TO PROFESSOR WITH LOVE (Forbidden Men #2)

2. Aspen-1

2

Aspen

“She looked at nice young men as if she could smell their stupidity.” - Flannery O’Connor, Good Country People

I can’t say I was surprised to hear Noel Gamble call me a b***h. I would’ve been shocked if he’d actually defended me.

No, really, she’s an amazing teacher; I’ve learned so much from her. I feel as if her impact on my life has helped improve the quality of who I am as a person.

Yeah, that was never going to happen.

Still. His insult—even expected as it was—stung. The sound I made was unplanned. It just sort of tore through my chest and gurgled from my throat in a pained choke.

When Gamble and his little disciple swung around, I felt caught in the act, even though I’d done nothing wrong. An embarrassing heat flooded my limbs. Wanting to die before I let him see me hurt, I schooled my features as tightly as possible, reining in my expression as I arched a silent eyebrow.

“Let me guess,” I murmured coolly, or at least in a tone I hoped sounded glacially chilled, as if I didn’t care about his opinion, because the last thing I wanted him to think was that I cared...about him. “You’re a little put out about the grade you received on your paper today.”

His powder blue, almost periwinkle, eyes went flint hard as they narrowed. “You know, it’s like you can read my mind, Dr. Kavanagh.”

He didn’t look apologetic for being caught bashing me. He didn’t sound embarrassed. He didn’t even pretend to feel an iota of remorse. He merely looked pissed. I wondered if he’d known all along I’d been walking behind him and he’d wanted me to hear his insult.

Next to him, the football player who took Introduction to Literature from me jerked a step away, disassociating himself from his beloved quarterback. Smart boy.

Faking a gracious smile, I nodded to my nemesis. “Well, maybe when you receive your PhD, you’ll obtain the fine art of telepathy too, Mr. Hot Shot Quarterback.”

His baby blues sizzled with loathing as his jaw shifted when he clenched his teeth. We both knew his academic achievements would never climb so high; he was only here because of football. In fact, I bet if I checked his records, I’d find something like basket weaving as his major. But Gamble was a fighter. He refused to lie down and take my verbal punches.

“If getting a doctorate turned me into a raging b***h who flunked undeserving underclassmen for no reason whatsoever, then I’d just as soon pass. Thanks.”

Notching my chin high, I scowled right back. “Like I said in class, if you have any questions about your score, you can always discuss it with me. I’m in my office every day from three to five, available to speak with any serious-minded pupil.”

From the distaste in his gaze, I knew he’d never go anywhere near my office. Thank God. Being closed inside my cramped little workspace alone with him would send me into a panic—literally, as in short-of-breath, need a paper bag to breathe into, full-scale panic attack. He reminded me way too much of Zach.

What was worse, he even affected me the same way Zach initially had. I loathed the way his gorgeous eyes made my body heat with all kinds of inappropriate responses, just as much as I hated how the curve of his lips made me want to touch my own mouth, wondering what the two would feel like straining together. Most of all, I detested how I’d never gotten over my high school obsession of fixating myself on the lead jock.

It must be some internal, natural selection thing I couldn’t control. Survival of the fittest lured me into gravitating toward the strongest, healthiest, most attractive male in the pack who seemed most appropriate for reproduction of the species. After watching those two sluts maul him after class a few minutes ago, I knew he had to be good for some scintillating reproductive activities.

“Maybe I will,” he murmured.

And Lord above, even his voice affected me. It caused something low in my abdomen to clench and then buzz. Like the silent vibration of a doorbell. Ding dong, anyone home? Want to come out and play?

God, why did my body want to play with this asshole in any way, shape, or form? Hadn’t my first disaster with a star football player during my senior year of high school taught me anything? He was exactly the kind of person I needed to stay as far away from as possible.

And why was I attracted to a student, anyway? A student!

It didn’t matter that we were practically the same age, he was still an undergrad. The entire attraction was completely unethical. And I had always been ethical. Professional. Hell, I’d come out of the womb proficient at calm, sensible, and orderly. I had followed every rule and policy to a T. No one, and I mean no one, knocked my world askew the way those freaking football hotties did.

This was exactly why boys who sent my insides haywire pissed me off. Big time.

“Then I guess I’ll see you in my office later today,” I challenged and immediately veered off the sidewalk to march away from him. I was going in the wrong direction now, but I didn’t care. I had to escape.

Gamble’s derisive snort followed me, telling me he knew I was running scared. The arrogant douche thought he was all that just because he was an athlete, a treasured football star. Okay, so everyone on campus treated him that way, from students to teachers and even the president of the university. To them, Noel Gamble could do no wrong. To me, he still couldn’t write a decent English essay to save his life.

But I didn’t want to think about him anymore. Blocking all things blue eyed and cretin from my brain, I marched on. After growing up with my parents, I’d mastered the small talent of shoving away unsettling thoughts. And I was particularly grateful for the technique now.

Thinking of the book I’d begun this morning, I focused on where I was going. Since I was headed in the direction of the student union and had an hour to spare before my next class, I decided not to head out to my car to fetch my jacket as I’d originally planned because I’d been chilled in the classroom, where it felt as if I’d been standing directly under the air handlers. I popped into the union and bought a sandwich and cappuccino from the food court.

