Page 11 of The Naughty Professor

Chapter Ten

Jax

Lorna’s car was older than sin and twice as loud.

The Dodge clanked and wheezed its way into the Short Pump Town Center parking lot like it was on its last mile, its muffler growling so hard I was pretty sure the earth shifted under us.

People turned their heads. Not at me, unfortunately—at the damn jalopy.

And to make matters worse, Lorna had bullied me into putting Felix’s shirt back on before we left campus. The ugly, wrinkled button-up clung to me like a crime scene. I tugged at the sleeves, scowling.

“Baby,” I told her, “if you think I’m walking into Nordstrom dressed like this, you’ve lost your mind. This shirt has war crimes written all over it.”

Lorna killed the engine, flashing me a glittery smile. “You can rip it off once you buy something else, Jax. Until then, keep it together. I don’t need security dragging us out before we even buy anything.”

I grumbled, shoved my hands in my pockets, and followed her out into the sunshine. We hadn’t even made it halfway across the lot before I spotted my first distraction. A guy in gym shorts, calves flexing, carrying a protein shake like he owned the place. I whistled low.

“Damn, baby. You run track or just run through people’s fantasies?”

He jerked his head up, startled, then broke into a grin before jogging off. Lorna slapped my arm with a jeweled hand. “Stop it.”

I smirked. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

Two steps later, another hottie walked by—business casual, tall, jawline so sharp it could cut diamonds. I winked at him. “Daddy, you can brief me any day of the week.”

The man almost dropped his phone. Lorna cackled so hard her bracelets jingled. “You’re out of control!”

“And you’re jealous,” I shot back.

By the time we reached Nordstrom, I’d flirted with a barista, a security guard, and one very startled groundskeeper. Lorna was practically doubled over, wheezing with laughter. “Lord help me, Jax, I haven’t laughed like this in years.”

“Good,” I said, shoving the glass doors open. “Stick with me, baby. I’m your one-man circus.”

The blast of cold air hit me like champagne bubbles. And then—oh, glory! Right in front of me was paradise. Shoes. Racks upon racks, polished leather gleaming under spotlights, sneakers lined like candy, boots standing tall like kings.

I clutched my chest. “Oh, my stars. This is better than sex.”

A salesman appeared like a vision. Early thirties, golden tan, crisp suit that fit just right. His smile was sharp, and I’d swear he winked at me. “Good afternoon. Can I help you find something?”

“Sweetheart,” I purred, stepping closer, “you can help me find myself.”

His smile faltered into surprise, then amusement. Lorna slapped her forehead. “Jax.”

I leaned in as if I were sharing a secret. “You’re so handsome you almost make me forget these shoes exist. Almost.”

The salesman’s ears turned pink. “Well… we have a wide selection.”

“Oh, I bet you do,” I said, giving him the kind of once-over that should have been illegal.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Lorna muttered, plastering on a smile. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes, handsome? We’ll pick some pairs to try on, and then you can—uh—help us.”

“Of course,” he said, still staring at me like he wasn’t sure if I was real. Then he disappeared toward the back.

I grabbed Lorna’s arm. “I’m in love.”

“You’re insane.”

“Baby, it’s the same thing.”

We wandered through the racks, and I was like a kid in a candy store. Black leather boots, shiny loafers, pristine white sneakers. I picked up one pair after another, holding them against me like trophies.

“These,” I announced, showing her a pair of glossy oxfords. “I’d wear these to my funeral just so I could rise from the dead in style.”

“Put them in the pile,” Lorna said wearily.

I grabbed some Chelsea boots. “These say, I’m mysterious but also dangerous in bed.”

“Pile.”

Then some sneakers. “These scream, I’m a twink but I lift weights.”

She snorted. “Jesus, Jax. You’re hot, but not a twink.”

I quickly filled my arms with shoes. Other shoppers were staring—some amused, some scandalized. I winked at a middle-aged man in khakis. “Don’t look too long, baby. I might charge you.”

His wife yanked him away by the elbow.

“Lord have mercy,” Lorna groaned. “They’re going to call mall security.”

By the time the salesman returned, I had at least eight pairs piled high. He smiled at me like I was both his dream and his nightmare. “Why don’t you have a seat, sir, and I’ll measure your size?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I said, collapsing into the chair.

The salesman chuckled, setting the boxes down. He sat on that little stool in front of me, and purred, “Just slip your shoes off.”

I kicked them off with relief. “Oh, thank God. Those loafers were a hate crime.”

He positioned my foot on the measuring tool, his fingers brushing my ankle. “Ohhh, careful, Daddy, I’m ticklish.”

His lips twitched. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, and hey—while you’re down there, remember: enormous feet equals big—” I waggled my brows suggestively.

