Searching for Mine (Searching For #4.5) (2 page)

Deduction of two letter grades for lateness. Overall, a poorly thought, shallow type paper with nothing to back up the opinion via the text.

Connor Dunkle studied the woman who was his last obstacle blocking him from getting his needed degree.

Professor Ella Blake.

If he’d ever created an image of a spinster librarian, this woman would have been his inspiration. From her drab, baggy fitting clothes, to the black glasses hiding most of her features, she practically faded into the background. Her hair was twisted up into a tight bun, giving her face a bit of a pinched look. Her gray sweater and black trousers did nothing for her figure, or her skin tone. The only brightness in her entire collage was a slash of red-orange lipstick, which became so garish with her olive skin, it literally made an onlooker jerk back.

“Many of you disappointed me with your papers. I suggest better preparation is in order to pass this class. Our first exam is Friday and there will be another paper due shortly. Please make sure you refer to the syllabus for due dates. I do not appreciate or reward lateness.”

Did she shoot him a look or was that his imagination?

Unbelievable. He’d deliberately approached her last week and explained his grueling schedule. With his demanding workload and ambitious course work, he’d specifically asked Professor Blake for an extension on the paper.

Hadn’t she agreed?

 It had taken him a lot to register for college at thirty-eight years old, but he had his eye on a management position at Bilkins Construction, and he was determined to change his life. He’d taken extra courses and jammed in a four-year degree into two. Finally, graduation loomed before him, but he’d put off fulfilling his last course requirement of Composition 102. Of course, now he ended up with a sexually frustrated teacher focused on feminist literature to make excuses for her own lack of a love life.

“We’ll be diving more into short stories and examining the female writer and what she brought to society in comparison to men at the time. I’d like to hear thoughts on
The Yellow Wallpaper
. What do you think made the story so popular? What was the writer really trying to tell us?”

Connor hid a bored sigh and tuned out of the discussion. He’d fix it. He’d be extra nice and charming and give her some needed male attention. Maybe she’d forgotten, and he’d just remind her, they’d laugh about it, and he’d get a damn C.

Professor Blake paced the front of the room in her usual black boots that made no sound. He wondered if she ever wore stilettos. Probably didn’t know what they were. She preferred shoes with no sex appeal, no heel, and no sense of fun. What type of underwear did she wear to match those awful outfits? Probably cotton. Maybe even granny panties in plain white.

“Mr. Dunkle?”

His head shot up in pure surprise. She was staring at him with a focused expression that almost made him blush. Almost. Of course, she had no clue he’d been wondering about the look of her panties. He gave her an easy grin that usually charmed women within a few seconds. “Yes?”

“I’m interested in your opinion of the story.”

Shit. He hadn’t understood the end. Hell, he hadn’t understood much of it and daydreaming in class wasn’t helping him. He kept the grin and nodded. “I thought it was a brave way of portraying the character.”

There. Sounded good. She tapped her finger against her orange-red lips and leaned against the side of the desk. “Interesting. Tell me more.”

Shit.

He tried not to sweat and frowned, as if thinking hard, and tried to buy time. “Well, the writer struggled with identity.”

Connor had heard that line in many classes and felt it was a solid portrayal of the ridiculous story he’d hated. He waited for her to move on to someone else, but instead she actually walked up the aisle to his seat. Sweat pricked his forehead. He hadn’t felt this put on the spot since high school.

“So, the writer was brave and struggled with identity. Why don’t you tell me exactly what you feel the story is about?”

And that’s when Connor realized she knew. Up close, her dull brown eyes glinted with flecks of gold-green, pulling an observer in. Her face seemed expressionless but Connor caught the challenge in her gaze—the knowledge he had no clue what he was talking about, and she was going in for the kill.

Who would’ve thought a drab English professor could be so ruthless?

He regrouped and assessed the situation. Tilting his head, he stared right back, refusing to back down. “I think the story was ridiculous and contrived. It was a big whine fest of a character trapped in a room, obsessed with the wallpaper but not enough guts to get herself out of the situation. That’s what I thought about the story.”

