by Lea Coll
His lips twitched. “The bike’s mine.”
“It’s not Luke’s?” I could totally see Luke driving a motorcycle.
“It’s my grandfather’s. It was just sitting in the barn so Luke and I fixed it up.” He came to stand next to me. “I live in the professor housing on the edge of campus and the bike is perfect for the short commute and parking here.”
He was right; parking on campus was limited.
He stood so close I could smell leather, gas, and the outdoors. I licked my lips, still trying to wrap my mind around how sexy a professor riding a motorcycle was.
“You know, I called your name several times as you walked by.”
“You did?” I swear I couldn’t speak in complete sentences. I gestured at my head. “Sorry, I have this story percolating in my head. When that happens I can’t stop thinking of all of the angles, questions, possibilities.”
“Yeah?” he asked, as we started to walk toward the Academic Center building. “Is it a good story?”
“Eh, not by your higher education standards.”
“I’d love to hear whatever has you so engrossed you couldn’t hear me calling your name.”
Studying his face and seeing nothing but genuine interest, I realized whenever we spoke he gave me his undivided attention. He was thoughtful and truly interested in what I had to say. It was very different from the men I’d dated. “I’m considering writing that article about college kids not dating. Did you date in college?” Even though we’d discussed this on the quad when I ran into him the other day I wanted to know more about him.
He considered me for a moment. “I did. I thought that was a big part of college. You know, breaking away from labels placed on you in high school and coming into your own skin—finding yourself, exploring relationships.” We’d stopped in the middle of the quad, facing each other as groups of students brushed past us, headed to class.
“What were you labeled in high school?” I remembered him being quiet, smart, and keeping to himself. But his brother, Luke, was two years older and a jock, so he hung out with that crowd too. I didn’t remember him being picked on.
He looked away from me then. “Oh you know, I was a nerd in high school. I didn’t date much.” Clearing his throat, he continued, “College was eye-opening for me. Women saw me differently.”
Grinning, I tried to picture him in college. “So, you were a ladies’ man?”
Chuckling, he shook his head. “Uh, no. Women expressed interest in me, but I had no idea what I was doing. I was really shy and awkward.”
“You don’t seem shy now.” Our few conversations seemed easy.
“I’m not anymore. In college, I was a tutor, so I was forced to speak to women. Now I speak in front of a roomful of students, so I’ve gotten over a lot of that. I wouldn’t say I’m smooth though.”
I gestured at his outfit. “I don’t know. You’ve got the whole sexy professor thing going on and riding a motorcycle is not hurting your image.”
“You like it?” His voice was low and gravelly.
I did. I liked it a lot, but he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in me, so I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“You do.” His eyes were intense on mine.
I looked away from him, suddenly uncomfortable with his scrutiny. Nothing good could come from him knowing I found him attractive.
“Do you need to be anywhere? I’m headed to Gibson Center for the newspaper meeting.” I pointed at the building, not ready to say goodbye to him yet.
“Yeah, I have class there starting in a few minutes.”
I nodded as we fell in step next to each other. Glancing at my phone, I noticed I was running a few minutes late again. No matter how hard I tried to be more professional, I was always late. Usually it was because most people knew me and I stopped to talk to them. I justified it because those conversations could be a potential story.
Placing his hands in his pockets, he said, “I was impressed with your talk in front of the newspaper students the other day.”
Warmth spread through me at his compliment. “Thank you.”
“I think it’s great you’re working with the kids.” He held the large heavy door open for me to precede him into the building.
Just as I passed in front of him, a group of students walked out of the building causing me to stumble back into Sawyer’s hard chest.
His other arm came to my hip steadying me, his voice in my hair. “You okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said breathlessly, concentrating on the tight grip he had on my hip through the thin knit dress I wore. Could he feel the tiny strap of my thong under his fingers? The thought heated my core. Then I noticed my butt was pressed against his crotch. A little embarrassed to be caught in this position with Sawyer, I moved forward, breaking contact. “Thanks.” I smoothed my hair and took a step inside the building, my face hot.
Trying to remember what we were talking about, I said, “It’s what I love about the paper. I love meeting new people and being part of the community.”
I snuck a glance at Sawyer who walked next to me, his eyes intent on mine, like he was weighing everything I said carefully. “You know, you’re nothing like I thought.”
We slowed to a stop outside the meeting room for the paper. Was he referencing what he’d said at Logan and Ashley’s housewarming party? Not sure I wanted to address his less-than-stellar opinion of me, I said, “Maybe you should get to know me better?” His eyes dropped from my eyes to my lips. Realizing my tone was flirty and wanting to break the moment, I said, “I guess I’ll see you around.”
He smiled and said quietly, “Bye, Stella.” It was hard to reconcile this guy with the one who’d said I was too loud and crazy. I was sensitive to those comments because my mother used to say the same thing.
Neil stood at the front of the room, at the dry-erase board, adding names to a list of article topics when I walked in. He smiled, nodding at me. “Look who’s here.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, confidently walking to the front of the room. Each time, I felt more comfortable in this role and found I liked it.
