by Nichole Rose
I was wrong. There's no sugarcoating it or making it an easier pill to swallow.
Love like that does exist, rare though it may be. It is entirely possible to spend one night with a woman and know in the deepest, darkest recesses of your soul that she's the one meant for you.
Call it obsession. Call it whatever you will. But Caroline Kennedy is that one. My muse, my princess. My one. I've thought of nothing but her since the moment she left my side. Wherever she's at, whatever she's running from…she's mine. And Mr. Webb is going to help me find her. I refuse to accept anything less than his cooperation.
Call me arrogant. Call me cocky. Call me an asshole. I'll use whatever I have to use to find her.
I have to find her. Not because I sat down to write for the first time in years last night, but because I think I might die if I don't have her back in my arms soon. They ache without her.
"Ah, names?" he squeaks.
I give him a sharp look. "You can give me the names of the students enrolled here?"
"Yes?"
How someone lacks the basic knowledge of what he may and may not do when performing his duties as the university's Registrar, I do not know. But every word from his mouth sends irritation prickling at me. Then again, when is the last time I wasn't perpetually irritated?
Last night, my mind whispers. With Caroline.
The thought draws me up short, halting irritation in its tracks.
Sweet, sensual Caroline wouldn't snap and snarl at Webb like an unruly beast. She would take pity on him. I know it as instinctively as I know she's meant to be mine. She would find a way to put him at ease, treat him better than I have since I barged in here and demanded his help.
I take a deep breath and exhale it slowly.
Finding her isn't enough. I have to deserve the trust she put in me when she called me her daddy and gave my life purpose again.
"I'd like the first and last name of every student here, please."
"All of them?" Mr. Webb wipes sweat from his brow.
"Unless you can give me just those named Caroline."
"I can do that." He seems relieved to be able to provide me with something other than a resolute no. "I'll email it to you as soon as the report is ready."
"Thank you." I start to turn away from his desk and then hesitate. I'm almost certain Caroline is her real first name, but better not to risk being wrong. "Include anyone named Kennedy as well."
"Of course, Professor King. No problem."
I duck out of the office, headed back toward my lecture hall on the far side of the campus. It's cool out, a noticeable bite in the air. Gusts of wind kick up dead and dying leaves, sending them swirling across the campus. I shove my hands into my pockets, touch the pair of panties hidden there.
"Where are you, sweet baby?" I murmur, plagued with an emotion I rarely feel. Uncertainty.
Why didn't she show up? Did I come on too strong? Frighten her? Did she find out who I am and run? That last thought…that's the one that worries me most. I know my reputation. I know what students say about me. It never mattered until now. I never cared if they liked me or not. My goal has always been to make them stronger writers, more capable of defending their art.
Talent matters, certainly. But talent alone doesn't sell. It takes grit and guts and the ability to keep plugging along even when the drawer of rejection runs over and a yes seems like a dream that'll remain forever out of reach. That's what I prepare them for.
God knows, no one prepared me. Despite growing up in the literary world, I didn't have a fucking clue what waited for me. My first agent wanted in my pants. My second wanted the dirt on my family to launch her own writing career. My first book never made it out of the box in my office where it still sits, twenty years later. My second was hammered by critics. My third fared little better.
I found success only with half a dozen years of hard-learned, painful lessons under my belt. Lessons that, quite frankly, almost killed every bit of drive I had in me. I lost the rest of that drive when my own team betrayed me. I fought through hell to get back what rightfully belonged to me. And I haven't written since.
Writers give up and walk away every day. They lose their passion, their purpose. No grinds it right out of them. Rejection stings like a bitch. Betrayal hurts even worse. I teach writers to suck it up and bite back before they lose their passion and their purpose like I did.
But maybe I've become so focused on the end goal that I let the means justify it when I shouldn't have. I make them tougher, true. If they can make it through me, they can make it through anything. Perhaps I've let myself become the enemy in my quest…too much like the machine that grinds ambition right out of them.
Jesus. Is that what I've become? Another voice shouting them down?
The thought is chilling. It's also become increasingly familiar of late.
More and more, I find myself questioning my own methods. One of my students—a tiny little slip of a girl who hides in the back of the lecture hall and never raises her hand despite the fact that I know she can answer every question I pose—is incredibly talented. The kind of talent that comes around once in a lifetime. She had stars in her eyes when she took her seat that first day. I don't see the same there now. I see…doubt. Dejection. Defeat.
Rejection and betrayal didn't put that look there. I did. Her voice could change the world. I thought I was helping make her strong enough to let it. Perhaps, instead, I'm the one who's managed to silence it. The last story she turned in was riddled with errors she's never made before now.
A flash of red in the distance catches my attention. I snap my head up, homing in on the far side of the quad. Anticipation coils in my stomach…and then disappointment saps it right back out. The redhead rushing to class with the wind blowing her hair all around her isn't my princess.
She isn't Caroline.
Anxiety and obsession plague me, churning, churning, churning.
Where is my girl? Is she safe?
I stomp toward my classroom, out of sorts. Frustrated. My skin feels too tight, prickling.
