I was out of the pool and rushing toward the men’s locker room to rinse off and change as soon as she said the word “go,” her warning and accompanying laugh echoing off the walls around me. The fall semester started this week, but the class I’m going to TA for starts today. I’m determined to make a good impression, so I’m ready and presentable in record time. I’m wiping my glasses clean as I practically sprint to Demi’s car. I fling open the passenger door and buckle myself in quickly.
“Good job. We’ll be there in five, which’ll give you three minutes to spare,” she says smugly.
“You’re too good,” I admit.
“I know,” she laughs. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep yourself away from the pool during open swim time, and I know you park across campus. I thought I’d play it on the safe side and check on you after I visited my dad since today is my light day.”
Demi’s dad works for Cornell University, where we go to school, so she makes it a point to visit him whenever she can. She’s one of the smartest people I know, yet he’s still a stickler about her grades. Part of me thinks her frequent visits are to make sure he isn’t breathing down her neck too much.
I look over at my childhood best friend and smile in gratitude. She can feel my eyes and turns to beam at me, her smile lighting up her face. After all these years, we’ve maintained our friendship. It probably helped that she lived next door, and although she’s three years younger than me, her skipping grades in school definitely helped us stay close. Now that we’re both in college, we’ve leased a place together off campus. It’s comforting to have her as a constant in my life, and I trust her more than anyone else I know.
“Thanks for saving my butt today, Demi.”
“Anytime, Theo. I do have a teensy little favor to ask of you, please.” She turns to me again and attempts a really cute puppy dog face.
I laugh at her expression. “What do you want?”
“Let me know what you think of Wilder and his class, please. I heard he might be teaching Symbolism of Fairy Tales in Adult Psychology next semester, and I want to make sure he’s as good as they say he is. What better source for info than his trusty TA?”
“I’ll let you know what I think,” I tell her just as she pulls up to the curb.
“Thanks, Theo. Now get to class!”
“Yes, ma’am.” I mock-salute her before leaning over to give her a hug. “I’ll see you tonight at home.”
“Sounds like a plan. I can’t wait to hear how things go.”
I quickly exit the vehicle and tap the top of the hood twice in thanks before I lean down and wave goodbye. I check my cell and see I’ve got two minutes to spare before I need to arrive. Dang. I rush off toward class, my legs moving with the swiftness of Hermes with a message for Zeus.
I’m not quite sure how it happened, but one minute I’m flying, and the next someone is crashing into me. My messenger bag swings open from the impact, the contents fluttering out like confetti, but before I try and grab my things, I look to make sure the person who ran into me is okay. I turn and see a willowy girl with tousled locks rushing away as she shouts “I’m so sorry!” over her shoulder at me, her top billowing behind her as she flees. I stand still for a few moments as I stare after her, the parts of my body where we bumped into each other still warm from the contact.
Two
Theo
By the time I pick up my scattered papers and make it to class, I’ve got barely a minute to spare. I readjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder as I enter and head toward the front of the lecture hall. As my steps bring me closer, I catch sight of Professor Wilder. He’s seated at the desk to the left of the podium that flanks the small stage, his head bowed low over a sheet of paper as he writes something down.
“Right on time,” he says in greeting, his head still lowered. He lifts an arm and gestures toward the desk opposite him on the right side of the stage. “Thank you. Please set your things down and pull up a seat.”
He finally raises his head, and his eyes find mine. His gaze is direct and piercing as he silently scrutinizes me. I can see how his unwavering stare would intimidate many, but after a lifetime of being looked at and mentally picked apart by my peers, I’ve learned how to keep my expression steady and not let it get to me.
I set my bag down on my desk and hold his stare as I move to stand in front of his desk. He raises a quizzical brow, so I reach forward with my hand and introduce myself.
“Theo Cadwell. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
He extends his own hand, and we exchange a firm handshake. After a few seconds he subtly nods his head, as if he’s satisfied. “Cohen Wilder.”
Nodding my head in return, I move to take a seat close to his desk. He turns to look at me, and his assessing gaze takes me in for another moment before he speaks. “Have you ever TA’d for anyone before?”
“No, sir, but I’ve had classes with TAs before, and I took the TA orientation offered by the school.”
His lips lift in a smirk. “Please, none of that ‘sir’ shit. You’re not my student. I’m very demanding of my students, and I’ll be demanding of you, but you can call me Cohen. We’ll be working together all school year, and I hope we can be on friendly ground, so no need for formalities. Also, you should know I have an open door policy. Feel free to talk to me or swing by my office if you need to talk or just need a quiet place to grade papers.”
“Okay, thank you.” I’m a little stunned; this guy’s as cool as he looks.
“We have a few minutes before class starts, so how about you tell me a little about yourself and I run through what I need from you. Sound good?”
“Sounds good,” I answer with a smile.
I give him a brief background on my area of study and what I hope to get from the class, and he gives me a rundown of what he expects of me this semester, which doesn’t seem out of the norm from what I’ve observed or learned. In addition to helping design some of the tests and course materials, I’ll be grading assignments, working with students who need help, and possibly teaching a class or two. This last duty makes me slightly nervous. I try to avoid public speaking out of fear of triggering my stutter, which has been manageable the last few years thanks to taking Dr. Michaels’s advice, and he seems to notice my apprehension.
