Preservation (5 page)

I stopped plugging in my charger when I realized he was making conversation
and
being a smartass, staring at me, waiting for me to respond. I looked around the room, just to make sure it was in fact me he was talking to. His familiar haughty tone and body language were present, but his hazel eyes were softened, an engaged flicker present in them.

“Yeah, actually I did. I think it’s better, but I’m going to see what Mrs. Meyer has to say about it tonight.”

“Mind if I take a look at it again?”

“Um...” I froze, unsure if I wanted him to read what I’d revised. The piece was already very personal and this would be off the record, outside of class...

I bit my lip and nodded, leaning into my book bag to retrieve it.
Can’t hurt, I guess.
I met him at the front of the classroom and tried not to ogle him as he scanned the page, twisting my fingers together as I watched his brow furrow as he made his way down each page. Whatever cologne he was wearing wasn’t helping the annoying reality that he was definitely attractive.
Hhhmm, that scent. Twenty-seven or twenty-eight? Nah, can’t be older than twenty-eight.
He pushed his golden brown hair back, running his fingers through it.

Scratching my chin, I cleared my throat and leaned in closer to see the line he was reading. He didn’t stop me, just slowly held up one finger to signal me to wait, intent on maintaining focus. Students began trickling into the classroom and I became antsier, tugging at the corners of my jacket.

“I’ll have to finish it after class,” he finally spoke, scanning the page from top to bottom. “You put yourself in this, didn’t you?” He turned to look at me, his eyes still soft, sincere.
Whoa. Those eyes are...whoa.

“Don’t we always put ourselves in our work?”

“Well, to an extent I believe we do, yes. But this is so raw. Someone can’t write a protagonist like this unless she is familiar with some of these situations, these emotions. It’s really honest.” He licked his lips and handed me the paper, nodding to students as they greeted him, but kept his gaze on me.

“Wow. I don’t know what to say to that. I guess I just gave myself away.” The red on my cheeks deepened and I looked down.

“There’s no shame in honesty, Kate—Ms. Parker.”

“You can call me Kate,” I lifted my chin to meet his eyes again. “Thank you.”

“I’d love to finish it after class, will you have a few minutes?”

“Sure. My next class isn’t until two thirty.”

“Good.”

When class ended, I squirmed in my seat, watching him read as he sat on the edge of the desk, the same intent expression on his face as before. He ran his fingers over his chin and I found myself distracted by the stubble there, wondering what it’d be like to run my fingers over it too. I stood up and stretched, shaking the thoughts. Swooning over the sexy professor would only lead to a dead end. A bad one. Thank God he was an ass. Sort of.

“It’s solid. Completely solid. Have you considered seeking publication?” Mr. Campbell handed me the papers and then relaxed in his seat, gesturing for me to pull a chair up to the desk.

“Just recently. A friend of mine suggested it, but I’m not sure...”

“You’re ready. You’re a writer, plain and simple. You’re young; the world is at your feet.”

Tucking loose strands of hair behind my ear, I narrowed my eyes and pressed my lips together. “You think? It’s so personal, you know? I’m not sure I could share that with the world. It’s hard enough to have my teachers read it.”

“What are you in school for?”

I blinked, confused. He knew what I was studying, knew my major because I was taking his class. “English Literature with a Creative Writing specialization...”

“Okay, and what do you think about? Every morning when you wake up. When you walk around campus through the halls. When you take a walk or listen to music. What do you think about?” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. My eyes darted from side to side and landed on his collar, which was slightly opened, his signature tweed jacket casting a shadow across the small part of his exposed chest. I forced my focus upward.

“Stories. Untold stories that need closure.”

“You’re a natural-born storyteller, Kate. And this,” he pointed to the papers in my hand, “is great writing. I have a lot of students, and I don’t say that often.”

“Th-thank you,” I sat there, frozen, unsure as to why I couldn’t think of a thing to say to him other than ‘thanks.’ I was about to flush twenty more shades of crimson when something struck me. “Have you been published, Mr. Campbell?”

“You can call me Ryan outside of class.”

“Ryan.”
Much better than the Mr. Campbell nonsense
. “Are you one of those who can’t do, so you teach?”

He let out a low huff and pursed his lips, looking down.

Shit. Really, Kate?
Realizing that sounded more like an insult than intended, I tried to redeem myself. “I only meant—”

“No, I know what you meant,” he deadpanned me, his face suddenly glacial. “I do write, and yes, I’ve been published. Two years ago I had an impressive publishing deal at my feet and personal matters got in the way. Unfortunately the bridge was burned and there was no salvaging the opportunity.” He picked up a pencil and began playing with it, watching it roll over his fingers. “Anyway, I teach because it’s what I know. But I haven’t given up on writing myself.”

My fingers twitched, draped over my knees. “I didn’t mean to offend you, I’m sorry. I was curious, that’s all. And I’m sorry to hear you lost that publishing deal, but you’re fantastic. You have a wonderful eye,” I shrugged, recalling his earlier encouragement. “You’re young...you have the world at your feet. I’m sure you’ll be accepted elsewhere.”

He stopped playing with the pencil and raised his gaze to meet mine, his lips parting slightly. “Thank you, Ms. Par—Kate.” We sat there for a moment, staring at one another.
Did I cross the line? Is he still offended?
It seemed we both needed help in the self-esteem department when it came to writing.
I tried smiling to assure him, relieved when his expression softened and he cracked a grin. Then I realized my hand was on the desk, meeting his.

“Well, I better get going,” I stood, in need of some cool air. He recoiled his hand and cleared his throat. “Need to grab some lunch before my afternoon classes.” Peering into his sexy hazel eyes and imagining what his stubble felt like was not going to advance my education in any way. Besides, he would eventually say something dick-like to deter me, reminding me why he irritated me so much. I was saving both of us time. I reached for my book bag.

