“I—I can understand that,” he says.
Maybe he’s just out of practice talking to beautiful women. Back in the spring, he got on the apps, thinking he was finally ready to start dating again. Then there was the cute girl who worked in animation his professor friends urged him to ask out at their regular pub trivia night. But none of those relationships turned out to be anything but awkward drinks, awkward dinners, and a couple times, awkward sex. Nick had his professor self and his rest-of-the-time self, and sometimes he worried he was putting on his professor self, with a confidence and enthusiasm that might have rung hollow, keeping all his vulnerability locked away. But when was he supposed to get vulnerable—after which date? Until Ella, the animator, he’d only ever had sex with Kathryn, and sleeping with someone else for the first time was so strange, the intimacy seeming too sudden for how little they knew each other. He wasn’t surprised when she broke it off.
Even if Kathryn was out there doing the same thing, he couldn’t ever get wholly comfortable with another person. Like dating was a muscle he was supposed to exercise in his twenties, the way you’re best at learning languages when you’re young, and now that he’s in his mid-thirties, he never properly developed the skills.
And Ramona isn’t just a beautiful woman.
She is his student.
If she’s going to take this seriously, then so will he. “You really want to be here,” he says, without a question mark at the end, and she nods. “If you’re in my class, I’m going to have the same expectations of you that I do for every student.”
“Good. I don’t want special treatment.”
“You’re going to have to do the homework, and take notes, and there are going to be a couple big exams. A few essays. Attendance is mandatory.”
“I plan on being here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
Ramona wanders over to his bookshelf. Her jacket stops at her waist, exposing the curve of her hips. Those severe pointed boots can’t be comfortable, but she makes walking in them look like wearing slippers.
Out of practice, unaccustomed to being around someone sprinkled with gold dust—that has to be it.
She taps a stack of books with his name on them, the psych textbook he coauthored with another professor a couple years ago. Without permission, she opens one up. Flips through it. Like she has full access to everything in his office. No student has ever done this before, and it makes him bite back a hundred different responses as he joins her next to the bookshelf. There’s an entitlement to her, one that he can sense from his wealthy students sometimes. This is a girl who’s used to getting what she wants.
Even if she doesn’t realize it, she’s already getting special treatment.
“You want me to read your book, too?”
Nick holds out his palm. “That one’s for my Cognitive Neuropsychology class. But you’re more than welcome to.”
She passes the book to him, and he slots it back onto the shelf right above her head, doing his best to avoid his sleeve catching any wayward strands of her hair. When he first moved into this office, he was thrilled by how spacious it was, unable to believe all of this was reallyhis.
Now he’s certain it’s the tiniest room on campus.
“Professor Navarro. Nick,” she says, and this utterance of his name shouldn’t soften him. “I promise you, I’m here to learn, the same as everyone else.” Her dark eyes are unblinking. Unyielding. “Can you teach me or not?”
He catches another whiff of her perfume—floral, but mixed with something deeper. An undercurrent of spice.Fuck, that’s a good scent, his traitorous brain and body too aware of it. Sensual, but not over-the-top. Almost subtle in its sophistication, when little else about Ramona seems subtle at all.
Her face is inches away from his, her cheeks flushed. That same adrenaline spikes his own heart rate. Makes him dizzy, or maybe that’s just her perfume.
Can you teach me or not?
God, he really hopes he can.
“That’s my job,” he says, some part of him aware that it’s not the same as a yes. He can’t quite believe she grabbed the reins of this conversation so fast.
He doesn’t have to like her, but he’ll do what he can to ensure she passes the class with a grade she’s satisfied with. As long as she does the work.
“Then I’ll see you on Wednesday. Don’t want to be late for my next class.” With another toss of her hair, she swipes her bag from off the floor. “Oh, and”—she gives him a grimace as she reaches into her wallet, pulling out what looks like her insurance card—“I’m sorry about your car.”
5
“Heels down. Relax your neck.Perfect, just like that.”
In a studio in Glendale, Ramona grits her teeth as Betty spots her on the squat rack. A few days of unseasonably gray weather have pushed them back into the gym; Ramona felt so exposed on the UCLA campus that she’s grateful for the privacy. A couple sneaky candids of her made it to social media: sipping coffee on her way to class, a Boomerang of her picking up a dropped pencil that looks like she’s stuck on loop doing it forever. Every snarky caption seemed to wonder the same thing:Is Ramona Wilder…smart?
“Fuck you,” she grunts affectionately, lifting the bar above her head and then slowly lowering it back down.
Betty smirks. “Love you too.”
