  And, oh shit. I don’t really want to know, though, do I? There are dozens of reasons I can’t travel down this path. Contractual re
asons and get-my-shit-together reasons and potential-heartbreak reasons—

  Second-pass kiss he gets most of my mouth. Enough that parts of my brain begin jabbing at other parts, hollering that I need to stop this, pull away and tell Marek—kindly yet firmly—that we shouldn’t be kissing. Not here in this parking lot. Not up against the car. Not out in the cold. Not even each other.

  He pulls away suddenly and stares down at me. So intense. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, and it isn’t only because of the night and the shadows. They’re hitting me with a zillion emotions. Wonder and fear and desire and love. I’m not very familiar with that last one, but I’m beginning to recognize…

  I stare back, losing any capacity to think at all.

  “God,” he whispers. “Pete.” He raises his arm, swipes his coat sleeve across his lips. Then he takes my face in his big, cold hands, holds me still, and goes for another kiss. And third time is the charm. This connection is perfect. A soft little nibble to start the deal and then me parting my lips and him parting his lips and then a breath and then some tongue and then, oh sweet Jesus, we are really fucking kissing.

  It’s even better than the kiss we’d shared in my bed, and, if we aren’t careful, this kiss will end the same way—

  “Mar—”

  Again, he doesn’t let me speak, sealing off all words with his tongue and his lips and his breath. Every time I try to form a thought—This is— No, wait— We aren’t— Why does this feel—sensation whips it away, like one of those whirly-copter toys made of thin pieces of plastic. You roll it between your palms, let it go, and, whee, it spins high, gets caught by a breeze, goes and goes and goes, and sometimes you never see it again.

  I’m pretty sure my brain has spun out over State Street, and now it’s heading to the beach and over the lake.

  My dick, though, is fully accounted for and present, no way it’s going anywhere. It’s pushing against my briefs and my sweats, trying to find a hard spot to thrust against. My hands are fully present, too, and, gah, one is busy holding the car keys, but the other hand gets busy and finds Marek’s ass (it’s also gloriously present), grabs it, and pulls him right where I want him to be.