Ten years old and already he'd experienced more pain than she ever intended. He'd lost his father, his home, and his friends. As his mother, she'd only wanted to protect him and make him happy. Make him feel safe.
Fail on all counts.
She pushed away her gloomy thoughts. "I thought we'd paint your room this weekend," she offered brightly. "You pick the color--anything you want. And we can hit Target for some decorations."
"Okay."
His despondent tone cut right through her heart. "Can you do me a favor, Luke? I need the honest truth."
He looked at her with a bit of wariness. "Sure."
"On a scale of one to ten, how bad is my meatloaf?"
The faint spark of humor lit his brown eyes. "One."
"Yeah, I thought so. How does a pizza sound?"
He tilted his head and considered. "Can we eat in front of the TV, too?"
Ella laughed. "Sure, why not?"
"No History channel?"
She gave a sigh of surrender. "Fine. You pick."
He gave a small whoop and fisted his hand in the air. "Nice. I want pepperoni on mine, please."
"You got it. Luke?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
His face shifted to that half uncomfortable, half pleased look she recognized so well. But he gave her the words. "Love you, too, Mom."
He bounded out of the kitchen, forgetting to clean up his plate, and Ella didn't remind him. She went to order the pizza.
Chapter Four
"When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills."--Kate Chopin, The Story of An Hour
Two weeks later, Connor realized he was in trouble.
Another F stared back at him from his last paper. As Ella lectured to the class on the limitations of creative women in society today, Connor scrolled through his iPad for the picture he'd taken of the syllabus.
Yes, it was only a month into the semester, but he'd lost too much ground. He hadn't been able to pass one lousy quiz, flunked his paper, and now his short essay she'd handed back had tanked. Even with high grades moving forward and a decent curve, he'd be hovering around a precious C-, a bit too close for comfort.
No way was he letting poetry and angry female authors beat him.
Or Ella Blake.
He made a point to read the awful assignments, though he barely kept awake. This last essay called Death of the Moth should've been termed Death From Boredom. Woolf was another writer he struggled to understand, and Ella seemed to think she walked on fucking water. Who watched a moth die for what seemed like hours and decided to write about it? And why on earth would anyone assign a paper on such drivel? No wonder he'd flunked.
Men didn't do shit like that.
He'd been trying to get on her good side. He was unfailingly polite and charming before and after class. He complimented her and consistently offered to help out if she needed anything. She only gave him that icy stare that froze his balls and clipped out a "no." He was getting nowhere and now he needed to do something about his grade.
Anything.
He tried to listen to her ramblings on Edith Wharton and how the author used female roles in society to exploit and push readers' emotional limits. She strolled back and forth in a relaxed, steady pace as she spoke, occasionally nibbling on her lower lip in a thought, her face half hidden by the wide, thick frames of her glasses. Today, she wore her usual brown flat boots, a long wool skirt with no shape, and a green turtleneck sweater that reached all the way up to her jaw. Did she have some type of skin infection that kept her hidden beneath so much material? Were there actual breasts under there? Her fingers were long and tapered, but the short, squared-off, unpolished nails did nothing to accentuate them. This was a woman who didn't want a man looking. Or maybe she was just lazy and wasn't into men. Maybe she spent every night reading Wharton and Bronte and lived out fantasies in her head. Hadn't he read something in the news about the power of romantic novels to give women unrealistic expectations of life? Yeah. It had been in the New York Times, too. So it must be true.
"Mr. Dunkle?"
Ah, crap. Here we go again.
He showed no fear and smiled warmly. "Yes, Professor Blake?"
"I'm interested to hear your thoughts on the story, Roman Fever."
"I liked it."
The class tittered. She never lost her smile. If she wasn't wearing the wrong color lipstick, he may have believed her lips were perfectly bow shaped and lush.
"I'm relieved. What did you think about the ending? Did you feel sympathy for Mrs. Slade when she discovered her friend was unfaithful? Or did it strike you as justice?"
He tried hard not to rub his forehead. A headache threatened. Out of all the damn stories she had to pick to discuss, this was the only one he didn't read. He'd fallen asleep at his computer and decided to skip the reading for today. Now he was in trouble.
He quickly gathered the threads of information the class had given and tried to make a rational theory. "It wasn't justice, but was it deserved? Probably. See, the problem is women are very different than men. They sink to a level of jealousy and cattiness I think is well described in this story."
Satisfaction unfurled. That was a solid answer. She couldn't torture him over his opinion.
Except the strangest expression came over her face.
Her gaze narrowed. Her lips tightened. A tightly contained energy swarmed around her like a nest of bees, humming madly before the attack. In that moment, he realized he had done something very wrong.
"I see. So you believe men don't sink to basic levels of human emotion like women?"
He swallowed. "Kind of. Men are more physical, but they see things simpler. Let's be real here. Two men would never meet in a cafe to talk endlessly for an hour before getting to the point. Women are exhausting. One man would punch the other one, they'd fight it out, and then go get a beer."
