Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25686 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25686 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
This is my third class I’ve taken here. Summer classes are shorter than standard ones, so the work load is intense. There are a few things I’ve learned: all the professors are old and stodgy, no hot football players take summer classes on campus, and on the plus side, chai latte and scones in the café are surprisingly delicious. I’ll reward myself with one today, after I meet Professor Stodgy number three, toss some words on a page to pass the class, and if I time things right I can be back at the pool at my apartment building by lunchtime.
My heels click-clack on the tile as I make my way to class, deep in thought when I glance at the room number: 721. This is it. I look at the time on my phone, notice I have a text, and quickly shoot off a reply. Eh, I’m fashionably late. I can hear a low buzz of conversation on the other side of the door, and suspect I’ve found the right place. Reaching for the handle of the classroom, I turn it and frown. It’s… stuck or something. I try again, but it doesn’t budge. What the hell? I feel heat creep up my cheeks as I lift my hand and knock sharply on the door.
The noise on the other side of the door stops, and my belly dips as a shadow approaches on the other side, big and hulking through the frosted glass. I swallow at the sound of a click, then watch as the door swings open. My mouth drops, gaping at the man standing in front of me.
He’s… not old.
And most definitely not stodgy.
A man dressed in a pale green polo shirt that does little to hide his broad shoulders and large, muscled arms, stands in front of me. Tall and strong, with a shaved head and stubble edged in silver, he glares at me sternly from beneath furrowed brows, his green eyes glinting like jade. He’s looking at me as if he just caught me shoplifting, and I feel about four feet tall. Strength and power emanate from him, and I suddenly realize I’m staring with my mouth still hanging open. I snap it shut and blink in surprise.
His brows raise impatiently. “Can I help you? Is there a reason you’re disturbing my class?” His voice is a deep baritone I feel right down the back of my neck, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
I clear my throat. “I’m… looking for Creative Writing Exploration with… Professor Slade?” My voice sounds oddly strained and high-pitched. I clear my throat nervously.
He nods, and I’m shocked to find his stern eyes doing a quick once-over so blatantly intimate and sexual it’s as if his hands rove over my body. He lingers on the cleavage at my chest, then snaps his eyes back to mine, narrowed now as if he’s blaming me for his momentary loss of control.
Asshole.
“I’m Professor Slade. And you are?”
“Giada Romano,” I say in one breath.
His eyes narrow. “I don’t allow latecomers to my class, Ms. Romano, and I lock the door when class begins.” There’s silence in the class behind him.
God.
He takes a step toward me, his voice softer so that only I can hear him. “You may enter for today,” he says. “But bear in mind future tardiness will result in consequences.” My stomach clenches in response.
I have to walk right past him to enter, so it’s time to get my shit together. I quickly step in the classroom, ignoring how damn good he smells, all masculine and sexy like whiskey and leather and pipe smoke. I slink into the nearest seat, not looking at my classmates. He shuts the door with a bang, then walks—stalks, really— to the front of the room.
I can’t wrap my brain around this man being my professor. Holy crap. I fumble in my bag and retrieve a notebook and pen, then sit stock-straight in my chair, eyes focused on my new professor. He’s saying something about grades and papers and the proper use of citation, but I’m not hearing a damn thing he says. I’m too focused on the way his mouth moves, the way his biceps bulge when he sits back at his desk and crosses his tanned, corded forearms. I swallow, my body aflame.
“Ms. Romano?” I blink. Shit, he’s calling my name and I didn’t hear a word he said. I was too busy staring at him.
“Yes?”
He frowns at me, waving a stack of papers in his hand. “I asked you to please pass out the course syllabus sheets to your classmates.”
That frown sends a pulse right between my legs.
“Yes, of course,” I mumble, getting to my feet. I never stumble in heels and prefer them because they instantly make any outfit look feminine and chic, but when I’m two steps away from him, one heel wobbles, I lose my balance and lurch forward. My arms flail in front of me, grasping for purchase, but I can’t catch onto anything. I’m going to fall on my ass in front of this god of a man and humiliate myself in front of my entire class.