His fingers wrap over mine. He could easily dwarf me; however, he makes me feel like this dance is an equal partnership. His hand on my back never goes to a place of being inappropriate. I feel held like a china doll. I look down where our hands meet between our chests. His thumb masters a gentle motion over my skin. Over the thumping of the music, I can feel a pounding from the beat of my heart.
“Petal, look at me. Don’t hide your eyes.”
My lips turn up slightly at the name. “Petal?”
“Like that of a rose. You’re as precious and delicate as its petals, but I think you have a coat of thorns in your garden if needed. I prefer this side of things.”
He caresses my skin again. Fuck me. He’s found my turn-on switch and dialed it to maximum capacity. “Petal. I like it.” Even as the song ends, we’re still locked in each other’s arms. “I, uh...I should really return to my friends.”
“Are they all just that? Friends, that is?”
It’s none of his business. None at all, but I feel compelled to answer him anyway. “Yes. Just friends.”
“Then I will do the honorable thing and take my leave of you. Thank you for the dance, Petal.”
He slides his hands in his pockets to slowly walk away. “Wait,” I call after him. “If I want another dance, where would I find you?”
He marches back toward me like a cat who’s going to pounce. I press my back against the wall as he hovers in front of me. I wait for the eventual mauling kiss. When it doesn’t happen, I relax my body. It relaxes even more when all he does is gently ghost his knuckles over my cheek. “I will be here exactly one week from today. Same time, same corner of the bar. There will be a tumbler of amber waiting for you, if you choose. Everything will always be your choice. Bonne nuit, Petal.” He speaks French?
Just like that, he’s gone. A sea of people floods past me in the hall in search of the restroom, which I never made it to, including Lucas. “Jesus, babe. I thought you fell in. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yes. I just got turned around. I need a drink. A shot. Tequila with me?”
“You know I won’t turn that offer down. My treat.” He kisses my temple, leads me down the hallway, and we end up coincidentally at the same corner of the bar where my dark dancer once stood. The shot pours into the back of my throat but doesn’t quench the fire he left behind. Same time next week? Holy shit.
Chapter 3
Tristan
I thrive on routine. Routine doesn’t allow for surprises, which works for me in spades.
I hate surprises. I like to have my schedule laid out ahead of me as far in advance as possible. It drives any possible TA the university saddles me with absolutely mental, but that’s the way I need things to be in order to survive. Thus, I’ve simply stopped allowing them to assign one to me. When and if I want one, I’ll handle that my goddamned self.
I wake every morning at the same time, 5:00 a.m., and go for a run, be it in the warm, wet morning fog or in the sterile air of my home gym, and after that, shower, breakfast, tea then I prepare for my day on campus.
From the looks of my schedule, I’ll be having dinner in my office tonight, which is par for the course sometimes and preferred. The longer I’m kept busy, the less time I have to think about anything else. Work keeps the demons at bay, and that’s the way I’d like to keep it.
The start of the semester is typically busier than usual, with the hustle and bustle of new students who may not know their way around yet, so I’m ducking and dodging bodies through the main walkway, making my way to the large center quad that serves as a hub of sorts for the campus.
“Good morning, Professor,” a young blonde from my class last year says, stopping me in my tracks with a step into my path. Her body language gives her away immediately though. She’s looking for a favor.
“Good morning,” I say simply, because, if I’m honest, I cannot remember her name. I nod politely and try to step around her, but she places her hand on my arm to stop me again. It’s annoying, to say the least.
“I was actually wondering if you’d be willing to write me a letter of recommendation? I want to apply for an internship at a gallery downtown, and who better to put in a word for me than you?”
She bites her lip and sways from foot to foot ever so slightly. It’s not lost on me that she’s wearing a low-cut top, and trying her best to appeal to the red-blooded male in me, however, coeds who try too hard aren’t exactly my cup of tea.
But I know the things these students say about me. I see how they look at me. I’m the mysterious, English art professor who skulks around on campus with a don’t fuck with me scowl permanently painted on my face.
“Send me the information via email. I’ll take a look.”
She begins talking again, but I don’t hear it. She may as well be talking to me through a soundproof sheet of glass, because all I can hear is a burst of all too familiar laughter. My private dancer.
My eyes search the quad, looking for any possibility of her, of my dancing flower. I look for a wisp of her hair, or a glimmer of her pale skin, but there’s nothing. Just her laugh. Her perfect laugh and I’m suddenly assaulted by the memory of her dancing—dancing for me, dancing with me.
Christ, now I’m fantasizing about her in the broad light of day.
Maybe I’m finally going mental.
“Professor? Are you all right?”
The student in front of me comes back into focus and I clear my throat, shaking off the momentary lapse in composure I allowed to slip through.
“Yes, I’m all right.” I clear my throat and give my tie a tug as it is suddenly feeling entirely too tight around my neck. “Like I said, send me the information and I’ll take a look.”
I check my watch as I step around her, leaving her standing with her mouth agape. I’m typically not rude to those who do not deserve it, but my thoughts are scattered.
There’s that laugh again.
This time, it’s on the far side of the courtyard. I swear, for the briefest of moments, I think I catch a glimpse of her stepping into the bookstore.
I can’t explain my next actions, because there aren’t words. Every fiber of my being needs to know if it’s her. I need to know if she’s here. I won’t have to wait an entire week. Fuck. Now who is the coed?
Briefcase in hand, I alter my path, no longer heading to the south building and into my office, but secretly searching for the woman who has infiltrated my every thought.
Potentially, at least, because it’s crazy to think that it’s actually her. She’s too beautiful to wade amongst the fake, silver spoon fed trust fund babies, who typically take over these programs at the beginning of the semester before finding out they lack the passion required to succeed.
I step up toward the door, peering through the tinted glass, looking for any sign of her, but there’s nothing. I’m just wrapping my hand around the door handle when the sound of my cell phone rips through the air, startling me and pulling me from my hypnotized state.
I slide my finger across the screen to answer. “Hello?”
“I need your opinion on something and it’s urgent. Are you at your computer?” Adrianna asks on the other end of the call.