Professor Adorkable

by Edie Danford

  “I usually say them silently.” He puts his hands on either side of my neck, his thumbs stroking my chin and cheeks, dipping into the creases my huge smile is creating. “I wanted—still want to—create a good working environment. At the lab and at home.”

  I love what he’s said, but the word “work” does chilly things to my insides. I take a big breath, wrenching my gaze from his. My fingers are playing in his hair. I watch them create waves and whorls. The hair product wore off a long time ago, leaving soft brown and caramel curls, thick and clingy.

  Maybe I could give Ro a run for his money, become a stylist? If I were to become a stylist, I’d only want to do Marek’s hair.

  I bite my lip as I mash the waves to one side. He’s probably rich enough that he could hire a personal stylist. I could follow him everywhere, wearing a work belt stocked with spray bottles and product spritzers. But I’d feel guilty for getting paid, because, honestly, I’d do the work for free. Just like, if possible, I’d keep his house for free.

  The chill settles at the base of my belly, turning lumpy, like a chunk of ice.

  “Of course,” he says, his hands moving swiftly down my shoulders and arms in a reassuring caress. “You are not working now. This is not a working environment.” His feet became suddenly restless, making the water slosh. “We can agree on this?”

  I nod.

  “And,” he says, “while some might consider this a technicality, sometimes technicalities count. Even the smallest variables can have giant consequences on outcomes.”

  “Not sure what you’re talking about, Mar.”

  “Well, technically we are coworkers and not employee-employer. My uncle signs your paychecks. He hired you.”

  I can’t control my grimace, but it’s hard to call him out on mentioning this so-called technicality when I’ve thought about the same damn thing on many occasions. Still, I have to point out, “And if he saw me right now, he’d fire my ass.”

  He shrugs, but his eyes seem like a slightly guilty shade of blue-gray. “Then I would hire you back.”

  I exhale slowly. This shit is complicated, but I understand his need to make things between us more simple. The science professor trying to fit all of our WTF messiness into clearly defined spaces that, when combined, would have nice, predictable outcomes. Hell, I’d taken this job because I’d thought it would have a nice, predictable outcome. But complications tend to happen no matter how hard I try to prevent them.

  At least with this “expanding data-set” complication, I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I’ve made Mar happy, more confident, more comfortable in his skin. I want to able to make him feel good like this every now and then. The rest of the time, I’ll do my job and support him. Be a good friend as he spreads his wings and discovers there’s a whole world out there he can conquer—not just the world of his lab and his townhouse.

  And I hope that eventually he’ll feel confident enough to tell his uncle that he’s a big boy and doesn’t need help making decisions anymore. Maybe then he won’t need a housekeeper. He’ll find a boyfriend, a supportive group of friends, and my job here will become strictly cleaning and cooking.

  Although, yeah, I likely won’t want to hang around if Marek falls in love for real—likely with a big-brained dude he can talk about big-brained stuff with, or at least a guy who has a college degree. Yeah, that kind of awkwardness would truly suck.

  I’d have to bow out gracefully. I’d trot out to the Hyde Park sidewalk, hold tight to my suitcase, pop my umbrella, and wait for a stiff wind to come off Lake Michigan—

  “I do choose to be here with you,” Mar says softly, jarring me out of my Mary Poppins fantasy. “So much. I am glad you choose to be here with me. But you have to know…” He swallows loudly. “That you can say no and I will always listen. Always. And, despite my earlier, er, efforts to get you to see reason about spending time with me, you can tell me to get lost and I will be fine. Sad for a while, yes. But fine. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I take a big breath. He doesn’t know, couldn’t know, how much it means to me to hear him say stuff like that.

  His wet hands slide up my arms, creating instant goose bumps with the coolish water. I shiver. He says, “I will tell you what I would like to happen for the rest of tonight and you can tell me what you would like.”

  “Can I go first?”

  “Of course. Yes. I want you to go first.”

