Slash (Slay Quartet #4.5) - Laurelin Paige Page 0,3

clock hanging on the wall, one of those old-fashioned kinds that dictated time in every class I’d attended through secondary school.

Forty-five seconds.

Thirty seconds and there are now twelve students bowed down over their mobiles. None of them are Hendrix, and my confidence bolsters. He chickened out. He registered as a joke. He registered by accident. Whatever the reason, he’s not here, and I’m calmer by the second.

And then the big hand is on the twelve, the little hand perfectly pointed to the ten, and it’s time to begin this ludicrous teaching experiment.

With a deep breath, I gather my stack of papers and approach the podium. “Good morning, fellow photographers. As you likely already know, I’m Camilla Fasbender, art director of Accelecom Media, which is a rather fancy title to say I get final approval of the company’s branding materials while other more talented artists do all the work and get none of the credit so thank goodness this course isn’t meant to instruct in that arena because, really, I know nothing.”

The students chuckle—is that an appropriate word for adult learners? It seems so odd when at least three of the faces I’m looking at appear older than me, reminding me how unqualified I feel to be standing before them.

Which is silly. Because I am qualified. “Find the proof,” Dr. Joseph used to say, and the proof is that, while it isn’t my day job, my portrait photography is revered in some circles, and I do have things that I can share. A whole lesson plan, in fact. I’d managed to pull my head out of the sand long enough to put one together, fortunately, and it wasn’t as hard as it might have been because I do know what I’m talking about.

But just as I’m about to confidently plummet on, the door swings open and a tall, muscular figure slinks in, taking the last available chair and sending my heart up to my throat even before his eyes meet mine, and I’m locked in the gaze of Hendrix Reid. My Hendrix Reid.

Bloody hell.

That four and a half minutes did nothing to prepare me. Even if I’d spent it actually believing I might come face-to-face with my one-night stand, I still would have been breathless from the shock of seeing him. His sun-tanned face and light brown eyes are quite breathtaking all on their own. Add to that his broad shoulders and sculpted jaw and a muscular frame that somehow moves lithely despite its bulk, and seriously, how can anyone be expected to bother with oxygen when looking in his direction? He’s the kind of man who is beautiful enough to model and yet too spectacular to photograph. The light hits him too evenly. There aren’t nearly enough shadows to tell a story that isn’t about how perfect he is to look at, and stories about perfection become boring really fast so I avoid using my lens to tell them like the plague.

I can’t imagine ever getting bored gazing at that face without a lens between us, though. His perfection is captivating in a way that can’t be captured. There’s something about his features that reflect what they see, but it’s only interesting in real life, when the elements around him are present. He doesn’t work cropped down to just him. He’s meant to be seen in context.

I, on the other hand, prefer to not be seen at all.

Which is why I’m mortified that he’s here. It would be one thing if there were a one-way glass between us, where I could look and look until I’d had my fill—if I’d ever have my fill. It’s quite another when he’s here with nothing between us but this podium, and my looking is met with his looking back.

Obviously, I lose my train of thought.

I have notes, but all the words seem to blur together, and I can’t make meaning out of any of the pen strokes. My pulse takes off like it’s a locomotive without a destination, my hands are clammy, and thirteen pairs of eyes are staring at me, waiting for me to say something worthwhile. Imagining them all naked is not helpful when I actually know what one of them looks like in the buff.

Well, my hands know, anyway. I did mention the lights had been off.

“Enough about me,” I say, as though I’ve said anything about me at all. “I want to hear about you. What made you decide to enroll? What do you hope to learn? Let’s start