Have I already ruined any chance I might have had with my princess?
Jesus, the thought alone is painful.
My last freshman-level workshop of the day is already trickling in, their heads down and their steps dragging. The evidence of a night of excess clings to them, hovering like little labels above their heads. Too much alcohol for the blonde in the front row who is pale around the lips. Too much dancing for the brunette grimacing and favoring her ankle. Not enough sleep for the basketball player nodding off three rows back.
"Professor King?"
I glance away from the row of chairs to the girl standing beside the podium, wide-eyed and nervous. She fidgets from foot to foot, her gaze stuck on my chest. Kennedy Thorne. My star student. The one too traumatized by my caustic methods to even look me in the eyes.
My Caroline would be horrified if she knew how hard I've pushed this girl with a soft heart, big dreams, and the talent to conquer every last corner of the world. She would be horrified…with me.
There's something about Kennedy that reminds me a little of Caroline, though I can't place exactly what it is. They're complete opposites. My dick has been hard for Caroline since I met her. I feel no attraction to Kennedy. Perhaps the resemblance is simply that they're both young and petite, with trusting eyes and an air of innocence about them.
This girl is barely old enough to be out in the world by herself. Caroline isn't much older.
Jesus. I really am an asshole. No wonder she didn't show up this morning. If my sweet baby has found out who I am, she's probably horrified she gave herself to someone like me.
"Miss Thorne," I murmur, my voice quiet, grave with regret. "How can I help you?"
"Um, I finished my revisions." She reaches inside her bag and pulls out a bright pink folder. A blush stains her cheeks a rosy red as she hands it over to me. "Sorry about the color. I ran out and had to borrow one."
"It's fine, Mi
ss Thorne," I assure her, setting the folder on the podium in front of me.
"I also uploaded it."
"Thank you. I'll have it graded and back to you by the end of the week."
"Thank you." She takes a step backward, preparing to move away.
"Miss Thorne."
She pauses in mid-step.
"The deadline for the Braxton Literary Prize is coming up soon," I say. "Have you considered entering?"
She looks at me this time, her eyes so wide it's almost comical.
"You should consider it." I rub a hand across my head, smoothing my windswept hair…not that it'll do much good. "You're an incredibly talented writer. I think you have a real shot of winning. I'd be happy to write your recommendation if you'd like."
Her mouth pops open. She reminds me of my little sister so much that I chuckle. Jocelyn isn't much older than this girl, though she's outspoken and sarcastic enough for the both of them.
"You'd do that?"
"Of course."
"I…thank you," she whispers, still staring at me in complete shock.
I roll my shoulders, uncomfortable. I don't tell her that the recommendation is already written. It doesn't seem relevant. "Why don't you think it over? I can send it over to you next week if you decide to enter."
"Thank you, Professor King," she says, stumbling toward her seat.
The blonde in the front row says something to her which makes her smile, but then she peeks over her shoulder at me and her smile slips. For once, she doesn't hide all the way in the back though. She chooses a seat in the middle row.
Caroline would be proud.
I touch the pair of panties in my pocket again, remember the feel of her in my arms.
I can change, sweet baby. For you, I will change.
Chapter Five
Caroline
Everything tastes like sawdust, including my favorite peanut butter toast.
I huff an agitated breath and cross our small kitchen, dropping it into the trashcan under the sink so Meeko doesn't get ahold of it. He'll have peanut butter spread across the entire apartment. He grumbles at me and flops down in front of the fridge to glare. He's so overdramatic.
I'm not much better.
I've been moping for the last twenty-four hours, missing Jared even though I shouldn't.
I can't seem to get him out of my head. How is it possible that the man who swept me off my feet is the same one who makes my sister's life miserable in class? No matter how many times I try to figure out how Jared and Professor King can possibly be the same man, the answer eludes me. I met Dr. Jekyll, but the whole world keeps trying to convince me that he's Mr. Hyde.
Was he just toying with me? Saying what he thought I wanted to hear to get what he wanted?
My heart keeps screaming no, but I can't figure out how the man I met is the same exacting professor who expects nothing short of perfection from my sister and her classmates.
"Have you heard back on your assignment?" I ask Kennedy when I look up to find her watching me from our small table. There's a gleam in her eye that's way too familiar. She's suspicious.
Apparently, I'm not very good at hiding my feelings.
"Not yet." She takes a bite of her cereal and then chews before speaking again. "I think Professor King is sick."
"Sick?" I stare at her, worried…greedy for any little morsel of news. I'm trying to do the right thing, but it's so hard. Staying away yesterday nearly killed me. If anyone had told me it was possible to miss someone this badly after one day, I never would have believed them.
"First, he was at the Ball," she says, swirling her spoon around in her bowl. "And then yesterday, he offered to write me a recommendation for the Braxton Literary Prize." Her green eyes are wide with a combination of surprise, suspicion, and confusion. "He said he thinks I have a real chance of winning it."
"He did?"
She blinks at me.
"I mean, of course he did. He'd have to be crazy not to see how talented you are," I murmur, striving for calm when I feel anything but. Just thinking about him makes my entire body light up and sing.