“You have that look,” he observes.
“What look?”
“The look that shows me you don’t relish the idea of speaking in public.”
“I’m not keen on it.” He continues to stare at me, obviously waiting for me to elaborate. “I have a stutter. I’ve learned to control it most of the time, but if I’m anxious about triggering it, it’s more likely to happen. I don’t want to put myself at risk, so to speak.”
Cohen regards me thoughtfully before he responds. “I see. Well, how about we work on that confidence? No risk, no reward.” He flashes me a quick smile, stands, and walks around to the front of his desk.
Before I have the chance to reply, he checks his watch and leans against his desk just as the doors to the lecture hall burst open. “Let the fun begin,” he mutters under his breath as the first wave of students enters the room.
I move to my desk on the opposite side and watch how Cohen’s easy demeanor with me transforms to stern and commanding as undergrad students—mostly female, by the looks of it—filter in and find their seats. His smile is no longer in place, and he stands with his arms crossed over his chest. A few minutes pass and once everyone is seated, Cohen inspects the room like a king surveying his subjects. As his gaze travels across the room from one side to the other, a collective shiver seems to follow in his wake, and the whispers and idle chatter quiet down until he has everyone’s undivided attention. Judging by the hearts in the eyes of every woman in the room, it doesn’t look like having their attention will be a struggle. I glance down at the roster in front of me and see the class maxed out at 300 students; I had no idea he was this popular.
“Welcome to Intro to Greek Mythology.” Hi
s deep voice is loud and carries across the room easily, even without a microphone. “I’m Cohen Wilder, and I’ll be your professor this semester. Before I get started, please raise your hand if this course is required for your curriculum path for your major.”
No one raises their hand. I catch the slight breath Cohen expels in what I’m guessing is disappointment or frustration.
“How many of you are taking this class as an elective?”
All hands raise up at this question, and Cohen uncrosses his arms and places his hands on his desk on either side of his hips.
“Got it. I’ll have to say now, if you took my course in hopes of getting an easy A, you’re in the wrong class.” I almost laugh at the fallen expressions on some of the students’ faces, but I keep it in check. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this class will not be an hour and a half session of storytelling. This semester, we’ll be surveying Greek myths with an emphasis on their significance in Mediterranean society. We’ll use these myths to not only help our understanding of Greek literature, religion, and moral and political concepts, but we’ll also dig into how these myths were created. What factors and influences helped shape these stories? What was their role in Greek life and consciousness?” Excitement lights his eyes as he speaks, and I notice many students unconsciously lean forward, like moths to a flame, to catch more of his words. “These are the topics we’ll be learning about, and I hope you’re all ready to learn. If you’re not, please find another class to attend.”
Silence follows Cohen’s words, and even though some students look afraid, a majority of them still have stars in their eyes as they listen to him.
“This course may not be directly related to your major, but I challenge you to come to this class with an open mind.”
“I’ll come to class with open legs if he’d let me,” one girl with Shirley Temple curls snickers. Her voice is lowered, but her words manage to carry across the room.
“I’ll definitely be coming, that’s for sure,” her friend responds in a loud whisper.
They laugh, heedless of the fact that everyone is looking at them.
“What was that?” Cohen asks.
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, the giggling from the unstealthy pair of friends dies down. They both look at each other in fear before turning their embarrassed gazes toward their unimpressed professor.
“Nothing, sir,” Shirley Temple says in a contrite voice.
“We were just—”
Before she can continue, Cohen cuts her off. “You were just saying how you’d come to class with open legs and that you’d be coming, yes?” His voice is low and quiet, but his tone is cold and cutting. I marvel at the calm way he’s calling them out; most professors I’ve had would’ve ignored comments like those. Then again, most of my professors are older, married, and don’t look like they walked off the pages of a romance novel (I only know this because Demi reads them).
Both girls stare at him with gaping mouths, resembling fish who desperately need oxygen. All eyes and ears in the room are soaking up the exchange like it’s on the front page of the latest gossip rag.
“That’s what I thought,” Cohen says when they don’t respond. “What are your names?”
“Kiara Simmons,” corkscrew curls whispers.
“Julie Jones,” her friend says, also in a whisper.
“Well, Ms. Simmons. Ms. Jones.” He glares at one and then the other. “Get out of my classroom. I will not tolerate any form of sexual harassment, and that includes any remarks of a sexual nature toward me. As of right now, you’re both officially off the roster. This class has a waitlist, so now your spots can go to people who actually want to learn.”
“But—”
“Get. Out. Now.” He hasn’t raised his voice, but his tone is so frigid I’m surprised icicles haven’t formed.
Both girls rush out, and as soon as the doors bang shut behind them, Cohen looks back to the shocked classroom.
“Since today’s the first day of class, it seems like a little housekeeping is in order. Please pull out the syllabus I posted in our class discussion board last week. If you haven’t printed it, please share with the person next to you. Either way, pay attention.”
