Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(9)

“Okay.” She checks the time. “I need to get ready for work.”

“Me too. I won’t be home until late since my seminar ends at ten, but I’ll check in with you when I get back.”

“Sounds good.” Sophia kisses me on the cheek and heads for the front door, locking it behind her while I head down the hall to the bathroom to get ready for work.

My English 101 course starts at nine. The sheer number of students was a bit intimidating at first—there are three hundred freshmen in the class—but I’ve gotten used to the sea of bodies. I also have a TA to help grade assignments.

After my 101 class, I spend the afternoon in my office reviewing my lecture notes for the creative writing seminar this evening. It’s much smaller, with only forty students. And the class is three hours. I’m a little nervous about taking over for such a seasoned professor, but with my background in library science and a creative writing minor, it’s in my wheelhouse.

At six thirty, I lock up my office and head to the seminar class. I arrive fifteen minutes early and find a handful of students already waiting at the door. They’ve been informed of the change, but I still get some curious looks.

I let them in, and they murmur hello, taking their seats and setting up tablets, laptops, and notebooks on their desks.

When seven o’clock arrives, I introduce myself and explain that I’ll be taking over for Professor Connelly. I field a few questions and reassure the students that he’s okay. I also brought in a get well soon card for them to sign. I pass it to the student directly in front of me, then pull up my attendance list and start calling names.

The door opens when I’m halfway through, and a student straggles in. It happened in my English class earlier, but in a class of three hundred students, it’s easier to slip in the back door and quietly find a seat. That’s what I expect this student to do.

Except his phone starts ringing. And it’s not a normal ringtone. It’s a song blaring through the room at full volume.

“Fuck. Shit.” He’s standing in the middle of the room, facing the back of the class, every single student staring at him in wide-eyed horror.

He rummages around in his pocket and pulls out the offending device as Justin Bieber croons “I’m so fucking lonely” to the entire class. Instead of silencing it, he answers the call—on speaker.

A male voice that sounds like an angry father starts yelling. “Why the hell am I getting calls about you being late for practice, you’re—”

He spins around, gaze moving over the class as he takes in their looks of horror. He’s wearing a baseball cap, and the lights above cast a shadow over his face. “Oh, fuck me,” he mutters. “Hey, Dad, I’m in the middle of class. I’ll call you back later.” He rushes the words, so it all sounds quite garbled. Then he drops into the closest empty desk and slams his elbow on the edge on his way down. He sucks in a groan.

I give the student a look that I hope conveys how unimpressed I am. “Are you quite done?” I’m ready to go off on him, but he raises a hand and knocks his hat off his head.

“Uh, sorry, Professor. I think I might be in the wrong class.” His eyes dart around the room. “Or maybe not?”

“Professor Connelly is out for back surgery. Professor Sweet is taking over the class,” the student beside him says.

“Oh shit.” His vibrant green gaze, ringed in hazel, meets mine.

All the air leaves my lungs on a whoosh. The room tilts, and I’m suddenly light-headed. I can tell instantly that he recognizes me, and the silence in the room is deafening. Fortunately, he fills it by rambling out an explanation.

“Sorry about the phone call. And for being late. Coach kept me after practice and my dad’s on my ass because I had a bad game. I’m so sorry, Cl—” He clasps his hands in front of him and bites his lips together.

“Don’t let it happen again.”

My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, and the rest of me feels disconnected from my body. Because this student, sitting in the middle of my sophomore class, is my summer fling.

My one-night stand who left behind an origami crane and a lot of memories I wish I could now erase.

Fuck my life.





Three





Not the Best Day





Maverick





Six weeks later


Forty-eight percent.

That’s my grade on my most recent creative writing assignment. I tried to get out of this class—went straight to the registrar’s office after Clover took over as the professor and begged them to change my schedule. But I’d missed the deadline by a week, and I needed the elective to graduate, which meant dropping it wasn’t an option either.

So, I had no choice but to ride out the semester and hope to hell I could eke out a passing grade. I probably would have managed if Professor Connelly had been the one grading my papers since he’s a hockey fan. It didn’t seem to matter that the last time I’d written a creative anything was probably in high school.

But Clover taking over the class changed things. In theory, sleeping with my hot professor sounds awesome, but in practice, it’s really fucking awkward.

And now I’m sitting here with a forty-fucking-eight percent because I’m 2500 words shy of the minimum word count. That’s like ten fucking pages of words. Also, according to my mental calculations on my other assignments, I’m at risk of failing the course. My initial grades were decent, but since the professor swap, it’s gone downhill, and my midterm grade was trash. And now I only have a handful of weeks to bring it up.