Crazy in Love - Lane Hart Page 0,12
of putting her happiness ahead of my own.”
“I’m –”
“Don’t,” he says with a grin, holding up a palm to prevent me from uttering another apology. “It’s fine, honestly. I’d rather be single and lonely than stuck one more day living a lie.”
“Oh,” I mutter in response to his bluntness. Just hours ago, this man was a professor I drooled over and thought about naked. Now he’s the guy I almost killed, and I know way too much about his personal life.
Thankfully I’m saved from commenting after all the drama because the doctor comes in to do his exam. I make an escape to the cafeteria’s vending machine, grabbing a Mr. Pibb for Professor Daughton and me since I’ve seen him bring one into the classroom every Tuesday and Thursday this semester. When I peek back into the curtained off room, he spies me and flashes a grin from where he’s now reclined, stretched out on the bed and alone.
“Figured I might as well get comfortable because it looks like I’m gonna be here a while since they’re giving me steroids,” he says, nodding to the IV sticking out of his left arm when I come back in.
“Sorry,” I say to which he immediately responds with, “Stop apologizing, Reagan, or I’ll start docking your final a point for every occasion.”
“Okay,” I agree. “No more apologies. Thirsty?” I ask holding out the soda in offering.
“Hell yes. Thank you,” he says when he takes the bottle from me.
“It should be pineapple free,” I tell him.
“Either way, they’ve now shot me up with enough drugs to combat it,” he jokes before twisting off the top and taking a big swig. His throat works as he swallows, and that does funny things to my girly parts.
Retaking my leaning position on the cabinet, I open my own drink and take a sip.
“You don’t have to stay here,” he says. “I mean, you don’t even have a chair to sit in.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him.
“Here,” he says, sliding his legs over to the side and patting the now empty space on the bed. “If you insist on staying, at least have a seat.”
Since my feet are aching from standing, I take the offering, sitting on the bed with my professor. I’m in bed with my ridiculously hot teacher just inches away. So close I can smell his wonderful minty scent and feel the heat of his legs behind my bottom. Without looking, I know his eyes are silently evaluating me. My heart rate suddenly picks up, galloping away like it’s warning me to do the same before I make a fool of myself and lower my grade even further.
…
Gage
What the fuck am I doing? Asking her to sit on the bed so that she’s within touching distance may go down as the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Why didn’t I just let her leave when she tried to sneak out during Trish’s attack? Because I selfishly wanted her to stay.
Sure, Reagan stuck around, but it’s obviously only out of concern for her grade. Does she really think I could ever flunk her? I wouldn’t, even if she tanked the research assignment and final exam. Hell, she could be a no show, and I would still pass her. I’ve had a weak spot for her since the moment I spotted her on campus that first Monday afternoon at three p.m. almost a year ago, not that she knows about my stalker tendencies.
I had been sitting on a bench outside of the English building when she came along and flopped down on the grass underneath a tree several feet away from me. No blanket, no concern for whether or not her dress would get dirty. Her face wasn’t buried in a phone like all the other student population. She simply sat down and tilted her face up to the sun with a smile on her face. Beautiful was a poor adjective to describe her at that moment, looking so natural and…real, unlike my wife at the time, who is fake inside and out.
For two hours, I sat there and watched her, waiting for her to rejoin the hustle and bustle of the rest of the world. At most, I thought she would sit there for ten minutes, maybe twenty. Not once did she look at a watch or a phone, not even a book. She was simply meditating I assumed, centering herself or contemplating the universe for all I know. Such a contradiction to the stereotypical young women of