Each student scrambles to pull out the syllabus, and Cohen proceeds to cover it with everyone. I follow along and peek up at the class occasionally to see if they’re paying attention, which they are. We review the topics and course schedule, as well as school policies and class expectations. Right as we’re about to finish, one of the doors bursts open, and a girl rushes in and down the steps.
All eyes swerve to Cohen to see his reaction. With a very casual glance at his watch and a slight lift of his eyebrow, he addresses the latecomer.
“May I help you, Ms...?”
“Mitchell. Addison Mitchell.” Her voice is breathless, and her cheeks are flushed, probably from a mixture of exertion and embarrassment. She moves closer, and although I can’t see her features clearly, I can tell she’s lovely. Tall and lithe, the long blonde mass of her hair give off a beachy vibe, as if she’s in the habit of running her hands through it.
“Well, Ms. Mitchell, if you’re here for Intro to Greek Mythology, you’re extremely late.”
“I promise I’m not usually like this, but I got a call from campus security saying my car was backed into in the parking lot. I had to go look at it and call my insurance provider. I have a note from security if you’d like to see it. I’m usually very punctual.”
“Regardless of the reason, please find a way to notify me or my TA ahead of time if you cannot make it to class. I normally have a zero-tolerance policy for people who arrive late, but considering the circumstances and seeing as today is the first day, this’ll be a free pass. Consider yourself lucky. Please go take a seat.”
“Thank you, sir.” She turns on her heel and heads back up the steps toward one of the open seats vacated by the chatty pair earlier. Her hair moves with each step, and the floaty material of her top moves as well. Before she heads down the row to her seat, she looks over her shoulder and says, “Also, I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Cohen nods in acknowledgment of her words, but I freeze in place. I should’ve connected the dots when I saw her hair and shirt, but her words and the way she said them over her shoulder bring to the forefront of my mind my interaction earlier. This is the girl who bumped into me. I shake my head and look back to Cohen, who is covering the last of the information contained in the syllabus.
I look around the room, and every single woman I see is watching him with a rapt, dreamlike expression. All, it seems, except for one. I’m startled to find a pair of warm brown eyes looking at me with undisguised interest. I force my gaze to keep moving, but I feel the intensity of her stare. I discreetly try to look behind and around me to see if something else captured her attention, but I don’t see anything. Like a set of magnets, my eyes find hers again, and she’s still watching me. I feel a blush start to burn my cheeks, and the smile that lights up her face in response takes my breath away.
Why does she keep looking at me? I think to myself. I’m starting to feel really out of my element.
Three
Addy
Score one to my Intro to Mythology class for the mega eye candy. When I first entered the lecture hall, I instantly sought out the professor so I could express my apologies, and I was taken aback by how sexy he is. Sure, I heard the rumors, but I thought they were exaggerated; that’s definitely not the case. Tall with dark hair and strong, broad shoulders, he’s a knockout. His five o’clock shadow makes his bright blue eyes pop, and his deep voice is smoother than hot syrup. He holds himself with a distinct air of authority, and although he was nice enough, there’s something about him that is a little too intense for me. He effortlessly holds the class’s attention, and I get the impression from the way he talks and assesses everyone that he’s a force to be reckoned with in any setting. I don’t know if he’s married, but he looks like he’d freakin�
� consume a woman. That almost scary sex appeal is probably why the majority of class is female. Hell, almost all of the girls are practically panting and gushing in their seats, but I’ll take a hard pass.
I’m set to graduate after this semester, and I only need a few more classes and this one to satisfy an overlooked elective requirement to get my degree. I’m thankful I’m not caught up in the fangirling over my professor because it’ll be easier for me to focus and keep my GPA up.
Instead, my interests have surprisingly fallen elsewhere. I can’t keep my gaze from tracking back to my new professor’s TA every few minutes. Gorgeous in an unassuming way, he’s making it hard for me to focus on the last part of the syllabus that’s being covered right now. Maybe I spoke too soon. If this continues, I might have trouble concentrating the rest of the semester.
At first glance, he isn’t anything like the guys who normally catch my attention. I’m usually attracted to guys who love being in the spotlight—whether as a sports star or just within their circle of friends—and I can tell this guy is the exact opposite. Not only did he straight up blush and look adorably bashful when I smiled at him, he almost seems hesitant to maintain eye contact with me. He looks content to sit back and observe, made all the more obvious when the professor draws attention to him.
“Now that we’ve covered the syllabus, I’d like you all to meet my TA, Theo.” God, even his name is cute. He gestures toward the object of my attention, who gives an awkward little wave to the class. “You can consider him my right hand man, and he’ll be your first point of contact this semester should you have any concerns. I expect him to receive the same deference and respect you’d afford me. Theo, do you have anything you’d like to say to the class?”
I watch in curiosity as a lightning-quick moment seems to flash between professor and TA, almost as if a challenge was thrown down. I can see the ruddiness of Theo’s cheeks before he nods and moves to stand next to the podium. He doesn’t look comfortable being the center of attention, but his body moves with the confident, easy gait of someone at home in their own skin. He’s tall and lean with short brown hair, and his broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist.
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