  I smile. “I want to rinse us off with some warm water. Then I want to dry you off with one of my big, fluffy towels, and I want you to dry me. Then I want to climb into my bed with you. And make out some more. And figure out where we left off with Harry Potter. And then go to sleep together.”

  “Oh my God.” His lips twitch, eyes twinkle. “That’s exactly what I want to do. You were saying all that just to please me, weren’t you?” The lip twitch turns in to a full-blown smile.

  I exhale a laugh and then dig my thumbs under his arms, going directly for tickle torture.

  He jerks and flails and sends his rusty-sounding, creaky laugh bouncing around the small room. “Stop!”

  I hold up my hands. “Damn. That’s some useful knowledge I just gained. You are ticklish as hell, Mar.”

  He takes a big, heaving breath and lets his head fall back against the tub with a clunk. “Don’t let anyone know.” He says this as if I’ve discovered all his experiments were being funded by the Russians.

  “Your secret is safe with me, Professor Janos,” I say in a silly accent.

  I reach back to flick the lever on the drain and turn on the shower hose thingie. I hold my hand under the spray, waiting for the water to heat. Mar leans forward. Placing a lingering kiss on my neck, he takes the shower nozzle from my hand and begins to carefully rinse my back. The look on his face—oh man. So many feels there, as he takes care of me.

  Yeah. There are all kinds of things I’m discovering about Marek Janos that I’m going to keep to myself. Let the other guys in his damn data set find them out on their own.

  Chapter 8

  Marek

  This Saturday is Pete’s day off. Usually on his days and evenings off, I see him the same as usual. We’ll still share meals—takeout happens more often than not, at my insistence. Occasionally, he’ll go visit friends or family. And, occasionally, I’ll hint that I want to accompany him on these visits. He never takes the hints. I am bad at being subtle with hints, so I figure he’s understood what I asked, but preferred I didn’t go with him.

  He’s almost always kind about it, but he probably needs a break from me on occasion. And introductions, especially early in our relationship, would’ve been awkward. This is Marek—he is the doofus professor who I work my ass off to take care of.

  But now that Pete has agreed to become a part of my data set, I’m hoping he’ll begin thinking of me as a true friend. And, someday, as more than a friend. “Hashtag relationship goals,” as Zoe would say.

  Pete hadn’t discussed his plans for this particular Saturday. We’d discussed mine ad nauseum.

  I’m making additional plans to find out more about Pete’s plans as I finish putting on my much-debated “museum date outfit.” All of it is very form-fitting. Well, Zoe would call it form-fitting. I would call it tight. She would call the colors “cool.” And I would call them “too much.” The jeans are a deep shade of purple. The shirt is lavender with purple stripes. The sweater is a blue-gray. Zoe said something about it matching my eyes. This had set off a tiring debate about whether matching is the same as complementing, etcetera, etcetera.

  I hear sounds down in the kitchen, so I don’t fiddle with adjusting collars—they can settle against my neck however. Pete’s door had been closed when I’d gone down for breakfast earlier. It sounds like, at last, he’s stirring.

  In the mirror I frown at my hot-as-fuck hair—which is looking lukewarm because the sweater has smashed it on one side—and hurry down the stairs.

  My socks slide on the floor as I round the corner into the kitchen. When Zo
e and I had been out shopping yesterday, Pete had been doing floors even more vigorously than usual. I skid to a stop about ten centimeters from him.

  “Whoa!” He takes a step back, putting a protective hand over a muffin on a plate.

  “Sorry.”

  We stared at each other. I feel my cheeks get hot. This isn’t our usual morning greeting. The look in Pete’s eyes as his gaze travels from my head to my feet, isn’t usual, either. On a regular day, he’d give me more than a brief glance, business-like but concerned, checking for stains or misbuttoned collars or mismatched socks.

  Today, though, his eyes are wide, surprised. And I’m sure my own eyes are similar. Pete is wearing a suit. A suit that even I can tell is very nice. The dark fabric hugs his body and the necktie knotted against the snowy-white collar is a pinkish-purple shade that suits him perfectly. He’s done something to his hair too—maybe put one of Ro’s products in it?

