Her Possessive Professor by Gena Snow

Chapter 2

 

Hailey

 

 

 

 

Unbelievable! I look at the long line of cars waiting to get in the college parking lot with frustration. It’s the first day of school, and I’m going to be late. I hate the thought. I’m not a punctual person, but I’m seldom late for classes and never been late the first day.

After taking another fifteen minutes to find a spot, I hurry out of the parking structure. Fifteen minutes late. Record-breaking. Shit. This is not good. The infamous Professor Price will for sure dislike me. I hope the classroom has a backdoor. Damn. I could’ve avoided it. If only I had forced myself to stop writing and had gone to bed earlier last night.

Of course, that wasn’t the real reason for my delay. I dreaded going to this modern poetry class.

I cringe at the thought of deciphering poetry written by ancient old men, regretting once again majoring in English literature. Contrary to my expectations, I spent most of my time reading tedious and confusing critical essays. The ancient literature isn’t as enjoyable as I imagined, not to mention figuring out riddles and looking up references just to get the meaning of a sentence written in English, which was pretty much a foreign language centuries ago. I had a hard time getting through Chaucer even with his humor, and Milton was a nightmare.  I decided to major in English because I always liked to read. Ever since I was little, I didn’t live a day without a book in my hands. It is the reason I need new eyeglasses every year, which is a shame according to my dad because I inherited my mom’s best feature, her brilliant green eyes.

Another reason for my tardiness is Professor Price himself. The notorious grump has nothing but negative ratings online. I’ve avoided him for years, but this time, I don’t have a choice. His is the only open class that satisfies my major requirement, at least in the afternoons, and I’m not a morning person. From the online comments and other students’ gossips, I already know what to expect from the most demanding professor in the university. Excessive reading assignments, difficult term paper, harsh grader, rude, condescending, arrogant… One thing positive, though, is the chili pepper sign which indicates the professor is hot. “Do not let his appearance fool you,” a student has written. “He’s the coldest bastard among all my professors.”

I drag my feet toward the open door of the classroom I’m looking for in Franklin Hall. A deep and rumbling voice wafts out of it, and I listen with a clenched stomach. “You’re going to read the most beautiful poems written in the twentieth century by the greatest poets…. Poetry is an endangered species in literature. While I don’t expect any one of you here to save it, I hope some of you will at least learn to appreciate it.”

Holy crap. I know that voice. The low rumbling strikes a chord in my belly and causes a vibration that echoes through my body. When I see the man who speaks, my heart skips a beat. He’s Jared, the guy I met at the bar two nights ago. And damn. He looks even hotter now, in a navy button-down shirt tucked professionally in his grey pants. His biceps bulging over the sleeves, and I can make out the shape of his firm chest too—my God. I remember how good it felt against him. My knees wobble, and I can’t move a step further.

There must be a mistake. He can’t be an English professor. Despite the chili pepper sign, I’ve imagined Dr. Price to be an old man with thin silver hair that barely covers his scalp, shrunken cheeks, and eyes buried in swollen eye bags.  He can’t be this thirty-something supermodel with raven hair standing by the podium.

I check the classroom number just to make sure I’m at the right place. There isn’t any mistake, and the professor is speaking about modern poetry. I’m so stunned I don’t know what I’m supposed to or feel. I’m supposed to be excited because I haven’t stopped thinking about the guy since I met him, but I’m not. Professor means off-limits, right? Damn.

I’m standing behind the door frame, waiting for him to turn around to write on the board so I can sneak into the room unnoticed. But he spots me, and he turns to look. The brief moment our eyes meet, I feel an electric current zap through me.

He frowns as his blue eyes linger on me, but he shows no recognition. Thank God for my big-frame glasses and Nike cap. I’m wearing a t-shirt and jeans instead of a fancy dress, and not having the time to wear any makeup helps too.  Maybe I should run away now and forget about the class. I think quickly, but I don’t move. I can’t. My feet are glued to the ground.

“Are you looking for Accounting 101? It’s next door,” he says.

I shake my head. “No, I’m err, here for your class, I believe,” I mumble. Shit. I black out momentarily and I don’t remember the title of the class.

“English 257? Modern Poetry?” he asks me to confirm.

“Yes,” I nod vigorously, peeking up at him under the visor of my cap.

His face darkens a bit. “It started twenty minutes ago, but come on in.”

Oh my God. He’s mad. “I’m sorry. I…err had trouble finding the parking,” I mutter as I enter the classroom. There’re that many students inside. Thank goodness.

“Of course. Well, at least it isn’t an accident,” he says sarcastically.

The few students chortle at the joke, but my cheeks burn. He thinks I’m making up an excuse! I’m so embarrassed I plop down on the first seat available, which happens to be in the first row right in front of the podium.

Shit. I should get up and find another seat, but it’ll bring me more attention, so I just sit stiffly, my head hung low, and wait for the professor to change his topic.

