Her Possessive Professor by Gena Snow
Chapter 8
Hailey
I’m chatting with Avery, who is on her way out when a towering figure fills the front entrance of the bar.
Avery gasps. “Oh shit. Professor Grump is here. I’ve got to take off.”
It takes me a moment to realize who’s just come in—Jared Price! “Wait, Avery. You can’t just leave me. You still have two minutes.”
But she’s already gone from the back door. Damn. Why is he here? Yeah, he was here a week ago, but he shouldn’t anymore, now when he’s my professor.
I’m suddenly embarrassed with what I’ve fantasized about him in the past few days. I pretend to be wiping down the counter, hoping he’d get a table instead of coming to sit at the counter. There were other servers here to take care of him, and I might not even have to speak to him.
But no luck. The man just walks straight to the bar and sits down right in front of me.
“I would like a dry martini, please.” I must be very anxious because his low rumbling voice causes a shiver to run through my spine.
Seeing I can’t avoid him, I look up and force a gasp. “Oh! Professor Price! What a surprise!”
He raises an eyebrow as if to mock my pretense. “You can say that again,” he says, without surprise but with plenty of amusement.
With shaky hands, I mix gin and vermouth and ice cubes, add a few drops of orange bitters and garnish it with a lemon twist. Although I don’t look up, I’m aware of his intense gaze.
“Here you go,” I say in a small voice as I place the drink in front of him. When he sips from his glass, his eyes roam over me, stirring my blood and making my thighs tingle.
Shit. This man has been my wet dream for the past week. It’s bad enough I can’t get him out of my mind in school and in bed. Now I can’t have a break at work either.
And yet, even when I secretly curse, I can’t take my eyes off him, at least not when he isn’t glancing at me.
He’s wearing a grey t-shirt that shows his biceps, something I’ve been wishing to see but haven’t gotten a chance. His five-clock shadow is longer than usual, and he looks good in it. I have the impulse to run my hand over to feel it. Damn. I’ve never had any boyfriends who had scruff. I dated a few guys, one in high school and two in college, but they were all barely adults, not to mention facial hair.
“So, how’s your weekend so far?” I ask in order to strike a conversation.
He shrugs. “Not bad. Have you done your reading?”
I want to roll my eyes. “Are you here to check on that?”
“No,” he says. “It’s just a habit.”
“Not yet,” I say honestly. I’m not that enthusiastic about The Waste Land.
“It’s Eliot’s best,” he says as if he can read my mind. “One of the most important poems of the 20th century. A masterpiece in style and structure.”
“Seriously?” I say with disbelief. “Are you here to offer me a private lesson?”
He blinks a few times. “If you wish.”
I roll my eyes. “No thanks, Professor. I’m afraid I’m not in poetry-learning mode. I need to concentrate on making drinks at work. I’m going to read it tomorrow.”
Fortunately, a few more customers show up, and I busy myself to serve them, leaving the professor alone on purpose. He doesn’t leave me alone, though. At least his eyes don’t. Those blue rays follow my moves, whether I’m mixing drinks or speaking to customers.
I take an early break as well in order to get away from him. I stay in the storeroom instead of the back entrance just in case he would follow me.
When I’m back from my break, he’s still there, showing no signs of leaving. Instead, he orders his third martini.
“Would you like to try something else?” I ask. “I can make other drinks, too, like rum and coke, and scotch and soda.”
“No,” he says. “I like what I’m having. It’s my favorite.”
“Really?” I frown. “I thought you didn’t have one.”
“I didn’t before I met you, but I do, now,” he says in a low voice that makes my skin tingle. Oh my God. Is he implying something else? Why does it sound so suggestive?
My mouth feels dry, and I turn abruptly to mix the drink for him. Just what exactly is he doing here? He isn’t here just for the martini, although he does look quite addicted to it. It’s just an ordinary drink that is served at any other bar.
For the same reason, he can’t be here to see me. I’m just an ordinary girl that he can find anywhere. My hands tremble, and I spill a large amount of gin on the table. I curse softly, again aware of his gaze. If he kept stationing here, I wouldn’t be able to earn that many tips. I’m too nervous to even flirt with other customers.
The worse thing is, I don’t really wish him to get lost. My head is a cocktail of intoxicated thoughts made of reality and fantasies, including our brief moment the first time we met and the numerous scenes I made up afterward.
When I pass the drink in front of him, I avoid looking into his eyes and focus on the glass. His hand reaches the stem of the glass and brushes against my fingers. Intentionally or not, the gesture makes me gasp. After that, the air turns stifling. A few customers leave the counter, leaving me nowhere to escape but to serve him.
I almost let out a sigh of relief when a group of guys enters the bar. They sit down at a table and order their food from a server, and then one of them walks toward me. My stomach plunges as I recognize the under-aged guy who almost gave me trouble last time.
I must look displeased because Professor Price turns to look at them.
The guy’s eyes are fixed on me haughtily. “I need a whiskey on the rocks,” he demands. His breath already reeks of alcohol.
“I’m sorry I can’t do that because you’re under-aged,” I say patiently, although I wonder what he has up his sleeve.
“I was,” he says with a smirk. “But not anymore.”
He tosses an ID on the counter. I glance at it and frown.
It’s strange because it shows he’s actually twenty-four years old. It can’t be right because he was here just a few days ago and he was two months short of the drinking age.
I check the photo. It doesn’t look like him. The name is also different.
“It’s not your ID,” I say. “I checked it just a week ago, and you weren’t even twenty-one.”
“What do you mean?” he growls. “It’s mine. I’m Mark Martinez!”
“No, you aren’t,” I say. “You don’t look like him. And I remember your name was Brian.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he curses. “Just give me a goddamn whiskey!”
The threatening look on his face makes me wish I had overlooked the ID photo, but I stand firm. “I’m sorry I can’t. I don’t want to go to jail for that.”
He lets out a string of expletives.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave the bar,” I say with a slightly quivering voice.
“What the fuck?” He glares at me.
I look around quickly. The evening manager is probably on his break, and the other two servers are as nervous as I am. There are some male customers, but obviously, they don’t want any trouble.
I’m nearly paralyzed with fear when I hear Jared’s voice. “Do what she says, kid. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Who the fuck are you? Are you her daddy or something? It’s none of your fucking business!”
Professor Price clenches his fists, and my heart caught in my throat. Thankfully he doesn’t punch the guy, but instead, he pulls out his cellphone. “Looks like you want to see what a jail looks like. Let me call the police.”
“Fuck,” Brian curses and heads for the door, but not without giving me a threatening look. “You’ll regret this!”
“Unbelievable,” I say to Jared. “Thanks for helping.”
He’s still frowning when he puts his phone back to his pant pocket. “Do you get this a lot?”
“No. This is the first…okay, maybe the second time in three months.”
“Do you have to work here? Can’t you find a safer job? One that doesn’t require night shifts and drunken customers?”
“Yeah, but it pays well here,” I say. “I’ve got bills to pay.”
He pauses for a moment and says quietly, “You should apply for a scholarship.”
“Nah. My GPA isn’t that great. I did badly on math and sciences.”
He shrugs. “You aren’t alone. I’m sure it doesn’t matter to all scholarships. In fact, I can think of a few off the top of my head. Women and Poetry, Ruth Lilly, Pablo Neruda, Amy Lowell… But you might need to write some poems.”
“Oh, I… I don’t know how.”
“You should probably give it a try,” he says. “You have a good grasp of the art.”
My mouth hangs open. Whatever makes him think so? My silly remarks in his class? Is he being sarcastic?
His face shows no signs of sarcasm. “I’m not joking,” he says.