  “You look—” I begin.

  “You look—” he begins at the same time.

  We both laugh.

  More unusual things. I don’t think we’ve ever said the same thing at the same time. The Pete-brain and the Marek-brain rarely generate similar thoughts in awkward moments. Pete always makes things un-awkward. I make them more awkward.

  “Why are you wearing that? Where are you going?” My voice cracks as I ask the questions. Awkwardly.

  Smiling, he sets the plate with the muffin on the counter and steps forward. He does something to my collar—an adjustment with quick, efficient fingers. My nostrils flare. He’s wearing cologne or aftershave, something stronger and more exotically scented than his soap.

  I’m debating whether to run a finger over his smooth cheek or to press my lips against it and inhale him the way I want to inhale him—is that scent more herbal or floral?—when he takes another big step back.

  “You look very nice,” he says. “But I’m not surprised. Zoe has a great sense of color. And a great sense of you.” His smile turns down on one side.

  “I think colors you would’ve picked out would’ve been better.” A frown begins to furrow my forehead. I’m still slightly sad he’d bailed on the clothes-shopping trip Zoe and I had made yesterday. He’d said he’d needed to work into the evening—something about taking care of family business this week and being away more than usual.

  “Nah,” he says. “What you’re wearing is perfect. Steph will love you.” He settles on one of the barstools at the counter and begins to carefully peel away the muffin’s wrapper.

  He glances up at me. “You ate, I assume? Since three of these are gone?” He gestures at the bakery bag by the coffee maker.

  “Yes,” I say. “You didn’t have to run out this morning. I was going to.” My tone is slightly impatient. I don’t like that he’s ignoring my question about the suit. And I don’t like the way he said, Steph will love you. But it would be ridiculous to shout out, I don’t want Steph’s love, I want yours!

  I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans. The heavy, tight-fitting denim digs into my fingers. Wincing, I withdraw my hands and settle them on the edge of the counter.

  Pete crumples the muffin wrapper and puts it on the plate. He glances at me. “What?”

  I shrug.

  “You want half?”

  “No.”

  He nods, takes a bite. Chews. Drinks some coffee.

  “Um, Mar?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you staring at me?”

  “What are you going to do today? While I am at the museum with Steph Novak?”

  He wipes his lips, eyeing me with an expression that is…unreadable. “Well,” he says. “You aren’t the only one who has a hot date with a lawyer.”

  “It is not a hot date,” I snap. I bite down on my lip. I am being an ass. Pete has every right to dress nicely and spend the day with someone of his choosing.

  His shoulders rise as he takes a deep breath. He lets it out slowly. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m meeting my dad and a couple of his attorneys for lunch. At his club. Ugh. It’s gonna be a dead bore. Not hot in the slightest. I’ve never met these particular lawyers, but if they work for my dad, they’ll be conservative jock-types who wax poetic about the Cubs, the Bears, and the stock market. A few years ago I would’ve considered it a fun challenge to get one of them to let me blow him in the men’s room. Now the only challenge will be to get through the meeting without ordering five cocktails and guzzling them one after another.”

  The words send a jolt through my chest. I continue to stare at him. His voice sounds…bitter. I’ve never heard this tone from him. The way he’d said the words “fun challenge”—it doesn’t seem as though he’d found the experience fun or challenging.

  I take a step toward him. His fingers are brushing crumbs from the sides of the muffin. Aggressively. Soon, the entire muffin will be a pile in the center of his plate.

  “Pete,” I murmur, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want me to go with you? I have had lousy family meetings with lawyers before. I could provide…comfort.”

  Pale blue eyes meet mine. “That’s very kind of you,” he says, his voice polite. “But you need to go on your date with Steph. And I need to figure out this shit with my dad on my own.”

  “I care about you more than I care about dates.”

  “Same,” he says in a whisper I have to strain to hear.

  I shove his plate toward the center of the island. I don’t want to see any more muffin-killing. I put my hand on his other shoulder and gently push, making the stool spin toward me. Stepping forward between his legs, I bend and do what I’d wanted to earlier—I press my lips to his smooth-shaven cheek.