“I just assigned some articles to them. Did you have anything to add?”
“I do.” I went over my ideas for an article on online dating and relationships in college. The students seemed excited with my ideas, which fueled me. When a few students volunteered to take on my assignment and they moved to work in groups, Neil pulled me aside. “Hey, can I talk to you about something?”
“Sure.” We moved over to his desk on the side of the room. “I have an interesting opportunity for you. We’d like to offer a summer journalism course—something young and fresh. The students love you and your energy. Would you be interested in developing a course and teaching it?”
I was speechless for a minute. Growing up with a learning disability, teaching was never an option for me. “But I’m not a teacher. I don’t know the first thing about developing a course.” I was comfortable in my current job because my dictation program allowed me to write. I wasn’t sure if my disability would be an issue with this new opportunity.
“You’d be an adjunct professor, so hired on a part-time basis to teach this one course. The rest of the teachers in the department already have a full schedule, so they can’t do it. I think you’d be perfect for this. You could develop the course, teach it once, and decide if it’s not for you. It’s an elective course for the journalism, editing, and publishing major, recognizing that online media is the future. I thought since you were already introducing online media at the Kent County News, this would be ideal for you.”
Excitement built as I thought of developing my own course and teaching it. How amazing would that look on my resume? And I did love working with the students. They listened. They thought what I said was important. I wasn’t the learning-challenged student I was in high school. To them, I was a professional. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Great. It will be offered this summer semester. So you’d need to get the cou
rse objectives and syllabus to the dean in six weeks.”
I started to panic, realizing I’d need to have something done really soon and I had no idea what went into developing a course. “Okay.”
“He wants to hear your pitch, your objectives for the course, and a proposed syllabus. I recommended you for the position, but you’ll need to prove yourself.”
Praise was not something I was used to. My mom had been too engrossed in her health issues and my dad avoided us as much as possible. My sister, Lindsey, was odd in her own way, too wrapped up in herself, ignoring our family issues.
“You’re great with the students. They look up to you. Working for a student paper isn’t always exciting, but you energize them, motivate them. You do a better job than me, that’s for sure.”
“Wow. Thanks.” I knew I was good at influencing people, at creating excitement for my ideas, but it was still amazing to have my old professor compliment me.
“I’ll see you at next week’s meeting, okay?”
“Yeah. Sounds good.” I walked out of the room with a huge smile on my face, wondering who to tell first. I was bursting with excitement that Neil believed in me, that I’d proved to him I could develop and teach a course. It was not something I’d ever considered doing. I could text Emma or Ashley to tell them the good news, but I had a burning desire to tell Sawyer.
I knew he taught a class in this building, so maybe his office was here too. I stopped at the digital bulletin board inside the front doors to look for his name. Then I walked up the steps to the second floor, hoping to catch him in his office. His office door was closed, so I walked past the classrooms to see if he was teaching. Catching a glimpse of him through an open door teaching at a podium in front of a classroom, I stopped, leaning against the door frame.
He pushed his glasses up his nose as he walked to the board, going through his lecture on the Civil War. I looked around the room to see most of the students listening and taking notes. I wasn’t particularly interested in history, but I had to admit his lecture was engaging. He paced back and forth in front of the room, telling the story of the Battle of Gettysburg. He didn’t reference any notes and I could see the events unfolding in front of me with his words.
Then an idea formed in my head, I could ask Sawyer to help me with developing the course and maybe I could help him with something in exchange.
When he dismissed the students, I shifted to allow them to file out of the room. I waited for him to answer a student’s questions before I moved a few feet into the room. When he said goodbye to the student, he finally saw me. “Did you need something?”
Hesitating, wondering if he would think it was weird I wanted to talk to him first about my news, I said, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Oh yeah?” he asked. He picked up his texts and papers and slid them into his messenger bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder.
“Neil asked me to develop an online media course for the journalism major to teach this summer.”
Sawyer’s brow raised. “You’re going to develop it and teach?”
Was that respect I saw in his eyes? “Yeah, the other teachers in the department already have a full course-load and Neil recommended me to the dean based on my work at the paper so far. He said I energize the students.”
“Congratulations. I think you’d be great at it.”
He sounded proud of me. “Thanks.” I didn’t think it could be better than Neil complimenting me, but a rush of joy flooded my body at Sawyer’s praise. “You’re great too. I watched your talk today. You make it seem so real; I felt like I was there. And I’m hoping you could help me. Neil said I need to come up with course objectives and a syllabus in six weeks. I’ve never done anything like this before.” I held up my hands. “Before you answer, I’d love to help you out with something too. This would be an even exchange.”
He was quiet for so long, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Did he think it was a dumb idea? Did he not want to be around me for that length of time? “Nevermind, it was a—”
“Actually, there is something I need help with and I think you’d be perfect.”
He thought I’d be perfect for something? “What is it?”
