Page 46 of Almost Ravaged

I search her name, discovering a total of seven messages from Ms. Sawyer Davvies, proving what my fucked-up subconscious didn’t want to believe.

She made a concerted effort to connect prior to the start of classes.

Yet I berated her in front of thirty undergrads for not being prepared.

Projection, much? My therapist is going to have a field day when I share this story.

If.

If I share it.

Because though I may be a staunch advocate for therapy and tending to one’s mental health, I’m not prepared to divulge to Naveen how unreasonably attracted I am to my new graduate assistant. Nor am I ready to admit that, had I been involved in any capacity with the hiring process, she would have been cut from the list immediately. She’s too hot and she doesn’t know the first thing about this field.

I miss my former GA. Curtis wasn’t particularly dedicated to the role. Nor was he all that sharp. But he knew how I liked things done, and at least he was studying marketing.Wasbeing the operative word. Until he changed career paths and transferred to a school in North Carolina to study athletic training.

Goodbye, Curtis. You would not believe how sorely you are missed.

I save all Sawyer’s emails in a folder, then type out a message to Sybil.

Once the whooshing sound confirms it’s been sent, I select all 81,769 emails in my inbox and delete them.

There.

The new semester has officially begun. Time to make the most of this fresh start.

Chapter eighteen

Mercer

“How was your first week back on campus, Professor Eden?” Noah smirks, a hint of playfulness behind his gray-blue eyes, and brings his bottle of Molson to his lips.

Frowning, I study my best friend. Is he asking because things didn’t go well at the orchard, or—

“Not a trick question,” he grouses as he sets his beer on the bar.

Right. I strike the concern from my mind. The last thing I need is Noah griping that I’m coddling him. Again.

I take a sip of my own beer and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “It was fine.”

“Fine?”

Huffing, I pick at the corner of the Molson label. How much do I want to get into now?

If all I had to share was my class schedule or department gossip, I wouldn’t be so wary of sounding off in a crowded bar. But I’m anxious to share a hell of a lot more than that with my closest friend.

I’ll fill him in soon. I’ll have to, considering Sawyer and I will meet with him at the orchard next week.

But this isn’t the time or place to confess to him how I humiliated my new graduate assistant on her first day, then went home that evening and whacked off to the memory of her rosy cheeks and supple, gorgeous tits. Twice.

At the far end of the bar, a group of people chants, and a young guy spins the birthday shot wheel. It’s the reminder I need that I’m in a college bar, surrounded by students I have taught, am currently teaching, or could teach in the future.

Mae’s on Thursday nights is tradition. For us, for the city of Holt, and for most of the student body. In a town where I’m either regarded as the weird kid who finally grew into himself or the slutty professor with no qualms about the morality of one-night stands, I know better than to shout about my grievances (and desires) regarding my new graduate assistant in a crowded room.

I’m not ready to divulge the depth of my ire at the situation nor the intensity of my fascination just yet anyway. No sense in making Noah worry.

Sighing, I swivel on my stool and provide the briefest and blandest of overviews. “I sat through far too many faculty meetings. And they switched out my computer while I was gone, including the keyboard. It feels different, and now I can’t type as fast as I used to.”

With a snort, Noah shakes his head. He knows how particular I can be.