The class laughed. Some of the guys nodded in agreement and hooted their approval. Connor began to warm up to the subject. "And another thing. Society is always on the men about cheating, but if you read these pieces you keep assigning us, you'll see there was a lot of infidelity by women. They just like to intellectualize and rationalize the act to death to make it better for them to sleep at night."
Ella Blake never wavered. Pure ice dripped from her voice when she deigned to speak. "Interesting. It seems because Mr. Slade is the male, he is easily forgiven for his infidelity, though he has cheated also. Thank you for proving my point, Mr. Dunkle. Next time, please make sure you actually read the story and not use your classmates' effort to spin your own inane opinion. Class dismissed."
She marched back to her desk.
Connor's head felt as if it had gone a few rounds with the heavyweight champion. Was she kidding? How did she know he didn't read it? And who the hell was she to make fun of his opinion? If he had read the story, didn't he have the right to his own viewpoint?
Some of the guys came to clap him on the shoulder as they exited the classroom. He spent some time gathering his papers and cooling down his temper. He needed his grade fixed or he'd be in some serious trouble by the midterm. It was time to have a bit of a heart-to-heart and pour on the charm. Again.
He tried not to grind his teeth as he approached. She pretended not to see him, but Connor knew she sensed his presence and was deliberately provoking him. An odd anticipation steadily built. He'd misjudged her. She wasn't as dull as he'd originally thought. He rarely dealt with women who challenged him, but he figured it was the teacher/student thing that had him intrigued now.
"Professor Blake?"
She looked up and damned if she didn't give him an almost satisfied grin. "Yes?"
"I need to talk to you about my grade. The paper. I need some help."
"I agree, Mr. Dunkle. Perhaps a tutor?"
Instead of sitting down, she grabbed her purse and seemed to be rushing out. He made sure to step right in front of her, blocking her exit. He gritted his t
eeth. "I don't need a tutor. I need to know what you're looking for in my papers so I can start passing this class."
"Ah, if you check your syllabus, you'll see I'm looking for creativity, original thought, and specified examples and content backed up from the text."
"I'm trying! Let's be honest for a moment. You don't like my opinions so you're punishing me. You want me to advocate these inane texts by using a lot of fancy words and lingo just so I can agree that women were mentally and emotionally tortured underneath the societal restrictions where men ruled. How is that fair?"
She tilted her head, seemingly considering her words. "Now that's an argument. Too bad there's not more of that in your papers. I have to go. I'm late for a meeting."
She strode out of the classroom, big skirt swishing, hair perfectly contained in the single, tight space of her bun. Connor took off after her, refusing to be swept aside. Not this time. "I did put that in my paper but you gave me an F."
She never broke stride, weaving in and out of the hallways amidst groups of students. "No, you didn't. You said it was about a moth, written from the point of view of a woman frustrated with her life so she decided to spend her extra time watching an insect die. You insinuated she craved a man in her life and therefore, her lack of one made her unhappy. There was no depth. Did you even listen to my lecture in class about the meaning of the essay?"
"Yes." No. He kind of drifted off in a stupor when she began lecturing. He pushed aside the guilt. "You're not being clear enough."
"You're not trying hard enough, Mr. Dunkle. You treat my class like an annoyance and with little respect. I shall treat you the same."
"I need a C-in this class or I won't graduate. I'm doing the best I can. Are you seriously going to flunk me and keep me from my degree over a moth?"
She stopped and whirled around. Her saggy sweater caught air, flew up, then settled. Her index finger jabbed the air. "Have you ever wondered what death would feel like, Mr. Dunkle? Debated life versus death? Analyzed your life to see if it was empty or just or worthwhile?"
His head spun. She was like some mad woman, fierce and way too intense over some...words. Yet, that passion connected within him for a few seconds and hit home. "Yes. Don't we all wonder what we're doing here?" he muttered.
"Good. In the beginning of the essay, the moth was joyous, even trapped between the glass with a limited view of the world. Have you ever felt happy, even when you don't know why?"
"Yes."
"But the author pitied the moth at first. Pitied its existence. The moth is destined to die. What feeling did Woolf try to explain to the reader?"
He tried to shake off his annoyance at getting into a lesson in the middle of a hallway. "The moth doesn't want to die and neither does she."
"Wrong. Yes, no one wants to die but that's not the true point of the essay. There's one guarantee in this life: death. It's part of the contract terms we get. We don't even know how much time we're going to get when we sign this contract. We're here trying to make our mark, then we're gone. Don't you ever consider what the point is?"
His gut lurched. Her slow pecking at his beliefs bothered him. Why think about all this shit when there was no real answer? Why not keep things easy? Look for happiness in the moment? Like the moth...
"Sure."
"Enough with the one word answers. 'Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was not as strange.' What do you think Woolf was feeling when that last paragraph was written? She watched the moth die in front of her, watched its struggle, watched its failure to win the ultimate battle. What do you think about that, Mr. Dunkle?"
"What do you want me to think?"
She shook her head. "We're done here."
Frustration simmered and seeped out. "The moth fought death up to the last moment. Its struggle was strange and almost beautiful to the author because we all face the same obstacles, yet no matter how bad life sucks, we still have the ability to fight to our last dying breath. Kind of like Dylan said about raging against the dying light."