“I need a date for the Sophie Kerr dinner at the college, where they award the scholarships. The head of the history department sat down with me yesterday to talk about my chances for tenure. He told me I need to make more of an effort to socialize and be known to the members of the committee. If I don’t get tenure, I’d be asked to leave.” His eyes were steady on mine. “You could help me.”
“Me? How could I help? Oh, do you need help finding a date?”
“Not exactly.” He shifted on his feet. “I’d like you to be my date.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. I hadn’t been expecting that.
“I’ve seen the way you talk to people. Socializing is not my thing. And you, you’re—”
Remembering his words, I asked, “I’m the life of the party, right?” That’s what my friends always said and I’d always thought it was a positive, but that was before Sawyer made it seem like a negative. The exact thing he criticized about my personality was what he needed to promote at his job. I didn’t know how to feel about that.
“Well, yeah. You know everyone. Everyone loves you.” Sensing my hesitation, he said, “Please, Stella. I need you. You’re so good with people and I’m hopeless. I always say the wrong thing.”
Did he regret what he’d said about me? Was Samantha right and he’d misspoken? Looking into his eyes, I couldn’t resist. He needed my help and thinking of the course I’d develop, I needed him too. “Okay.”
His face broke out in a smile. “Great. You won’t regret this, Stella.”
Even though his relief was palpable, I was already regretting it. I was attracted to him and now I was going as his fake date to a function at the college. Was this a good idea given what he thought about me? When I was just getting into the dating world again?
His expression hopeful, he said, “Want to meet up tonight? I coach women’s rowing until six but can make dinner afterward if you want to come by my place at seven.”
The excitement I initially felt that he wanted to get started right away dissipated with the reminder he was a coach. “I’d forgotten you coach. I guess that’s where you get those huge shoulders from. And you cook?” He was smart, attractive, rode a motorcycle, and he cooked? Fake dating this man was not a good idea.
“Yeah, I’m hungry and I live on my own. Cooking is a necessity.”
“Sure, yeah, okay, I can come by tonight.”
“You like seafood?”
“Of course. I grew up on the Eastern Shore.”
“I’ll make seafood linguine then.”
“Sounds good,” I said as we walked out of the classroom. What had I gotten myself into? I was impulsive, but I’d surprised even myself. Why did I feel the need to tell Sawyer about the course? Why did his opinion matter so much to me? I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. And why couldn’t I dismiss him and his words from my mind?
“Let’s exchange numbers since we’ll need to communicate about your course and my event.”
“Sure.” I handed him my phone for him to add his number. The idea that Sawyer was now just a text away from me was exciting.
Handing the phone back to me, he said. “I really appreciate this, Stella.”
“Of course.” The problem was, the more I interacted with Sawyer the more I liked him. Now we’d be working together on my class and I’d be going to dinner as his date. I needed to remember this was work and that nothing could come from it. Until I understood his real opinion of me better I’d be smart to keep my distance.
THAT NIGHT, I WENT STRAIGHT from my office to Sawyer’s house. He’d texted his address and to come over at 6:30 PM. I wanted to remember it wasn’t a date, so I didn’t change out of the colorful floral sundress, navy cardigan, and ballet flats I’d worn all day. He lived on the outskirts of campus in the row
of homes reserved for professors. I parked on the curb in front of his house, which was a brick Cape Cod with black shuttered windows on the first level and three dormer windows on the top floor. I walked up the sidewalk past the neatly trimmed yard.
The sound of his footsteps approaching the door suddenly made me nervous. I plastered a smile on my face when the door opened. “Sawyer! Hi!” Then I cringed. Was I too loud? How was I going to hang out with this man who thought I was too loud and obnoxious?
“Hey, come on in.” His voice was soft.
I stepped inside, smelling garlic and shrimp. He’d changed into a polo shirt and khaki shorts, and had leather flip flops on his feet. He was casual, yet he could have been on a date.
I stood inside a little foyer with his study to my left and a hallway which led to the kitchen.
“What a beautiful desk.” It was the centerpiece of his study which was surrounded with wood paneling and built-in shelves.
“Thanks. It was my grandfather’s. I grade papers here since it’s quieter than at school where our doors are required to be open all of the time we’re there.”
“That makes sense.” Why did my words sound stilted all of a sudden? Was it because we were alone inside his home? I was in his personal space and it was intimate.
“I need to check on the shrimp and the sauce.”
I followed him down the hallway past the living room and into the kitchen.
“It smells so good.” I placed my bag down on the stool at the island, then rubbed my hands over my arms, trying to remove the goosebumps that had popped up since I’d entered his space. The kitchen—which featured white cabinets, gray swirl granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances—opened into the dining room, where I was surprised to see a long dark dining room table with antique-looking chairs pushed under the table. Wood beams lined the ceiling, which sloped slightly down to a fireplace. It was cozy.
A large bowl of linguine sat on the island, steam rising off of it, as if he’d just drained the pasta from the pot. He added seafood and a buttery-looking sauce from a pot on the stove into the bowl. Then he used wooden spoons to mix it together. When he was done, he picked up a bottle of wine. “Did you want a glass?”