“Ry, ready for lunch?” A tall redhead wandered through the door and Ryan quickly shot up from his seat, tugging at his tie.

“Ah, sure, babe. One second.”

Of course the hot professor has an equally hot girlfriend. Don’t look so surprised, you fool.
I smiled politely at the redhead and waved to Ryan before making a beeline for the door. She eyed me suspiciously as I passed.

“Thanks again,” I said, glancing over my shoulder as I left. I caught a glimpse of their embrace, Ryan grabbing her ass as he swung his jacket over his shoulder, mouth to her neck.
Ugh.
I sped up and breathed a sigh of relief when I made it into the hallway, thankful that while I revealed a little too much of myself in my writing, I’d managed to keep my unwelcome, wanton thoughts to myself.

4. COMFORT ZONE

The cool water felt glorious rushing over my skin as I glided down the lap lane, taking careful, deliberate strokes, and steady, fluid breaths from side to side. Doing laps was relaxing and I looked forward to it every Monday since my days were so long. It gave me time to burn off some stress, and also helped clear my head. I somehow emerged from the pool every Monday night with more focus, having been able to process whatever was going on in my day-to-day life.

I thought long and hard about my professor’s original assessment of me, that something about me told him I was an overachiever. It was such an impulsive, instinctual comment to make. Suddenly I didn’t find it as insulting as I did the day he’d made it, but was instead mulling it over.

Maybe I
did
work too hard or too much. I reached the end of the lane and stopped myself, holding on to the pool ledge to catch my breath. The reality was I didn’t have a choice, though. And after all I’d given up for my mom over the years, I felt entitled to go after my dreams—and to dream big. But that led to an intense focus on work and school, and less focus on a life outside of it all.

Shaking my head, I removed my goggles and tilted my head and arms back on the ledge, allowing my legs to float freely in front of me.
No. I go out, I have friends.
I bit my lip, picturing all the good times I shared with Carter and Dean. I hadn’t had a relationship in ages, but that was by choice, and I was a master at keeping my walls up, even with my friends. But that’s the result of getting burned. You don’t trust. That was normal, right?

I lifted my head and rolled my eyes, tired. Maybe I was just making excuses. Either way I sliced it, I liked my comfort zone and I had no intention of letting anyone in or changing my ways any time soon.

Turning around to rest my elbows on the ledge, my breath caught when I saw Ryan strolling toward me—shirtless, in swim trunks that fit him just right—with a cautious expression. He looked around, over his shoulders, and over the pool before stopping in front of me to hunch down to my level.
Crap. Should I call him Ryan here? Or Mr. Campbell?
Technically it was outside of class but still on campus...

“Um, hi...” I muttered, distracted by the view.

“Ryan.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure...”

“What are you doing here so late? I’m always the last one here.”

“This is my routine,” I said, gripping my goggles tighter in my hand, trying like hell not to stare at his bare skin.
Holy shit—tattoos.
I spotted them immediately.
The man has tattoos under all of that scholarly attire. Crap.
Now it would be even more impossible to focus when I was in his class. I had a serious weakness for tattoos, especially on the arms, and well...he had two works of art with heady aphrodisiac quality sprawled across them: one on his forearm and the other on his bicep close to his shoulder.

“But I’m usually gone by now,” I managed to say. “I stayed a little longer tonight. Needed some time to think.” I peered up at him and he broke eye contact, looking over at my chair for something. “So...you swim often?”

“Yes, it’s my routine, too,” he said, still distracted. “Especially on Mondays and Wednesdays. After my afternoon classes I get to go home for a few hours, but then I have to be back for one night class. Then I come here afterward.”

“We must miss each other by less than an hour, then.”

“Looks like it,” he moved and sat down next to me, slipping his legs over the ledge, sinking his body into the water. “You come with anyone?” He looked over at my chair anxiously again, dunking his head under water after I shook my head “no.” I glanced around, realizing we were the only two there, with the exception of the lifeguard chatting on his cell phone. I immediately felt awkward, yet I didn’t want to leave.

He emerged from the water and shook his head, ran his fingers through his hair to slick it back. I eyed the towel on my chair, knowing now would be the perfect time to exit before things turned weirder.

“You have an almost perfect stroke,” his voice pulled me from my thoughts of escape. “Were you on a team or something?”

“When I was a kid, yeah. Almost perfect? What does that mean?” I chuckled, trying to lean back against the pool wall and act naturally. Why did he make me so uncomfortable? It wasn’t just because he was my professor. I worked hard to maintain eye contact with him as we spoke, very aware of the way his lean muscles flexed and rippled as he moved.
Nope, isn’t just that.

“I meant exactly what I said—it’s almost perfect. I saw you finishing up when I came in. Your shoulders are too tight, you need to loosen up. I bet you’d benefit greatly if you learned to loosen up.”

Ugh.
This right here. This was why he irritated me—his perfect ability to say something completely unwarranted and in such a self-assured tone.

“
Hhhmm
. Don’t believe I asked for your opinion, Mr. Campbell.”

“We’re back to last-name basis now, are we?” He placed his hands on his hips and shrugged, a smug grin creeping over his lips. “Okay, Ms. Parker. Just trying to call it like I see it. You’d enjoy it more and you’d get a better workout if your stroke wasn’t so tight, that’s all.” He swerved his torso from side to side, touching each hip to stretch.
Damn
. So comfortable and at ease with his body.

“How about we stick to talking about writing?” I folded my arms across my chest, my eyes darting toward the towel on my chair again. He was sexy, full of himself, and maddeningly right, all at the same time. I wasn’t sure whether to smile back or slap him.