Right. I knew that. The ugly dog. Thank God. “Yeah, no… yeah. You definitely should get back to him. Good point.”
“Okaaaay, Benjamin. And maybe you should go ahead and go to bed. It seems like I sucked all of your brain cells out.” She smirks, pulling her clothes back on before seeing herself out of the bedroom while I’m still standing there like a goddamn fool.
She’s all the way to the front door by the time I come to my senses. “Wait! When will I… when can we see each other again?” I ask.
“We see each other far too often for my liking,” she snarks. “Bye, Benjamin. Thank you for the orgasm.”
She waves her fingers over her shoulder as the door to my apartment closes behind her. I can’t be sure, but I’m pretty sure I hear maniacal laughter coming from the other side of the door as she leaves.
And, dammit, I can’t help my grin at this infuriating, gorgeous, amazing woman.
I am absolutely not analyzing the fact that I gave Benoit Bardot a blow job before allowing him to wash my motherfucking hair.
Obviously, I do asinine things when I’m overstimulated.
With finals coming up, what I don’t need is a distraction. Especially not one with chocolate-colored eyes, cute little reading glasses, and a nice?—
No. Focus, Cole.
I have an appointment with my advisor later this afternoon. She sent an ominous email yesterday that I’ve been agonizing over ever since. I swear, there’s a special place in hell for peoplewho set a meeting with no explanation or—even worse—text you saying, “Call me.” My stomach has been in knots for multiple reasons, this meeting is just the icing on the cake.
I need to distract myself and use my time wisely because my favorite table was available as soon as I walked into the university library today. This almost never happens, and usually I end up sitting across the room, with the sunlight blazing into my eyes, as I watch a table of undergrads fuck around atmytable.
But today, I arrived in time to grab it and I’m taking it as a good omen. It really is the perfect spot. Slightly separated from the main library seating area, there are half-shelves that form a wall between me and the entrance to the cafe. I can get up, refill my coffee, and also keep an eye on my things. I’m not sure who would steal a stack of psychology textbooks, but those things are expensive and I can’t afford to replace them. Between that and my banged up laptop, the logical side of me knows that I’m not really taking a risk by leaving such valuable items out while I go in pursuit of more caffeine, but I still feel better being nearby.
My finals include two written exams and a presentation. The written exams should be fine, it’s the presentation I’m worried about. I’d rather pluck my toenails out one at a time than speak in front of a group of people that I know will be judging the quality of my work. I know it’s unavoidable, especially in academia, but my body goes red with all of the attention, truly helping me live up to Ben’s nickname for me.
Shit.Don’t think about Ben.
And I don’t. For the next hour and a half I do a great job of outlining my presentation, filling in a few lingering gaps. My phone dings, reminding me that I have an appointment with my advisor in thirty minutes.
It doesn’t take long to get across campus, so I find a seat outside of my advisor’s office and use the extra time to squeezein a little more studying. I’m almost immediately distracted, however, by a laugh that sounds strangely familiar. I eye the end of the hallway, watching as Elaine Bardot rounds the corner. Despite the fact that we are technically housed in the same building, we don’t see each other very often.
The wagingDon’t-Think-About-Beninternal battle comes to a screeching halt as I try to hide myself behind my open textbook. I like Elaine, actually. She’s a badass sex therapist, and even with four kids, was somehow at all of the important events when we were in school. Something my own mother wasn’t able to do with one child. I’m baffled by how she spawned such a rage-inducing human. A strange feeling unfurls in my chest at the thought.
Jealousy, that’s what this is. Now I’m fucking jealous of Ben.
I roll my eyes, sliding deeper into my chair, forgetting that my bright red ponytail acts like a flashing neon sign above my head sayingColette Russell is sitting here!
“Studying hard, dear?” Elaine asks, sitting casually in the chair next to me.
“Oh! Hi, Dr. Bardot. I didn’t see you there.” I lower my textbook, still not making eye contact.
“Elaine, darling,” she scolds. “Dr. Bardot is so formal.”
Sitting in the psychology building—her place of work—I can’t help but think that our relationshipisformal. Sheisa professor, albeit not mine. As if she can read my thoughts, she interjects, “It’s also a rule of mine that if I’ve known you since before you hit puberty, any formalities are out the window.”
“That… seems like a reasonable rule,” I concede.
Elaine’s hands hit her knees with a resoundingsmack. “I thought so! Now, I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve been meaning to invite you to family dinner, it happens every Sunday, and I think it’s past time that you made an appearance.”
Blinking rapidly, I peek over to find a beaming Elaine. As if she didn’t just throw out afamilydinner invitation to a relative stranger. “You want me at family dinner? A dinner that is with your family? And me?”
She purses her lips, but there’s a lingering twinkle in her eye. Something that tells me there’s more to this request than she’s letting on. “Obviously,” she says.
Obviously?
“Does—uh, does Ben know that you’re asking me?” I can’t imagine he would be thrilled for me to show up to his family’s home—his safe space. Only, sometimes I think…