It was an unseasonably sunny day, so I ate on a bench, warming myself under an oak tree where the spring air was coaxing a wealth of green buds to sprout among its branches. I liked how pockets of sunshine stole through the limbs and splashed warm puddles of color in the grass around me.

Comforted by the cozy umbrella of shadow and light, I pulled out my k****e and took up reading the story I’d started before leaving for work today. A hopeless romantic, I was currently devouring everything Jennifer L. Armentrout.

Two chapters and half of my ham and cheese sandwich later, just when I’d decided Alex had to hook up with Aiden soon, my cell phone buzzed from my briefcase I was using as a makeshift table. It took me a few seconds to sweep it clean of food, crumbs and ereader before I could snap the lid open and check my caller ID. When I saw my parents’ names on the screen, my stomach clenched.

I cleared my throat and took a deep breath before answering. I could do this. I could do this. I could do this. “Hello?”

“Hello, Aspen.” Just hearing my mother’s voice, frigid and businesslike as always, made my heart thump hard in my chest with a combination of hope and intimidation. “As you know, your father had his last treatment this morning.”

Swallowing the suddenly dry piece of bread I’d been chewing, I nodded. “Yes, I...I was going to call after my last class today. How did it go?”

In the past two years, my father had needed to get three toes amputated. His diabetes had progressed so badly he’d just finished a six-week stint of oxygen therapy, visiting a hyperbaric chamber twice a day, to heal from a nasty gash he’d gotten on his calf. If the sore hadn’t healed after his last treatment this morning, his doctor wanted to take his leg next, from the knee joint down.

Holding my breath for the prognosis, I waited tensely for my mother to answer. “They want to extend his therapy another two weeks.”

I exhaled a lungful of air. “Well, that’s...that’s good.” Right? At least they weren’t ready to pull out the ol’ saw and start chopping off limbs yet.

“Really?” My mother’s tone suggested she was frowning with her usual pinched-eyebrow expression.

Oh, s**t. Maybe that wasn’t so good.

“And how is this good, Aspen? Your father’s health is still at risk, and you’re…rejoicing?”

I flushed. Even at twenty-three and living eight hundred miles from home, teaching at a top-notch university, I still gave her the power to render me into a blubbering moron with a single question.

“I...” Fumbling blindly, I used my napkin to pat my face free of stray crumbs. My palms began to sweat, so I rubbed them dry too. “I just meant—”

“Stop being facetious. Your attempt at humor is completely uncouth and disrespectful. This is nothing to jest about.”

“But I didn’t mean...” Biting my lip, I hung my head, wishing my hair were down so I could conceal the tears glistening in my eyes. God, why did words to defend myself always fail me when Dr. Mallory Kavanagh attacked? “Yes, you’re right,” I murmured. “I apologize.”

She sniffed in irritation. Not quite a pardon. “I just knew studying that rubbish literature would transform you into some kind of vulgar imbecile. You should’ve listened to us when we tried to steer you toward theoretical physics. Something sensible and worthwhile.”

Studying literature had been my one great rebellion, and neither of my parents had ever forgiven me for it. Briefly, I’d been tempted to appease them by going into the sciences, but I’d never been able to betray my devotion to the written word. And the one thing I hadn’t acquiesced to had led to their eternal scorn.

If it had been up to me, I would’ve been satisfied with a bachelor’s degree in English. I would’ve been fine sharing my love of stories with first graders. But I’d gone all the way through a doctorate program to mollify Richard and Mallory.

It didn’t seem to matter what I did, though. Neither of my parents had ever been “proud” of my accomplishments. They had never shown approval. They had always pushed for something bigger and better.

But their constant disapproval was becoming tiresome. For once, I wished I could simply be good enough in their eyes.

Sadly, today obviously wasn’t going to be that day.

“One would think with your degree, you’d be able to master what words come from your mouth with a little more respect and decorum.”

“Again, I’m sorry. I—”

“Apologies are for the flawed, Aspen. Stop highlighting your imperfections.” She let out a disgusted breath. “I’ll update you on your father’s prognosis again when I deem it necessary.”

She disconnected the line before I could get in another word.

“Crap,” I muttered. Who knew how long it would be before she stooped to call me again. I knew she wouldn’t answer if I tried to patch back through to her with an eloquent apology that didn’t actually sound like the apology of a “flawed, imbecile” daughter.

I just hoped she’d be merciful enough to keep me updated about my father.

This time when I lifted my napkin, I dabbed the base of my lashes instead of my mouth. I had another class to teach in fifteen minutes; I didn’t want to show up with wet, swollen eyes or a runny nose. If my parents had taught me anything, it was that a dignified image meant everything.

But damn it, I wished I knew why I always let my mother’s words get to me. I should expect her chilly, impersonal and condescending treatment by now. Yet I still ached for a little nugget of affection from both of my parents. Ninety percent of everything I did was to win their love. But I couldn’t give up trying. Because honestly, if a girl couldn’t get her own family to care about her, who would?