He smirked. “That theory doesn’t always hold up.”

“Trust me,” I shot back, leaning in with a wicked grin, “in my case, it definitely holds up. You’ll need two hands and a prayer.”

Lorna groaned into her bracelets. “Sweet merciful Jesus, help me.”

The salesman glanced at her, then back at me, his eyes sparkling. “Guess I’ll just have to measure carefully, then.”

When his hand slid along the arch of my foot, a spark shot through me. I sucked in a breath. “Well damn. I think I just discovered I’ve got a foot fetish.”

The salesman looked up, eyes glinting, and pressed his thumb just a little firmer against my sole. “Lucky me.”

I nearly moaned. “Sir, if you keep touching me like that, we’re going to need to clear this department.”

Lorna clutched her pearls—or she would’ve if she wore any. “I have never been embarrassed in my life,” she hissed, “but this might be the first time.”

The salesman winked at me. Actually winked. Then he started rubbing my foot. No, massaging it.

“Oh God,” I groaned dramatically, throwing my head back. “I’ll take them!”

Shoppers were staring. A woman with a stroller steered her baby away as if we were contagious.

Lorna slapped the salesman’s arm. “For heaven’s sake, go get the damn shoes!”

The man laughed under his breath and finally let go of my foot. “Yes, ma’am. Right away.”

* * *

The men’s department was paradise number two. Sleek displays of folded shirts, shelves stacked with jeans, racks of jackets that screamed money. But me? I zeroed in on the underwear like a sinner stumbling into confession.

“Baby Jesus,” I whispered reverently, staring at an entire wall of underwear in neat little rainbow rows.

Lorna sidled up, clutching her purse as if it might sprout legs and run. “Now this,” she said, plucking a pack of Calvin Klein’s off the shelf, “this is what real men wear.”

I undid my belt and popped the button of Felix’s chinos, unzipping just enough to peek down at my sad reality.

White cotton. Baggy. A crime against gay men everywhere.

I held the waistband out with two fingers like it was toxic.

“Damn. These are like government-issued undies. They’re probably older than YouTube. ”

“Boxer briefs,” Lorna insisted, waving a pair under my nose. “Classic. Masculine. Sexy.”

“Classic? Boring. Masculine? Also boring. Sexy? Not unless your kink is Mormon missionary chic.”

Her bangles clinked as she shoved another package at me. “Everyone loves boxer briefs, Jax.”

“Correction, everyone tolerates boxer briefs. Big difference.”

Then I saw them. Hanging there like a beacon of salvation: skimpy bikini briefs in electric blue, fire-engine red, even leopard print. Next to them, a couple of thongs—tiny straps of fabric that promised both scandal and freedom.

“Ohhh, Daddy,” I breathed, pulling the leopard print pair off the rack. “Now this? This is poetry. This says, ‘I might mow your lawn, or I might steal your boyfriend. You’ll never know until it’s too late.’”

Lorna covered her mouth to keep from laughing. “You can’t be serious.”

“Baby, I am always serious about underwear. Look at this thong.” I held it up, letting the tiny triangle dangle between my fingers. “This doesn’t just whisper confidence—it screams it, spins it around, and slaps you across the face with it.”

“You’ll fall out of that in public,” she said flatly.

“Then the public will get a show. Win-win.”

As I held up the thong, a guy walked past with a shopping bag, muscles bulging under his polo. I raised my voice. “Hey, cutie, you look like you’d appreciate me in leopard print.”

The man flushed crimson and hurried toward the escalator. Lorna whacked me with her purse. “Behave.”

I tucked two thongs and a bikini under my arm. “If God didn’t want me to flirt, He wouldn’t have made men so damn pretty.”

A rack of T-shirts caught my eye next—soft cotton, tight fit, the kind that clung in all the right places. I grabbed a couple without even checking the price. “Felix’s button-ups are dead to me. These babies? They’re life support.”

“Don’t forget pants,” Lorna said, already reaching for a rack of chinos.

“Chinos?!” I gasped. “Honey, no. The pair I’m wearing is begging for a mercy killing.” I rifled through the denim section and pulled out some slim-fit jeans. “These. These are how an ass gets the attention it deserves.”

I had an armful of clothes when Lorna suddenly froze, one hand flying to her chest. Her bangles rattled like alarm bells. “Oh, my God.”

I blinked at her. “What? Did you see another thong?”

“No, no, no.” She pointed a trembling finger toward the escalator. “It’s that bitch. Joan Stanwyk.”

I turned lazily, expecting maybe a tax collector. Instead, I saw a tall, icy blonde gliding down the escalator like she owned the patent on oxygen. Perfect bob, sharp blazer, skirt that said “boardroom chic.”

“Who the hell is Joan Stanwyk?” I asked, unimpressed.