by Noelle Adams
I can’t do this. I can’t feel this way. I’m going to be caught up in another man wave, and the person I want to be will drown in the undertow.
It will probably be worse this time since I’ve never felt this intensely for anyone in my life.
He turns his head to the side abruptly and mutters, “Freddie.”
I blink. “What?”
He gives a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m reminding myself I have to go pick up Freddie.”
“Of course you do. Sorry to keep you.” I’m not sure why I’m apologizing. I’ve only been here a few minutes, and he was the one who invited me to stop by.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” he says, as if he read my mind. “I’m the one who asked. But I better get going. She’ll be waiting for me.”
“Do you have her full time?” I’m not supposed to ask these kinds of questions, but I can’t seem to help it.
“Most of the time. She’s at her mom’s every other weekend and for a couple of weeks in the summer.”
This surprises me. I wonder why her mother is with her so seldom. I’m dying to ask, but I resist the urge. It’s not my business, and it will just make me feel even closer to him.
“Her mom lives in Richmond,” Max says, as if I actually asked the question. “She has a very demanding career, so if Freddie lived with her more, she’d be alone for far too much of the time. It works better this way. We’re all happy with this arrangement.”
I nod, understanding what Max isn’t saying.
Evidently Freddie’s mother is okay with not having more time with her daughter.
It makes me sad for the little girl, but at least she has a dad who loves her and clearly prioritizes his time with her.
“I understand,” I say, walking with Max out of the classroom. We pause in the hall. “I’ll see you later then.”
Max takes a step closer to me. He reaches out, and I swear he’s about to cup my face. Instead, with a slight jerk of his hand, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. He opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything.
I’m shaking—more inside than outside—and I can’t take a full breath. “What is it?” I ask as we just stand there.
He drops his hand and gives his head a shake. “No time. Freddie’s waiting.”
“Of course she is. You better go.”
“You’re still always trying to get rid of me, so I guess I’ve got to work on getting you to like me more.”
“I like you fine.”
“Do you?”
I gulp. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. I’m still trying to figure you out. But I don’t have time tonight. I’ll see you soon though.
“Okay. All right. See you.”
Well, that sounded just brilliant.
Max doesn’t seem to care about my inarticulateness. He starts off in the direction I came from—the faculty lot is in that direction—and he gives me one more smile over his shoulder as he walks away.
I smile back. I can’t help it.
Then I realize what he said.
He’s going to work on getting me to like him more.
I’m already way over my head where he’s concerned. If he somehow gets me to like him even more, I’ll be a goner for sure.
Three
I START WORKING ON finding the books on the list immediately, and half of them are easily gettable—either at the local used bookstore or in the library sale books we keep in storage. I put in online orders for the rest of them, pleased that the project has turned out to be so easy.
By Thursday, I have copies of books for ten of the student paintings, and that feels like enough to drop Max a note to let him know what I already have in.
He emails back about twenty minutes later. Wow. That was fast. Thanks. I can stop by your office around lunch tomorrow to look at them, if that works for you.
I hadn’t actually been expecting him to pay me a visit, so I fight a rush of surprised pleasure when I read his email.
I’m trying to be cool about it though. For myself as much as for him. So I write, Sure. That would work. Any time would be fine.
I’ll be there about 12:15 tomorrow. See you then.
It’s fine. Not a problem. He just a face-to-face kind of guy, and we’re working on this project together. I’m happy to meet with him in person rather than handling things over email.
This isn’t as significant as it feels.
I work on convincing myself of this fact, and I’m almost persuaded at noon the following day. I’ve brought my lunch with me today, and I’m getting hungry, but I don’t want to be eating when he gets here, so I decide to wait until after he’s gone.
I’m trembly with anticipation, the way I feel before a date I’m excited about. I know this isn’t a date, so I feel stupid for feeling this way, but I can’t seem to talk myself out of it.
Why is this happening to me, just when I was trying to get my life the way I want it?
I’m pretending to work on email but mostly giving myself a pep talk when there’s a tap on my half-open door.
I turn around with a practiced smile, only to freeze when I see Max standing in my doorway, dressed in tan trousers and a black Oxford with that intimate smile on his face.
It’s unseemly for a man to look that sexy. A universal injustice.
“I’m three minutes early, but surely you aren’t surprised to see me,” he says.
“Come on in. Of course I’m not surprised.”
“Then why do you look like you’ve been socked in the gut?”
“I don’t look like that.”
“How do you know? You can’t see yourself.”
I roll my eyes, my annoyance at this teasing overcoming the rush of attraction that had paralyzed me. I stand up. “Let me show you the books.”
“Ah. I’m back to being treated with cold-as-ice professionalism.” His smile is even warmer than before, so it’s clear he isn’t remotely offended.
I roll my eyes again. “I’m not treating you cold as ice.”
“It feels kind of icy to me. And here I was being nice and bringing you lunch.” He raises a bag he’s been holding that I only half noticed before.
