My lips twitched with amusement but also outrage. Yes, the image had some very subtle areas of defiance, but it was only more impressive for those features. In my opinion.
I clicked my tongue, sliding my phone back into my bag as I gave the rude man a prim look. “You’re delusional. And severely lacking in taste yourself, sir.”
He fucking rolled his eyes at me. What the hell? This man had to be pushing forty and he was rolling his eyes like a child. It sparked my temper something wicked.
“No, I believe you are. The woman in this image is reading erotica for starters.” He pointed to the open book where the words dripping cunt were written so tiny and faint you almost needed a magnifying glass to make them out. “The way she holds the book is flipping the viewer off, her dress is so sheer across the chest you can see the outline of her nipple where the light strikes her side, and for God's sake there’s a vibrator peeking out from under her dress.” He pointed out the rather modern detail near the base of the painting, and I held back my smirk.
“So, you have problems with a female-focused, sexually empowering painting, is that it?” I retorted, wrinkling my nose. “How very misogynistic of you. No wonder you lack artistic taste.”
He gave me a sharp look then flicked his eyes between the painting and me a couple of times. The woman in the image had raven black hair cascading over the arm of the chaise, and rosebud lips that he was clearly just connecting as familiar. There it is. The penny just dropped, huh?
“Ah, I see. Artist’s muse are you?” He said it like he was calling me a bad name.
I tucked my bag up higher on my shoulder and straightened my glasses. “Actually no.” I turned to face him directly, tipping my head back to meet his eyes. “Artist.”
His eyes widened briefly, then he winced. “Shit.”
My smile was brittle. “Can I help you find someone? You seem lost.”
He ran a hand over that military style haircut, having the grace to look embarrassed. “Actually, yes. I was looking for Dr. Bailey’s teaching assistant, Tristian Ives? I was told he would be running the eight-thirty undergrad lecture for Survey of Renaissance through Modern Art.”
Irritation rippled through me. “Oh, he is. Just head down the corridor that way, take your first left, follow the corridor all the way to the end, then take the door to the right of the big bronze statue.” I gave him directions well away from the class in question.
His smile was cool. “Thank you. And, uh, my apologies.” He gestured to the painting. “But it’s still awful.”
He walked away before I could bite back, but it didn’t matter anyway. I was really late now. Spinning on my heel, I hurried into the lecture hall where some hundred and fifty first-year students were chatting and socializing.
“Sorry I’m late!” I said, projecting my voice like I’d learned to do in ten years of drama classes. “I’m here now, though, so please find your seats and quiet down.”
This class was generally a pretty good one, with students who were actually interested in learning. One of the girls in the front row raised her hand and asked after Dr. Bailey’s health.
For a few moments, I took the time to explain what I knew of his condition. He’d been admitted to the hospital a few weeks earlier with what seemed like a minor stroke. His condition had deteriorated since then, though, so no one knew whether he’d recover.
Luckily for me, I’d helped him put together his lesson plans at the start of the academic year, so I was well-versed on all the content he’d planned to teach. With any luck, he would recover and return to class soon. My job was to make sure his students didn’t all fail the course in the meantime.
The door to the class creaked open as I was returning to the podium to take a look at my notes and start the lecture. Glancing over, I found my rude friend from the corridor had worked out that I’d directed him to a janitor's closet and must have gotten directions from someone else.
“Alright, I apologize for the late start today,” I addressed the class. “Most of you already know me, but for those who don’t—” I leveled a cool glare at Mr. Marine “—my name is Tristian Ives, and I’m Dr. Bailey's TA. You can all call me Tris. Let’s get started.”
For the rest of the class I ignored the huge man folded into one of the tight seats of the back row, but he didn’t make it easy. He hadn’t brought any notebook or laptop. He just seemed content to sit there and listen, his fingers interlaced on the desktop like he was interviewing me for something.
It was disconcerting, to say the least. That, combined with my residual hangover, meant my enthusiasm was dampened somewhat. But still, I made it through the lecture and breathed a sigh of relief when the three-hour seminar ended and I dismissed my students.
“I think we got off to a bad start,” the big man suggested, approaching my lectern with his hands tucked in his pockets.
I arched a brow while packing my laptop away. “Oh, you think?”
His smile was tight, like he was containing the urge to be an asshole. Again. “Tris, was it? I’m John.” He extended one of those enormous hands for me to shake, and I eyed it with suspicion. Then, because it was getting awkward, I extended my own hand.
“John,” I repeated, letting him shake my hand briefly before I pulled away. “Can I ask why you were looking for my class, John? I assume you didn’t just come here to trash my award-winning painting. Perhaps you’d like to offer criticism of my teaching, too? Oh wait, I forgot the part where you assumed I was a man, too. God forbid a woman hold a TA position in an elite university like Boles.” I gave a mock gasp, pressing my hand to my chest as though scandalized.
Yeah, I was prickly when I was hungover. Okay, fine. All the time.
He tilted his head to the side, his gaze shrewd. “Tristian is usually a male name, and you have absolutely no online presence whatsoever, so could you blame me for making an assumption?”
“You know what they say about assuming, John,” I replied, slinging my bag strap over my head and freeing my long hair with a sweep of my hand. I didn’t have the time to stand around chit chatting with a bad-mannered man, no matter how sexy he was. “You looked me up online? Creep. Should I be calling for campus security right now?”
He gave a low chuckle, and it did delicious things to my pussy. Dammit, maybe I needed to booty call that guy from Tinder on my way to work. Come to think of it, though, if this asshole could get me hot and bothered that easily, the sex must have sucked last night.
So there. He was wrong. I did have an online presence, I just wasn’t dumb enough to run my profiles under my real name.
“You think pretty highly of yourself, don’t you Tris?” His question was sharper than teasing, and it made me pull up short.
I whirled around to glare at the big, handsome prick. “Yes, John. I do. It’s called confidence and self-respect. If that’s a problem for you, absolutely no one is making you continue this conversation. In fact, I’m actively trying to leave.”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “This is…I don’t usually come across so bad on first meetings,” he admitted with a frown. “This is out of character for me. I’m usually very charming, Tristian.”