  I’ve been good this week. When we woke up together in his bed on Thursday morning, I’d settled for his fast kiss and sweet smile instead of the slow make-out sesh (or more) that our dicks had been so obviously demanding. After he’d gone into his bathroom, speaking of lists and shopping and breakfast and getting things done, I’d gone upstairs to my own bath. I’d kept my distance. I hadn’t made demands when he’d said he wouldn’t go shopping or out to dinner with me and Zo yesterday. And after I’d come home, I hadn’t whined or flailed or made random messes when he’d said he was tired and planned to go to bed early. I’d heard the alone he’d silently attached to the statement.

  I can’t push experiments no matter how exciting the potential results, how quickly I desire to know their outcomes.

  But as I let my lips follow the ridge of Pete’s cheekbone, the only thing I can think about is that he’s sad and worried and that, maybe, he needs me.

  He turns his head—a seeking motion—and our lips meet. Words like “soft” and “warm” and “plush” and “glag” float through my head. And then every word flits away.

  I’ve forgotten to breathe. Or maybe his scent and his warmth and his closeness are attacking my neurons. Because I’m dizzy. So dizzy I have to brace my hands on his shoulders to keep from falling. And, really, I don’t have to worry because his arms are around me now, holding tight as he takes the kiss in the same direction I’m trying to take it. Hard and deep and fast and hungry. Muffins aren’t what he’d needed at all.

  Dizziness boils down to pure, undiluted need. My hands rise to his neck, his ears, his too-tidy hair. It feels crisp against my fingertips and I want the product he’s put in it to go away. I want the suit he’s wearing to go away too.

  My cock aches as it hardens against the constricting heft of my new jeans. Pete’s hands are in my back pockets, kneading and molding my ass, yet another reason for why getting dressed had been stupid today.

  I realize that the harsh, breathy little moans I’m hearing are rising from my chest. Pete is speaking actual words, but they sound muffled, distant. Probably because he’s pressing open-mouthed kisses against my throat between each word…

  I pull back but keep my hands on his face. I’m trying to hear, trying to steady my limbs and my breathing. “What?”

  He looks up
at me, his eyes dark from his dilated pupils, his lips bruised-looking from our kisses. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  I nod. I understand his point. But at the moment I can’t seem to care about it. Brushing my thumbs against his jaw, I bend to kiss him again. He kisses me back, but his response seems hesitant now. I try coaxing a better response with my tongue and a few soft words, “You taste so very good, pusinko.”

  He moans and the good stuff starts up again. I make the mistake of reaching between us, seeking his belt buckle, or shirt buttons, needing to touch more skin.

  His hand clenches mine hard. Then he slides off the stool. He nearly falls, but our fingers are clasped tightly together. I steady him. He stares at me.

  “God, Marek. What the fuck? We both have appointments within the next hour and now we both look like we’ve been…”

  “What is the word? Mauled, maybe?”

  He laughs, and I feel my usual surge of success. “Yes,” he says. “Exactly. Mauling each other was not on today’s agenda.”

  “I hate agendas,” I say, rolling my shoulders, wondering if he would think it was rude if I unzipped the tight jeans and made a few adjustments. Or asked him if he would help with these adjustments.

  “You don’t hate agendas. I’ve seen the ones you make for your lab meetings.”

  “Lab meetings are different. They need agendas.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “You need an agenda 24/7.”

  “Yes. Zoe introduced the phrase ‘needs a keeper’ to me recently. She said it was perfect for me. I said it was fine for her to apply it to me as long as it was known that you are my keeper.”

  Pete’s laugh doesn’t sound as happy this time. He walks over to the sink, turns on the water, and begins rinsing his hands. Pressing them to his flushed cheeks, he turns to face me again.

  I tell him, “For agendas here at home, you would be every item. Old business—Pete. New business—Pete. Reports—Pete, Pete, Pete. Even the date and time.”