“You brought me lunch?”
“I brought us lunch, but if you don’t want me to eat with you, I can take mine with me.”
“Why did you bring lunch?” I’m filled with another rush of pleasure.
“Because I figured I was using up your lunch break, and I thought you might be hungry. I’m a nice guy that way. You just haven’t realized it yet.”
“I know you’re a nice guy.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I do.” I’m afraid I might be gazing at him fatuously, and he’s going to be able to see it. So I clear my throat and give myself a mental shake. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. Like I said before, I’m still trying to figure you out. So do you want some lunch?”
“What did you get?”
“I didn’t know what you would want, so I got two kinds of salad, three kinds of sandwiches, and some pasta salad. I’ll eat whatever you don’t want.”
I gape at him. “You’ll eat two salads and two sandwiches?”
He laughs as he pulls containers and wrapped sandwiches out of the bag. “I could, but I probably won’t. You’ll have to eat half this stuff.”
“I can’t eat half of all this. You do see the size of me, don’t you?” I’m checking the labels and getting excited at every one I see. They’re just half sandwiches, so I pick the chicken salad on sourdough and the small Greek salad.
“Yes. I see the size of you.”
My breath hitches at his shift of tone. When I lift my eyes to meet his, I’m trapped by the heat of his gaze. His eyes are running up and down me, from my loose hair to my sandals. I’m wearing a long, soft skirt today in a pretty, feminine print. It’s not a sexy outfit, but I feel that way under his possessive gaze. My whole body starts to pulse.
When I
realize what I’m feeling, I wrench my eyes away from his and focus down on my food again. I sit in my desk chair with an awkward flop.
He appears in better condition than me, but he doesn’t say anything else as he takes the turkey club and the pasta salad. He hands me a napkin and utensils, and we begin to eat.
“Thank you for this,” I say, after I’ve swallowed a bite of sandwich. It’s really good.
“You’re welcome. Thanks for your help with the exhibit.”
“No problem. The books are over there.”
“Great. We can look at them after we eat.”
His suggestion makes sense since we obviously don’t want to get food all over the books I’ve collected for him. But it extends our time together longer than I was hoping.
It would be so much easier and better for my state of mind if I could get him out of here in ten minutes.
No such luck.
As he eats, he asks me about my family, so I tell him about my three sisters and my parents and my large extended family—one of my mom’s siblings has eight kids and the other has ten. They all still live in the same small town in South Carolina where I was raised. I tell him that I talk to my folks and all my sisters at least once a week, and I go visit them several times a year. I tell him about my best friends from childhood who also still live in that same small town, and I tell him about my high school boyfriend who works in the post office there.
“You didn’t want to stay there yourself?” he asks.
I shrug. “Not really. I love my family, and I love a lot of the people in that town. But it also feels stifling. Like I can’t be who I want to be there since they only remember who I was. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah. That makes sense. How are you different now than you were then?”
“I don’t know. The way everyone changes as the years passed. You don’t stay exactly the same, especially if you move away and different things happen to you. A lot of my views have developed since I was a kid—for obvious reasons—but it’s more than that. They still see me as the good, quiet, reader girl I used to be, but I feel like there’s more to me than that.”
“Of course there’s more to you.”
I nod, affirmed by his words. “But they don’t always see it. They still see me as I was before.”
“I think that happens to everyone to a certain extent and to some more than others. I was raised in Richmond, so it wasn’t a small town. But still. I was a football player in high school.”
“Of course you were,” I put in dryly.
He narrows his eyes. “I wasn’t the kind of guy you’re assuming I was.”
“Okay.” I’m trying not to smile. “If you say so. Go on.”
He’s still eyeing me suspiciously as he continues, “I was on the football team, and I was class president, and... I don’t know... everyone...”
“Loved you. This isn’t a surprise to me.”
“Why do you make it sound like a bad thing?”
“It’s not a bad thing. But it’s just an image, right? They loved you because you projected something they wanted, but I doubt most of them really knew you.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to say—not as well as you. I grew up feeling incredibly lonely because people wanted to be around me, but no one knew me beneath the surface. They would have laughed at me in high school if they knew I wanted to go into art.”
“When did you figure that out?”
“About halfway through college. I’d always loved to doodle, but I never shared it with anyone. But I had a great art professor in college who helped me see what I wanted to do. Make beauty.” He glances away, like he’s suddenly uncomfortable he shared so much. “I guess that’s maybe why I want to teach since that professor meant so much to me. He’s the only one who looked beyond that popular jock image I’ve had all my life.”
“You don’t come across like that at all now,” I tell him, utterly serious. “I was teasing before since it’s clear that you’ve got the kind of charisma that makes it easy to get people to like you. But it’s also clear—even on first impression—that you’re really smart and deep and talented and... and...” I trail off, my cheeks burning as I realize what I’m rambling out.