He doesn’t speak for a while, and from the corner of my eye, I know he’s gazing at me. I’m nervous. People were not kidding when they said he wouldn’t tolerate tardiness!

Finally, after an excruciating minute, he says, “Students. I’ll say this again. Three tardies count as an absence and with three absences, you’ll be out of the class.”

Jeez. This is too much. Tears are struggling to well up in my eyes, and I have to force them back. I’m not a but this is such a humiliation. I don’t deserve it! I’m just being a bit late. Ok, maybe more than a bit. And it’s part of my fault. But still, does he have to make such a big deal out of it?

Needless to say, I have a hard time paying attention to what he has to say next. My mind mostly scatters around for the rest of the class. Jared, or Professor Price, gives us an overview of modern English literature and poetry, and then he speaks of some poets he admires.  He seems to like T. S. Eliot a lot because he spends a good ten minutes talking about the poet, who left America to pursue his literary career in England.

“….Anyway, folks, you are the reason Eliot abandoned America for England,” declares Professor Price. “No one appreciates poetry here anymore.”

My mouth falls open. He did not just say that! This is insulting! I look around to see the reaction among other students, but to my surprise, no one seems to mind. A couple of them are checking their cellphones, and another few are staring at the syllabus. Still, others are gazing at the lawn outside the window. It looks as if I was the only one who heard him. I glance back at Professor quickly. He’s also observing the students, but with a condescending smirk on his face.

Jeez. What an obnoxious jerk. Unbelievable. I ought to be angry at his rudeness, but I keep reminding myself of the man who flirted with me at the bar and gave me the best kiss ever. In fact, I haven’t forgotten it for a single moment in the past two days. Later that night, after I returned to the bar, I found his receipt and added his contact into my phone. I almost called him on Sunday, just to ask whether he would be going to the bar. But I held my urge because, hell, he heard me when I said to the other customer I wasn’t an easy girl. Besides, what was I supposed to say to him? Now, I’m glad I didn’t call him. Who knows what I would’ve done with him! To have kissed my professor is awkward enough. Shit. What the hell am I going to do? I have to pass this class, and I can’t let any funny business get in my way. Jared Price will feel as embarrassed as I am once he finds out who I am. I only hope he wouldn’t make it deliberately harder for me to avoid trouble.

My mind wanders until I hear him say, “If you aren’t ready to commit at least ten hours a week in reading, then you might as well drop the class now because the chances you’ll pass the class is zero.”

Soon after he says that, a student stands up and leaves the class, and then another. I remained seated on my chair, debating whether it’s better to just leave without further interaction with the professor. If the class got canceled, then I wouldn’t face any awkwardness like this in the future… except, I really need this damn class.

In the end, there are only ten students left. If this were all we had, then we had very little chance to keep the class.

“Good,” Professor Price says. “That’s about everything I wanted to say. I’ll see everyone on Wednesday, that is, if the class doesn’t get canceled.”

His nonchalance suddenly enrages me. It sounds as if he wishes the class to be canceled. I shouldn’t want to have anything to do with this jerk, and I find myself glaring at him as he packs his briefcase.

He doesn’t seem to notice me until he steps off the podium. All other students are gone.

“May I help you?” he asks.

I bow my head lower to hide my face under the visor of the cap. “Why did you make those students leave?” I ask in an accusatory tone.

He pauses for a moment. I sense his fury when he speaks in a severe tone. “Those who left didn’t prepare to work hard. I’m doing them a favor. They’ll end up failing the class anyway.”

He has a point, although he sounds arrogant. “You could’ve been more encouraging,” I say staring at his boots, not sure what gives me the audacity to challenge him. Maybe it was because of our moment’s intimacy.

He sighs with exasperation, obviously unaccustomed to my challenge. “I’d be insincere and giving them false hope if I said, ‘stay and you’d pass,’ they would end up not studying and fail,” he says.

“You’re so mean.” Words fly out of my mouth, and I regret them in an instant. My God. Why did I say that? Now I would have to drop the class, too.

“If honest and mean are the same thing to you,” he says. “Then this class isn’t for you either, Miss —,”

“Carson,” I tell him. “But I don’t have a choice. I need the class to graduate.”

He pauses for a moment. “Well, the class isn’t irreplaceable. I’m pretty sure you can take one of the poetry seminars instead.”

“I can’t. Those are all offered in the mornings and I…. have a schedule conflict,” I mumble, concealing the fact I never go to bed before two in the morning and making it to a class before noon takes effort.

“Wait a minute, have you taken my class before? You sound familiar.” He bends his knees a bit, as if trying to see my eyes.

“No I haven’t,” I say quickly and bow my head even lower.

“Could you at least look up when you speak to me?” says the professor. “You’re being very disrespectful, Miss Carson.”

I look up slowly, meeting his eyes for the first time. He inhales sharply as recognition kicks in, and he curses softly. “Damn. Hailey?”