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Considering how by the book I live my life.

Boring seems harsh but accurate.

Definitely safe.

Sex with a dangerous, burly, yet teddy bear like biker was so risky.

So not me.

This me.

The me that melts dark chocolate on bacon when she misses her grandma and gets bruises from bumping into her mailbox and doesn’t know how to handle having Raymond Berkley, the newest Dean of Newt Newton Academy as of the end of the school year, standing in the college classroom I’m occupying for the summer.

Dean Berkley lets his eyes briefly wander around the room that I was specifically instructed not to decorate, which is why the only lively thing in the space is my very cluttered desk. “Seems bleak.”

“Since it’s a um…summer…course…that…uh…” adjusting my glasses is done to bide a breath, “is closer to a workshop than traditional class…and because I um…” another fidget of my eyewear occurs, “don’t typically teach adults, I don’t have my own room here, so the uh…professor – who is an actual professor – requested – er…demanded – I not touch or move or do anything, anywhere in the room that wasn’t directly the desk or desk space or,” my open palm moves in a frantic circle, “gravity of the furniture for teaching of the…thing.”

His dark red eyebrow quirks in silence.

Okay.

I’m just not good with grownups!

Kids?

I get.

And yeah, they’re just as judgmental as adults – or more so – but they’re also more open and understanding and really good with fallibility because to them that is how things are supposed to be.

You’re allowed to laugh and be goofy and ramble.

You’re allowed to fuck up and stick your tongue out and keep it moving.

There’s just so much more permission to be relaxed in their views on life than there is in adults.

This moment being the perfect example.

“You wanted to discuss something with me?” I gingerly segue.

His slender frame rocks once on his expensive heels prior to investigating, “Your literary course is open to anyone who registers?”

“Anyone who registers and pays the necessary course fees, yes.”

“And this includes…” the narrowing of his gaze causes me to deeply swallow, “bike riders?”

“Like Tour de France people? Because I think they prefer to be called cyclist.”

Another glare is given in tandem with him stating, “Like the one that just left. Last.”

“Oh,” airily precedes me nodding, “like motorcycle club members. Right. Um…yes.” I fold my hands together behind my back in an attempt to portray strength and poise. “As long as they pay their dues, they’re welcomed to participate. Education should be for everyone.”

“They have many dues to pay,” he cryptically mutters under his breath leaving me unsure if that information was actually for me or something else on his mind. “Nevertheless, having their…kind…around is not a good look for you, Miss Owens.”

“Pardon?”

“Yes, seeing you interact with individuals of such…status…may result in needing to re-evaluate your place among the academy or at the very least your ability to host this summer course.”

“Why exactly?”