“It’s the truth.” She slides in closer and leans against my desk. “Tristan, I apologize for accusing you, and I trust that if something does develop somewhere, you’ll come to me. All I will say, for now, is that you just tread lightly. Just be careful, all right? Keep it professional. Keep it clean. Keep it above board. Don’t hurt your career or anyone else’s for a fleeting warm body or someone trying to sleep their way to a good grade.”
“Don’t speak of her that way. You don’t even know her.”
She points to me. “There it is. Like I said… be careful and above board.” She rises from her chair and turns to leave but stops short to say one more thing. “You’re right, I don’t know her very well, or at all, really, but I do know how some people like to operate and I know what assumptions could be made. I’m looking out for both of you.”
With a reassuring smile, she leaves me alone in my office with a tinge of guilt building in my stomach. I would have wanted to say a myriad of other things. I wanted to defend my Petal in the fierce way she deserves, but the time isn’t right.
My Petal.
Fucking hell.
Chapter 16
Nora
I’m beginning to dread the mornings I wake up in my own bed. Although, it makes me more eager to get to campus so I can see Tristan. I spend a little more time than usual getting ready this morning. I had the idea of wearing his favorite color on me or a dark lip like he prefers. No one will know. It would be our private language, and really, is there anything sexier than a bit of forbidden pining?
When I step into the classroom, there are already more than a few students in their seats, and there is another up by the lectern chatting Tristan up about something that I cannot hear over the other conversations.
He does, however, steal a peek at me from over the other student’s shoulder when I slide into my seat a few rows back, and those dimples tell me that he noticed the lipstick.
Point one for me.
From what I could tell in his lecture preparation, we’re going to be looking at the works of Degas today. He is one of my favorites, but Tristan doesn’t need to know that. There are differing opinions on his work and some of the verbal shots he took at his counterparts at the time.
Tristan begins his lecture and slide show. I have to hide my absolute pleasure at seeing many of my favorite pieces such as Musicians in the Orchestra and The Dance Class. I lean forward a little bit to show I’m listening and if I’m right, a peek at something more for the professor.
I’m proven correct much sooner than I thought when, for the briefest of moments, his eyes sink to my chest and quickly find a home elsewhere, but the heat I feel cannot be denied.
I bite my lip as I take notes on my laptop, crossing and uncrossing my legs, and moving in a way that always keeps a portion of his attention.
But then, he says something I feel I can challenge him on for the fun of it, and so… my hand shoots sky high.
“Excuse me, Professor Sloane. I know that’s the widely accepted point, but shouldn’t we look deeper than that? It seems shortsighted.”
He settles with a slight cock to his head before taking a sip of what I’m sure is strong black tea. “Shortsighted? You think agreeing with many widely known and published scholars is shortsighted? That’s either a very brave or very naïve opinion, Miss Morgan.”
I don’t know, at the moment, if he is playing along or that is his true opinion on my statement. Either way, I’m not okay with what he said. “Or,” I say with a bit more attitude than my initial question. “It’s accepting that opinions and theories can and do change and evolve over time. Perhaps accepting something that one singular human said years and years ago as fact is naïve.”
“Miss Morgan, you realize I have a compare and contrast on this subject published, don’t you? So are you indeed calling me naïve?”
The way the questions come out, I know my intent of a game of cat and mouse has taken a hard left into him feeling insulted. There is no hint of a grin, no dimples to be seen. He’s taken hold of the side of the lectern and is not peering at me like he once was.
I don’t say anything else, because if I continue, I’ll end up calling him an asshole in front of everyone in the room, and I also know that type of display wouldn’t go over very well.
“My apologies, Professor, I was simply attempting to have an open dialogue and discussion, as you have expressed previously is your preferred method of teaching.” My tone now matches his, my point is being heard without having to express it. I don’t know for sure what has pissed him off today, but I want to be punished for it.
I keep my mouth shut for the remainder of the lecture. As we near the top of the hour, I quietly begin packing my things to leave so when the witching hour happens, I will be ready to exit. My departure will be the last word.
I count the last ten seconds in my head then file out with the others. I’m about halfway down the hall when I feel my cell phone vibrate in my back pocket. After I say a quick goodbye to my classmates, I find a message with few words.
My office. I’ll be waiting.
Shit.
***
I take my time making my way to his office. It’s not that I don’t want to see him privately. I do. I always do, I think this time I may have bitten off more than I can chew.
I adjust the bag that is slung over my shoulder and knock on his large, wooden office door.
“Professor Sloane?” I say, just in case someone can hear me. I’d rather them not hear his given name on my lips.
“The door is open.”
I can hear his voice in a remote corner of the room before I even open the door. I feel like the time I take to turn the knob on his door becomes infinite. The door latch breaks free from its resting place and I slowly push inside. As the wood and frosted glass swing open, it’s not until I have it nearly back to the wall that I see Tristan.
He’s facing out one of the two windows in his office. They both face the quad. One already has the shade drawn and as soon as he hears my breath, the other slowly descends to the window sill.
“Please close the door, Miss Morgan.”
His tone sends shivers up my spine. I do as I’m told immediately, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a hint of attitude about it. I take a breath, clear my throat, and steady my nerves.
He was angry in class for no reason, at least no reason that would mean he gets to be curt with me.
“I see your mood hasn’t improved,” I tell him, dropping my bag to the floor by his desk.
“You drive me absolutely mental. Did you know that, Miss Morgan?”
“I do? How so?” I lean my hip against his desk and cross my arms defiantly over my chest.
“Let’s make a list, shall we? You present yourself in front of me in what you know is my favorite color on you, then proceed to show me how low your top can go. You follow that with a slide of your hair over your shoulder, which by the way I could feel on my skin. Then you give me a sweet cherry with that blood-red lip.
“And oh yes, for your final crime and misdemeanor, you decided to challenge one of my most successful articles in front of my students and your peers. Have I missed anything?”
“So let me get this straight,” I challenge. “You’re angry with me for turning you on? Is that what you’re saying?”