His face softens. His eyes are deep and warm. He’s holding a bite of pasta salad on a fork, but he hasn’t raised it to his mouth. “And what?”
“And substantial. Like there’s way more to you than the surface.”
“Thanks.” He clears his throat. “For saying that.”
I nod and hide my eyes for a minute, wondering where I got the courage to say such a thing to this man.
It seems to have meant something to him, so maybe it wasn’t a mistake.
He’s not saying anything, and I can’t bring myself to raise my eyes from my food yet, but I finally think of something to say. “I guess everyone feels like that to a certain extent. Like there’s a lot more to you than the surface but most people don’t see it. I look like a freaking fairy princess. I’m sure you can imagine what people assume I am based only on that.”
“But surely people can see how much more there is to you. I mean, I could tell immediately, just watching you walk down the hall on Tuesday evenings after class, that you’re smart and serious and thoughtful and confident and... and... strong.”
“Strong?” My eyes get very round.
“Yes. Strong. Why does that surprise you?”
“Because I don’t always feel strong, and no one ever sees me as strong.”
“I bet they do. You look people in the eye. You don’t back down. You meet every challenge. You’re definitely strong.”
“You have no way of knowing that.”
“Yes, I do. Because you’re determined not to like me, and so far you’ve held out against all my efforts.” He gives me an ironic twitch of his eyebrows.
I break into soft laughter. I can’t help it. “I’m not determined not to like you.”
“Yes, you are. I don’t know exactly why, but I know that for sure. It’s not a normal experience for me, so it’s left me off-kilter.”
“You have not been off-kilter. You’ve been smooth and suave the whole time.”
“Is that what you think?” His lips get soft in a way that makes me desperately want to touch them. “Maybe I’m a better actor than I thought.”
This conversation is starting to feel dangerous. Not just intimate but dangerous. I have to put on some brakes or I’ll be completely lost. I clear my throat. “Well. Then. Thanks for lunch. It was really good.” I’ve finished my sandwich and about half my salad, and I’m full. “Do you want to look at the books now?”
He pops the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth and nods as he chews. When he’s swallowed, he says, “Probably a good idea.”
We both get up and walk to the shelf where I’ve stacked the books. We go over all of them against the list, and he seems to approve of each one. I tell him the status of the others, and I’m starting to think escape is within my reach. Maybe I can get through this encounter without making a fool of myself or falling in desperate love with this man.
“Okay,” I say in my concluding tone. “I’ll let you know when the rest of them come in. Thanks for lunch.”
“Ah, there it is.”
“There’s what?”
“My dismissal. I was just priding myself on making it forty-five minutes without being kicked out.”
“I wasn’t kicking you out. But I assume you have to get back to work.”
His handsome face twists reluctantly. “Yeah. I probably should.”
“Okay then. I wasn’t kicking you out. Our meeting is just over.”
“Is that what this is? A meeting?”
“What else would it be?”
He steps closer. He’s not touching me, but I can feel the hot tension of his body. “I think you know,” he murmurs.
My face flushes hot, and I clench my hands at my sides. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“Do what?�
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“Talk like that. Look at me like that. It doesn’t feel very professional.”
“That’s because it’s not.”
My vision is starting to blur, like the world and his face are whirling in front of my eyes. “Then maybe you shouldn’t do this. Don’t look at me like...”
“Like what?”
I can’t answer. The words are blocked in my throat.
“Like I’m going to kiss you?” His voice is very soft, slightly hoarse, infinitely sexy.
I’m almost shaking now. “Yes. Like that.”
“Katrina, I’m looking at you like I’m about to kiss you because I am.”
Oh God. I want it so much. It’s all I can do to keep my hands at my sides and not throw myself into his arms.
He takes a shuddering breath and turns away from me with a weird little jerk. “But you’re right. It’s not professional. We should wait.”
This isn’t at all what I expected. “Wait?”
“Until this project is done. Until we’re not working together. It’s only three more weeks. I’m sure I can hold out that long. Then we can... pursue this.”
“But...” I’m not sure if my objection is that I don’t want to pursue this (an obvious lie) or that I don’t want to wait (much closer to the truth).
He turns to look at me again. “But what?”
“I... I don’t know.” That’s as close as I can come to expressing my confusion.
He nods like I’ve said something coherent. “Well, you’ve got three weeks to think about it. I’m going to leave now because I’m not sure how much longer I can control myself.”
I don’t know what to make of the fact that he’s discussing this heat between us so openly, but it’s a relief. That he feels the same way. That he’s willing to talk about it. That maybe we can figure this out without my whole world being swept up in the tidal wave of who he is.
I nod. “Okay. I’ll email when the rest of the books come in.”
“I’ll see you on Tuesday night, Katrina.”
Even the sound of his saying my name turns me on unreasonably. “Thanks for lunch.”
“You’re welcome.” He pauses, one of his hands reaching out toward me before he jerks it back. “Okay. That’s it. I’m leaving now.”