The class tittered. He waited for her attack, knowing he’d challenged her in class, which was her natural terrain. Still, Connor didn’t care. That story sucked and it was a relief to admit it.

A small smile touched her lips. “A fair and honest assessment,” she concluded.

He grinned.

“By a reader who has no idea what he’s reading. By a reader who has no desire to try and follow the writer or do more than lazily lay back and wait for the car wrecks, or sex scene, or shootout. We’ve become a society who wants so badly to be entertained, without using a brain cell, and refuses to do the work to engage and follow greatness. Frankly, Mr. Dunkle, you disappoint me. I had expected much more of you.”

His grin disappeared.

She walked away on soundless shoes and pointed to the blackboard. “Maybe we can salvage it for the rest of the class. Let’s begin.”

Connor held back a groan.

This was going to be a bitch of a semester.

Chapter Two

“I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in”––Virginia Woolf

Ella watched her students file out of class but her attention was focused on one particular individual.

Connor Dunkle.

She sensed a play coming on, and she was actually going to enjoy it. Teaching provided her a sick sense of satisfaction when she got to take an egotist, smug person and knock them down a few notches. It also offered a perfect conduit to change the thinking and view of the world one student at a time. Sure, sometimes she felt as if she made no difference with her classes. But once in a while, she lasered in on a student who needed to be challenged.

“Professor Blake? Can I talk to you a moment?”

She turned, and right on cue, there he was. Ella hid her smile and wondered how the first round would fare. She’d pegged him from the first day, but sometimes a student surprised her.

“Yes, Mr. Dunkle?” She peered over her thick-framed glasses. She could’ve picked trendy or delicate frames, but she liked the way these intimidated her students. “What can I do for you?”

His charming grin could’ve short-circuited the light bulbs or rendered one speechless. Had she ever seen such perfect white teeth? The man was a walking delectable treat for the female vision, but Ella had prepared. She checked in with her body and was quite pleased. Other than a recognizable hum between her thighs, she was completely in control. Of course, he didn’t know that. Ella judged there weren’t many offers Connor made that were turned down. The reason was all six foot five inches that towered over her desk with lean, cut muscles evident beneath his casual clothes. Dirty blond hair lay messily over his brow. He wore it long, and the thick strands curled around the edge of his ears. His face was sculpted quite beautifully, from the high cheekbones, full lips, and perfect dimples. He reminded her briefly of a young Robert Redford from her favorite movie,
The Way We Were
. Sure, Redford was old now, but Ella believed the greats like Newman and Redford and Brando paved the way for Pitt and Hemsworth. And damned if her fingers didn’t itch just once to brush those gold streaked strands from his forehead.

His eyes delivered the final one-two punch. Crystal blue swirled with a touch of green, clear as glass and deep as the sea. Eyes like that could mesmerize prey, but Ella had tons of practice restraining messy desires. She met his gaze, ignoring the tiny tumble in her belly, and kept her gaze on the prize.

“Yes?” she asked with a bit of impatience. He blinked, somewhat confused she hadn’t ducked her head or stuttered. Oh, this one needed a reality check. Had he ever been rejected? Or was he one of the lucky ones who slid through life unscathed by others? Huh. Another similarity to Redford’s character. She was going to have to re-rent that movie again.

“I think there was a misunderstanding,” he began. His body language reeked of open friendliness with just a touch of sex. His navy blue T-shirt stretched tight across his chest, and his jeans were worn low on his hips, which were now cocked in a very appealing angle. He tilted his head to ensure intimacy, and damned if his dimples hadn’t popped out. Oh, he was good.

He held out the paper. “I got an F. I apologize again for turning it in late. See, I’m about to graduate with a business management degree. I need to pass this course.” His smile held well. “When we last spoke, I assumed you understood my position and told me it was acceptable to turn it in a few days late.”

