Chapter 1
Lorelei
I’m hobbling out of my coach’s office on crutches, my attitude dark after learning I’ll be sitting out of the upcoming exhibition due to my sprained ankle. It hurts like a bitch. It gets worse when the brutish oafs that call themselves our school’s hockey team spill off the ice and nearly knock me over. They look like men, but they’re just loud, rambunctious little boys. The only tolerable one is Hudson, who looks at me with sympathy, but I ignore him. The last thing I want is for him to try to talk to me in my current mood.
They tumble past me, asking about my ankle and trying to get under my skin. My sister would probably say they’re flirting. Speaking of my sister, Cara calls me, and I hurry as best I can on my crutches to get somewhere quieter to answer.
“I need us to pull a switch,” she says after she’s asked about my ankle.
I’m intrigued and also worried about what she’s gotten herself into. We haven’t done a switch in ages. But it seems like she got herself in over her head with math class. Not just any math, but calculus. My twin can’t work out a tip in a restaurant without her phone, so why she would take calculus is beyond me.
“The professor is a tyrant,” she continues. “He wouldn’t let me transfer, so of course I failed the first test. I had to practically beg for a retest, and now he expects me to learn his ancient foreign voodoo in three days. Plus, he said he’s taking points off the top and making it extra hard.”
Cara explains about the mix up when she was registering for classes and how she thought she’d signed up for a basic math class, not calculus. Her jerk of a professor won’t let her drop the class because it’s past the deadline. I love Cara, but saying math is not her strong suit is putting it mildly. This professor sounds like a real arrogant prick, too. Hearing about how he spoke to my twin has me clenching my fists.
I can hear the desperation in her voice, and I don’t want her to have to stop taking design classes if our parents cut off their financial help. She’s a great designer, and I know she’ll be successful if she can just get this internship she’s after. Unfortunately, our parents think it’s too risky and want her to get a more traditional degree to fall back on. Since I’m nationally ranked on my college figure skating team, I’m exempt from their nagging.
“Yeah, fine. I actually like calculus.”
“Of course, you do,” she laughs.
“But you have to come here because Coach wants me at the exhibition, which is also in three days.”
“Are you kidding?” she yelps. “You know I can barely stand on the ice.”
“You won’t need to put on skates. My ankle is really messed up, so I won’t be performing, but she wants me there for interviews. I can write out all the answers.”
She agrees, because what choice does she have if she wants me to take her test? On my way out of the arena, a few more of the hockey players try to get my attention, but as usual, I ignore them, not interested in their childish antics. I’m actually pretty excited to get away for a while. It would only be depressing watching my teammates perform while I’m stuck on the sidelines, and it’s been a long time since I got to sink my teeth into a nice, meaty test. I love figure skating and don’t regret choosing this path instead of going down an academic route, but I miss tearing the heck out of a challenging class sometimes.
I can’t wait to see the expression on Cara’s tyrant professor’s face when I—or rather, Cara—ace his stupid retest.
Chapter 2
Gabriel
I’m stuck in my office putting together a new exam for one of my lazier students, irritated as hell about it despite knowing I was only going to sit at home anyway. The same as always. I shouldn’t have caved in the first place, because if word gets out that I’m doling out retests, these kids won’t study at all anymore.
Since when did higher education become the sole pursuit of a piece of paper in order to get a job that was completely unrelated to their field of study? Whenever I ask my students why they chose their math major, they shrug and say it’s because they’re good at it. Just an easy road to their diploma. I can’t remember the last time I had a student who was actually passionate about learning, and it was depressing.
My gaze snags on the silver framed picture of my late mother, and I automatically smile in response to her bright-eyed, happy image. I try to recall the sound of her voice, her laughter. It’s been so long, I can’t hear it anymore, but I pretend I can. I close my eyes tight against what I think she’d say to me, though.
Don’t be so hard on them, Gabe. They’ve got a lot more going on than just your class.
When I first began teaching, my mother always did her best to remind me of this, and she’d be horrified to know the reputation I have around campus now. Passing my classes is still prestigious, but I know most of the students hate or fear me. Or both.
I push aside the sliver of guilt at making the new test so difficult. Cara Tanner is the worst kind of student, flighty and irresponsible. She didn’t show up for the first two classes of the semester and then acted like she was supposed to be taking a completely different course. She had the gall to ask to transfer well after the deadline and then tried to sway me with tears. When that didn’t work, she didn’t bother to study and flunked the first test. She is exactly the kind of student that keeps me in a perpetual bad mood.
I finish writing the retest, then pack up my bag and make my way to the lecture hall for my first class of the day. When I walk in the room, the students quiet down immediately and face forward. As I set up what I’ll need for the day’s lesson, I scan over the room, counting heads. I have a strict tardiness policy because I can’t stand disruptions while I’m teaching. I have three hard and fast rules in my classes: don’t be late, don’t leave early, don’t use your cellphone.
My gaze sweeps over the back of the room, and I do a double take when it lands on Cara. She’s sitting against the back wall, which isn’t unusual. What catches my attention is the set of crutches leaning against the wall next to her desk. I’d just seen Cara earlier in the week when she came to my office and begged for a retest. What could have happened between then and now? I know she isn’t an athlete. Professors are required to submit grades every week for all athletes to maintain their eligibility. I’ve never had to do that for Cara.
I push my concern to the back of my mind and turn my attention to starting my lecture. We’re reviewing differential equations today, and I groan internally at the prospect of grading their assignments. I wish I had a teaching assistant I could pass the task to like several of my colleagues, but none of the grad students ever want to work with me.
I start the class by passing back the assignment I had collected earlier in the week. This class meets three mornings a week, and I assign several practice problems at the end of each class. When I get to Cara’s paper, even I wince at the amount of red ink covering the page. I don’t think she’s gotten a single problem correct so far this semester. As I approach the back of the room to give her the paper, I notice that her ankle is wrapped, and she looks tired. She’s in a baggy sweater and leggings, her blonde hair pulled up in a tight bun. An uncomfortable feeling settles low in my stomach as I wonder how she was injured and if it had anything to do with why she failed the test so badly.
She looks up as I reach her, and I’m suddenly struck by the most intense pair of blue eyes I’ve ever seen. How have I never noticed how beautiful she is? I hold her assignment out to her, and as her fingers brush mine, I feel a spark run through my fingertips. If Cara’s sudden gasp is any indication, she felt it too. Stunned by my own response, I clear my throat and take a hasty step back.
She’s a student.I can’t be attracted to her.
