Page 39 of Almost Ravaged

Okay then.

Heat creeps through me as I awkwardly drop my hand, though I keep an even smile plastered on my face.

He crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re not studying marketing or entrepreneurialism, if memory serves?”

I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “That’s correct. I’m getting my master’s in library and information science.”

“So then tell me, Ms. Davvies, what makes you qualified and interested in this particular role?”

My mouth flops open and a rush of air escapes me. Is he serious? I’ve already been granted the assistantship. This does not feel like the time or place for him to ask me to defend my placement. He’s the one who didn’t bother conducting interviews or reaching out before the school year started.

How dare he question me now? And to what end? I highly doubt he wants to hear about my organizational skills or experience working at the library back home. As it stands, there are thirty undergrad students witnessing this exchange.

When I realize my mouth is still agape, I snap it shut. I don’t have an answer for this man, and even if I did, I’m not sure I’d dignify his attitude with a response.

“Right.”

He shoots me one last glance before waving a hand, effectively dismissing me. He takes two steps around the podium so we’re standing side by side, then claps loudly to garner the students’ attention.

“Welcome to Entrepreneurial Marketing. I’m Professor Eden, and I’ll be teaching this class. This is Ms. Davvies. She has been assigned as the graduate assistant.”

The warmth in my face turns to a full-on blaze at the not-so-subtle jab.

“This class is open to upperclassmen and underclassmen and can be taken in any sequence if you’re a business or marketing major,” he says, his expression stony, his voice deep and thick. “But heed this warning: this is a true seminar. You will be graded on your ability to apply what you’ve learned in the classroom to real-world scenarios. The class size is intentionally capped at thirty because of its experiential learning approach. While you’ll be graded on several assignments throughout the semester, the full-class capstone project is weighted heavily.”

Groans echo through the room.

Professor Eden claps once more, silencing the complaints.

It’s eerie, honestly, how he can command the full of the whole group with a single gesture. If I weren’t so perturbed by his prickliness, I might even find it hot.

“Office hours are posted on the department website and in the class portal, and should you have questions or concerns about attendance, please reach out to Ms. Davvies. Understood?”

The room hums with murmurs of agreement.

“Very well.” Professor Eden turns to me. “We’ll start by passing out the syllabus.”

I offer a placating smile and secretly exhale in relief. I may have lost my chance at a good first impression, but I’m fully capable of passing out papers and navigating a syllabus overview.

Several seconds tick by, the only sound a cough coming from a person near the back of the room. Professor Eden continues to stare at me, his eyebrows raised above his glasses, as if he expectsmeto take the lead.

“Oh. Um.” Chest tightening, I wring my hands and scan the podium and the table where he dropped his bag and jacket, though I don’t find the syllabi he’s referring to.

“Ms. Davvies.”

His dark tone brings with it a blanket of dread, and when I meet his gaze, a cruel smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Did you happen to print syllabi for the students for our first day of class?”

Embarrassment flares, and my neck, chest, and cheeks all heat.

A chair scrapes somewhere in the room. A phone clatters to the floor, the sound followed by a curse.

Otherwise, the room is silent. So silent, in fact, that I can hear my pulse thudding.

Suddenly, I know the sweater was a mistake. It traps the heat radiating from me, only compounding my discomfort. I tug at the hem, desperate for even a little airflow. I refuse to take it off now, standing here in front of a classroom of undergrads, knowing damn well that my skin is red, splotchy, and damp with sweat beneath it.

Professor Eden continues to watch me, as if I can simply conjure up thirty copies of the syllabus out of thin air.