Oh, she remembered that conversation perfectly. He’d given her excuse after excuse for why he deserved more time, and she just nodded and didn’t have to say a word. The man was probably so used to women giving him everything he wanted, he hadn’t even bothered to wait for her verbal assent. Just walked away with a smile and a wink. He’d actually winked at her like this was 1970 and calling women in authority by
honey
and
babe
was fine.

“It was acceptable,” she said calmly. “But if you’d read your syllabus carefully, you’d see each day it comes in late one full letter grade is taken off. I gave you a break though, Mr. Dunkle. I didn’t count the weekend because I was feeling quite generous. Is that it?”

He blinked. Confusion flickered over his face and she had to tamp down a chuckle. He leaned in just a few inches and dropped his voice to a concerned level. “Professor Blake, I need to get a C in this class. My job right now depends on my graduation this June.”

Her eyes glinted behind her glasses with pure intention. “Did you read
The Story of an Hour
by Kate Chopin? Or did you scan the Internet for analysis and summaries and stick them into your paper to make it look like you read it?”

Oh, she knew that look well. Ella waited to see if he’d lie straight to her face. A tiny crease in his brow gave him away. She was the one surprised when he finally answered. “No.”

“No, what, Mr. Dunkle?”

“No, I didn’t read the story. I tried. But I got bored and stopped.”

She nodded. “I’d suggest if you want to pass my class you begin taking it seriously and doing the assignments. On time.”

His aura simmered with frustration. “I understand. I’ll be sure to read the next short stories thoroughly. Who’s the next author we’re studying?”

“Virginia Woolf.”

He looked like he’d rather stick needles in his eye than read Woolf, but she gave him credit. He kept his expression open and understanding. “Fascinating. Hey, maybe we can get some coffee after class? Discuss some of your viewpoints. Get to know one another better? I feel like we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

Unbelievable. The man just kept digging the crater larger and larger. He’d be lucky to graduate. She switched to her disapproving teacher voice: hard, controlled, and full of ice. “I dislike clichés, Mr. Dunkle. In both speech and company.”

“Huh?”

“Gotten off on the wrong foot,” she pointed out. “It’s called a cliché. Look it up. Now, do you have any issues regarding the next assignment?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m just surprised we’re reading another woman writer. This was never explained as a feminist course. I assumed we’d be reading Hemmingway, or Fitzgerald, or Poe. Getting more of the male perspective in society, too, you know?”

Once again, he realized he’d misspoken too late. Her gaze flicked over him, then slid away in dismissal.

“You know what they say about the word assume, Mr. Dunkle?”

“No.”

Her smile was mean. “It makes an ASS out of you and me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready for my next class.”

She focused on the stack of papers in front of her and began to read. His stunned silence seethed with unspoken emotions, but finally he walked away with his failing paper clutched in his hand. She risked a peek.

His stride owned pure grace and swagger. His tight, perfect ass made women want to weep. Or cop a feel.

She tamped down the flare of guilt from ogling a student, but the man was her age and ready to graduate, so it wasn’t all that terrible. Besides, she’d never date the man. If he thought their little chat meant she was going to forgive lateness or inane answers in her class, Connor Dunkle would learn quickly enough.

Sighing, she began prepping for her next class. God, she was tired. She loved teaching, but lately, burnout threatened. How long had it been since she spent a night out? Or did anything more exciting than grading papers and playing Wii U Super Smash Brothers? She adored her ten-year-old son, but maybe she needed more balance in her life. Ella didn’t want Luke growing up thinking women didn’t leave the house other than to work. But every time she thought about going out with some friends for a drink, mama guilt kicked in. They’d already been forced to move twice before she got her permanent job at Verily College, and he was still adjusting to a new neighborhood and school. How could she leave him to pursue her own fun? The divorce may have been final for a year now, but the first year was filled with pain, anger, and lawyers back and forth. Luke probably needed more time to accept his parents would never get back together. He’d probably freak at the idea of her trying to date, and Lord knows her first priority was to her son.

Ella sighed. She had no time for dating anyway. Weekends were filled with endless errands and running around. The idea of putting on something more than a pair of sweats seemed painful.