He has a quick flick-through and then motions to the front row of seats. “Stay. I’ll mark it now.”
“Um, okay.” I wasn’t expecting that. Is me handing an essay in that momentous an occasion?
From the corner of my eye, I notice Emory waiting for me, chewing his bottom lip. Aww, he’s nervous about what mark I’m going to get. That’s sweet. I jog up the stairs to him.
“You go. I’ll see you later. For dinner.” I wink.
He blushes. He’s so cute when he blushes.
“I’m looking forward to our date,” I say. It’s not a date. It’s fake. I don’t date. I fuck. So why do I have butterflies in my stomach just thinking about seeing Emory tonight?
Without thinking, I put my hand on his waist and kiss his cheek. He gasps. The urge to kiss his lips rises. I pull back. I can’t do that.
“I’ll see you later,” he whispers. He stumbles over his feet on his way out of the lecture theatre.
I smile. I’m certain it’s a sappy smile. Have I been bodysnatched? Am I watching while someone else controls my body and speaks on my behalf?
“Mr Jones is a good influence on you,” Professor Richards notes without looking up from marking my essay.
“Mr— Oh! You mean Emory.”
“Yes.”
It’s true. He is. I sit on the front row and tap the table. I haven’t figured out what I’m going to cook for him yet. I should have asked him what he likes or, more importantly, what he dislikes. Does he have any allergies? Are there any tastes or textures he can’t stand? Even if this is a fake date—which it is—I still want to cook him a nice meal. I need to thank him for his help with the essay.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Emory
Well?
He hasn’t finished marking it yet.
I’m nervous.
LOL. Whose essay is it?
Yours. Don’t keep me in suspense.
I won’t. You’ll be the first person to know my mark.
Thanks.
You don’t get as flustered over text messages.
I chuckle as I imagine Emory reading my message and getting flustered. He’s probably blushing from head to toe. Damn, now that’s a sight I’d like to see. I’ve also been fantasising about seeing Casey in tight swimming trunks, and I barely know him. What can I say? I appreciate beautiful men, especially in my bed. I arch an eyebrow. Threesome? I snort. I can dream.
“Something funny, August?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Thanks.”
Why couldn’t he have marked it later and emailed me the result? Ah well, I’ve got nothing better to do except plan a meal for two and daydream about enticing two very pretty men into my bed. I should get my thoughts out of the gutter, but where would be the fun in that? My fantasies won’t hurt anyone.
I look up as the professor puts the essay on the desk in front of me. He’s written 55% in the top right corner in red pen.
