Kate
I’m late.
I’m never late, not ever. But today, the first day of the fall semester at the college where I’m teaching a course, I’m fucking late.
I usually have everything so together. I’d double-checked my cell phone alarm last night, made sure my charcoal pantsuit was laid out and ready, and even packed myself a lunch. Between the political science course I’m teaching and my own law school classes, I’ve got a full day.
That I’m late for, thanks to my phone updating itself overnight and somehow not retaining the alarm I set.
I’d thrown myself into my clothes, hauled my thick waist-length brown hair into a high ponytail, and dashed to the car. I realized halfway to campus that I forgot my lunch, but it didn’t matter. Pressing the upper reaches of the speed limit the whole way here, I’d made it to my designated campus parking lot in record time.
And now I’m sprinting across the quad of Shotgun College, a surprisingly sizable institution offering a liberal arts undergrad program and several graduate level options. I clutch an armful of folders stuffed with syllabi, deadline lists, and packets of articles. Glancing at my watch, I think that the remaining five minutes before my class is set to begin might be just enough time for me to get there.
I lengthen my stride and weave between the herds of freshman who are traveling to their first day of classes, all wearing a confused expression as if they’re not quite sure how they got here.
The clock tower on the top of Central Hall chimes as I pass it. I know it’s always a few minutes early, but the sound still makes my skin flash cold.
I cannot screw this up. I’m nearly done with law school, and this teaching job will look great on my resumé. And I need the money. Paying out of pocket for years of higher education will do that to your bank account.
Just another year of school and then I can take the bar in July and — with luck — finally start my career in earnest. I’m so ready to be done with school. All of my friends are, and as I watch them conduct their professional lives, I’m filled with admiration undercut by a thin ribbon of jealousy.
The Central Hall clock stops its tolling, and I check my watch again. The damn digital thing refuses to show me the time when I turn my wrist, so I shake my hand and look again. Still nothing. I curse under my breath and, still running, shake my wrist once more.
My watch lights up at last, but it’s no longer my top priority because I’ve run headfirst into something large and solid that — I find my brain noting as I tumble to the ground, papers flying — smells incredibly good.
I’m sprawled on the brick path, eyes looking at the big sky that Montana is known for, heart stuttering with shock.
“Fuck,” says a male voice that feels like honey to my addled cranium, “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“Um,” I begin, then decide that’s a complete sentence. I’m not sure how to answer the question. All I know is that I’m definitely going to be late for my class and that my head is pounding in a way that makes me groan inwardly at the thought of standing.
A young man’s face appears over mine, forehead creased with concern. “Can I help you up? Or call the campus EMTs?”
I draw a deep breath and take a mental inventory of my body. Aside from my head, I don’t feel any other pain. Laying here isn’t going to do me much good so, gingerly, I extend a hand and allow him to help me sit up.
He crouches next to me, looking at me like I’m a bomb about to go off. My head still hurts, but nothing else feels worse in this upright position, so I take that as a small win on a morning of epic fails.
“I — I think I’m okay,” I murmur, more to reassure myself than him. “I’m sorry I ran you over.”
“It was my fault.” He gives me a crooked smile, eyes as blue as the sky crinkling under his shock of light brown hair. My heart flip flops in a way that has nothing to do with potential injury. “I was looking at my phone. You know what they say about driving and texting? Well, apparently you shouldn’t walk and text either.”
“I wasn’t paying attention either.” I shrug, returning his smile. His widens when he sees mine, and I find myself thinking that making this guy smile makes me happy.
I shove the thought away. I’ve got bigger concerns. I’m late for my teaching gig, might lose said gig, and can feel my head beginning to pound. I don’t have time for ogling some hottie — and he’s definitely a hottie.
My errant brain reminds me of my friend Amelia. It wasn’t all that long ago that she got left at the altar, then met the love of her life that same night. They’ve been together ever since. She’s even pregnant with their baby.
But I don’t believe love at first sight exists — at least, not for me. As a would-be lawyer, logic is my North Star. And logic doesn’t have time for lifelong relationships founded on a sudden shared chemistry communicated with a glance of the eyes.
Even so, the sight of this guy gathering up my strewn papers, tucking them carefully back into their folders, makes my thigh muscles turn to jelly. His hands are so big, strong with smooth knuckles. I imagine how they’d feel fondling my breasts or supporting my ass as he pounds me against the wall.
Crimson heat creeps up my cheeks. Getting turned on by and fantasizing about some stranger? This is not my usual.
Just like being late, my traitor of a brain pipes up, and look what’s happening.
Quit it, I command myself. My brain shuts up, but that pleasant wiggly feeling still permeates my thighs.
I’ve got to get out of here. And not just because I’m probably going to be in big trouble with the head of my department. Apparently my brain and body have taken a liking to this guy, and I’m not sure what that means. The best thing to do is get to class and put him out of my mind.
He hands me the collected stack of papers and manila folders. “It’s not in the right order,” he says, apology written over his face, “but it’s not all over the ground anymore.”
“Thank you so much. Really.” I accept the stack, my gratitude warm and real in my throat. I feel like there’s something else I should say — that I’m about to say — but I open my mouth and nothing emerges.
His eyes explore my face while he waits, jaw flexing rhythmically as if he’s making a list of observations. My flush deepens, and I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Not that it matters because, after this moment, I’ll probably never see him again.
“Should we get you on your feet?” he says after a moment. “I’m not exactly in a rush to get to class, but I figure that I should.” He leans in and whispers like he’s telling a secret. “I’m trying to be a good student here.”
“You are paying for it,” I point out. “Might as well get the credit your tuition is buying.”
He laughs, showing his beautiful white teeth. “Damn straight.”
Again that golden warmth fills me, along with the satisfaction that having made him smile and laugh brings.
He extends a hand. “Now, let’s get you up.”
I’d like to get him up, that renegade part of my brain says as I place my palm on his, and this time I don’t tell it to shush.