Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27900 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27900 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
I glance up, taking in his professor look and demeanor. He is more serious and buttoned up than he was the other night, wearing a white collared shirt and a dark sport jacket over a pair of dress slacks. He appeals to me on a visceral level, looking sexy yet smart, his hair combed neatly back, his expression serious as his gaze scans the class.
I realize the moment he recognizes me, his eyes opening wide. I hesitate, then raise my hand in a small wave only to have him school his features into one of bland disinterest. My stomach twists in embarrassment, and I lower my arm and study the blank page in front of me.
Thanks to the wash of humiliation, I find it hard to pay attention at first, and by the time I recover, he’s asking questions and calling on students.
Too late, I realize there was an assignment, and if I logged on and checked my emails, I would have known. Already behind, I fidget in my chair and try to keep up. But as he goes over the basic definition of economic theory, opportunity cost is the value of the next highest value substitute use of that resource, I know I’m in trouble. Math confuses me. This completely bewilders me.
I swallow hard and pray he doesn’t call on me. He’d been jumping around on his class list, not going alphabetically, and at some point, I’ll be up. Another five minutes drag by, with me scribbling down notes I don’t understand.
“What is the definition of microeconomics?” he asks. “Ms. Davis?”
I glance up and slowly raise my hand to let him know where I’m sitting. Although he might have already guessed by my first name if there are no other Ambers in the room.
“Umm … I’m not sure. I didn’t realize there was an assignment for the first day.” My cheeks flame with mortification.
He narrows his gaze. “Microeconomics focuses on how individual consumers and firms make decisions, such as how they respond to changes in price. Now, this class might be an introductory one, but it isn’t a joke. If anyone thinks otherwise, you can visit the registrar and drop the course.” After that reprimand, which I take as aimed at me, he moves on to other items on his agenda to discuss for today.
Upset with how my first day went and embarrassed that I come across as uncaring and disrespectful to my professor—to Shane—I can’t wait for the class to end. Of course, the minutes drag, until finally he ends the session.
“The syllabus and my office hours are in the email I sent,” he reminds us, his gaze landing briefly on mine. “See you on Wednesday.”
I swallow hard and collect my things, aware of the rustle of noise around me as the other students do the same and rush out of the room.
I wonder if I owe him an apology or explanation or if I should just show up better prepared next time. Not that the subject matter will lend itself toward me understanding it easily.
Lost in thought, I zip up my backpack and rise to my feet, stepping into the aisle and bumping into…
“Shane. I mean Professor Warden.” I stumble over how to greet him. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. Again.”
“It seems to be a theme,” he says, his voice a low rumble.
I glance around the room, noting we are alone. “I haven’t been to class in ten years. I just moved here from Florida this weekend, and I sent my son off with his grandparents for the first time. I should have checked my emails. I thought I was prepared and I wasn’t. Math really isn’t my thing, and this is all confusing but it won’t happen again,” I say, knowing I am rambling, repeating things he already knows about me in my rush to make him understand.
“Amber, relax.” His hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and I feel the heat straight through to my core. My gaze flies to his, and I catch the flare of heat in his chocolate eyes before he removes his hand and banks the fire so quickly I think I imagined it.
I breathe in deep and inhale the now familiar scent of his cologne, which strikes a chord inside me and makes me even more aware of him as a man and not the teacher in charge of my class.
“It’s a difficult class. You can always drop it now and take it in August when you’ve had more time to settle in,” he says.
I shake my head, refusing to back down from something just because it’s challenging. “I can do it … or are you trying to get me out of your class?”
The idea dawns on me and won’t let go. As awkward as I feel, maybe he is equally uncomfortable. Because he enjoyed having dinner with me, too?