"Do you think he means it?" Kennedy asks, her voice soft.
Her worried question breaks my heart a little bit. Kennedy never asks for or wants anything. She's content no matter what she's doing. But she's dreamed about being a writer since she was a little girl. Winning the Braxton Prize would be a huge opportunity for her to get her work in front of the people who can change her life, without our father stepping in to assert his influence. It's so important to her to succeed on her own and not because our father pulled strings. This is her chance to do it, to prove to herself that she has what it takes to make a career out of doing what she loves.
If Jared doesn't follow through and hurts her…
No. There is no way I'm going to let that happen.
"He means it," I tell Kennedy, iron in my voice. If he thinks he's going to dangle this in front of her and then yank it away, he has another thing coming.
I'm so tightly wound, my hands shake as I storm through the English building, looking for Jared's office. I don't know what game he's playing, but not even the fact that I've been miserable without him is enough to calm me down any at all. First, he criticizes Kennedy for the entire semester. And then he suddenly offers to write her a recommendation?
If this is some new form of torture he's invented for her, I'm going to strangle him.
I keep telling myself that's the only reason I'm coming to see him.
I think it's a lie though. Because I'm as excited as I am upset.
His office door is only partially closed. The name plaque on it lists him as Professor J. Kingston. I guess I might have known that if I'd spent any time in this building over the last four years, but I haven't. I finished my basic credits my senior year of high school, so all of my classes are on the other side of campus, in the science buildings. And Kennedy forbade me from coming here after I threatened to shiv King the first time his blunt criticism hurt her.
I push his door open without knocking. It bangs against the wall, making me cringe.
His office is nice. Bookcases line the far wall, crammed full of neatly ordered books. A leather sofa, an armchair, and an end table rest against the west wall. His massive oak desk and wingback chair dominates the rest of the space.
My heart and mind war as soon as I catch sight of him sitting behind the desk with his dark head bent as he reads from a sheaf of papers. Dressed in a button up with the sleeves rolled up to expose his golden-brown forearms, he's so damn handsome my heart actually aches.
I don't let that sway me.
Nor do I let the relief in his mossy eyes sway me when he looks up and realizes I'm the one who just burst into his office so rudely.
"Caroline," he whispers. "Princess. Thank God."
Lord, I love the way he says my name as if it's a sensory experience for him. It's no wonder so many freshman girls decide to enroll in his workshop despite his reputation. He's gorgeous with an incredible voice to match.
Focus, I remind myself. I'm not a freshman with a crush, but a sister on a mission.
"What are you playing at?" I demand, slamming my hands down on my hips to glare at him. Part of me—a huge part of me—wants to catapult myself over the desk into his arms. The other part of me refuses to budge. Maybe I've been thinking about him nonstop since Halloween night, but no one hurts my baby sister and gets away with it.
"You didn't show up yesterday," he says, rising to his feet. He plants his hands on his desk. His forearms strain as if he's physically forcing himself to stay where he's at. His gaze runs all across me as if he's starving for the sight of me. Part of me is thrilled by the way his eyes darken as he looks at me. It's the same part that took the time to put on mascara and a good bra before coming here. "I was worried about you, sweet baby."
My righteous indignation pours from me like water through a sieve, leaving me feeling deflated, thrilled, and guilty at the same time. "You were worr
ied about me?"
"Frantic, princess."
"I'm sorry," I whisper, my heart fluttering at the thought that he cares enough to have been worried. And I can tell by the look in his eyes that he's not just telling me what he thinks I want to hear. He really was worried about me. "I didn't mean to worry you."
"I thought something might have happened to you."
"No, I just…"
His expression turns grim when I don't finish the sentence. "You learned who I am."
"Yes. No." I take a deep breath, trying to get my thoughts in order. I don't remember feeling this out of sorts and off balance with him the other night. Everything was so simple between us, like breathing. I guess that's what happens when you spend a magical night hiding out at Ball with a prince though, huh? You start to believe in magic and fairytales.
"I know who you are," I admit, crossing my arms as if that's going to make me any more likely to stand firm here. "I just don't know what game you're playing. Are you intentionally torturing my sister?"
His brows furrow, genuine confusion in his mossy eyes. "Your sister?"
"Kennedy."
His eyes widen, his expression morphing from confusion to dismay. "Kennedy Thorne?"
"My sister," I confirm.
"Jesus Christ." He rocks back on his heels as if he's truly stunned. He stares at me for a second, and then shakes his head, mumbling, "I'm a fucking idiot. The answer was staring me in the face all along. I knew there was something familiar there, something I was missing." His eyes flash to mine. "Why didn't you tell me your real name?"
"Because I wasn't supposed to be there," I huff, refusing to be sidetracked. I'm the one who is angry here. He has to wait his turn to be mad. "Now, are you going to answer my question?"
"Which question?"
"What game are you playing, Jared?"
"I'm not playing a game, sweet baby." He cocks his head to the side, frowning at me. "What makes you think I am? I waited as long as I could for you to show up yesterday morning. I was out of my mind, worried something might have happened to you."