Surprise flickered across her face. Slowly, she nodded. "Yes. That's what I'm looking for in your papers. You insult both of us by not giving more." Then she continued down the hallway.
Son-of-a-bitch. No, he wasn't in one of those lame movies where the teacher suddenly got the student to see the light and then he transformed his failing grade into an A. It didn't work like that. Connor caught up with her, matching her pace, and heard her deep sigh.
"Do you need something else, Mr. Dunkle?"
"How about an extra credit project? I can't base my graduation on me understanding the next few assignments."
Her snort was quite feminine and intriguing. She pushed open the double glass doors and headed upstairs. "Why should I give you such an opportunity? If you work hard enough, you should be able to pass my class."
"I can't take any chances. Please. This way, I'll know I have some cushion for my grade if I keep struggling."
Annoyance radiated around her. She reached the top of the steps, and turned to say something, but her boot caught on a piece of metal grating and she fell forward.
Connor hurriedly blocked her fall, catching her in his arms and pulling her to the side. Her body was soft and warm, and for one moment, he felt her breasts push against his chest. The clean scent of cucumber and soap drifted up to his nostrils. Low maintenance and simple, like the woman. He took a deeper breath, enjoying the natural fragrance and the way her hands closed around his shoulders for balance.
"You okay?"
Her dark eyes widened. Behind the thick lenses of her glasses, her gaze locked and held his, squeezing him as tight as her nails suddenly digging into his flesh. A bolt of heat struck his dick, and suddenly, he was hard as a rock.
WTH?
"Sorry!" She struggled and he righted her, stepping back. Her skin flushed and she scrambled toward the second level doors. "I'll think about an appropriate project for extra credit."
"Thanks."
She didn't answer, just disappeared behind the glass and got swallowed up by a swarm of students.
Shaking off the whole strange encounter, Connor headed to the library. He'd won this skirmish. With extra credit, he usually had the whole semester to turn it in and his grade would get a nice boost. As for the sudden attraction? It was proof he'd been way too long without a woman. He wasn't attracted in the least to Ella Blake. If he was smart, he'd take this Saturday night, go out with a pretty woman, and slake both of their needs.
He kept the thought firmly in his mind and refused to think of his not hot professor.
Chapter Five
"Better to be without logic than without feeling."--Charlotte Bronte
A few hours later, Ella was still replaying their encounter.
She muttered under her breath and hurried through the parking lot, ducking her head against the brisk wind tearing through the trees. She'd had students who were egotistical and arrogant. But Connor Dunkle was a whole new breed. How dare he challenge her in class? His ridiculous views on women were archaic. Lord help his wife or girlfriend. She would've taught him a few hard-learned lessons about respect. Then he dared to ask for extra credit?
The worst part was her traitorous body. When she fell into his arms, her stomach got all floaty, and her blood ran hotter in her veins. She was attracted to an idiot. Why wasn't she surprised? Her track record sucked.
Rain dripped down the back of her neck and she shivered. Spring felt a lifetime away. Of course, she'd forgotten her damn umbrella again. She had four in her trunk and never seemed to use any of them.
The well-lit parking lot cut through the dark and fog, leading to her white Honda Civic. She hit the button, slid into the seat, and turned the key.
Nothing.
Dread trickled through her. Oh, no. Please work. Please work. Please...
Keeping up her mantra, she tried the car again. And again.
It was dead.
Ella glanced at her watch. She was already runnin
g late and hated leaving Luke alone for too long. Her brain calculated through the possibilities. Triple A? No, she'd decided it was an easy expense to cut. She couldn't look under the hood because she had no idea what she'd be looking for. Frustration coiled and she pounded her fist on the steering wheel. The word hovered on her lips until she finally spit it out with passion.
"Fuck!"
God, she loved that word. Saying it was her secret vice. Even the guttural, nasty sound of it on her tongue eased some of her tension.
A hard rap on the window caused her to shriek. A huge, muscled figure towered over her car. Peering out in the dark, she lowered her window a few inches.
"You need some help?"
Ella almost closed her eyes in defeat. Connor Dunkle. Of course, he'd show up trying to be her knight in shining armor. He'd probably ask her for a few extra points on the next quiz as payment.
She refused to think of other, more interesting, forms of payment.
"My car won't start. I'll call a tow company. Thanks anyway."
A frown creased his brows. "Pop the hood. Let me take a quick look." She pressed her lips together, considering. "Professor Blake? I'm getting wet out here."
She let out an irritated breath at her hesitation. "Sorry." She was glad the dark hid her hot cheeks. Releasing the latch, he disappeared behind the hood while the rain gained fury and flung drops like a toddler in the throes of a tantrum. Finally, he returned, his thick hair wetly plastered to his head.
"It's the battery. I have jumper cables in my truck. Hang tight."
"Wait! I have an umbrella."
His smile was lopsided and full of wry humor. "Don't need it. I work construction, I'm used to bad weather."
"But--"
He'd already disappeared into the dark. A pair of headlights swung toward her as he angled his truck a few inches away from her car. She watched while he set up the cables, seemingly unaffected by the weather, and motioned for her to start the car.
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