Getting Schooled (The Wright Brothers #1)(6)

The little BSU princess from earlier would probably die of shock.

A twinge of annoyance settled into my shoulders, remembering the way she’d recoiled at the sight of my mechanic’s shirt. I wore it to class with some regularity, because it saved me time from going all the way home on the days I worked at the dealership. My clothes were clean though, because my mama raised me right. No, I wasn’t on campus dressed to impress like the pretty boys she probably preferred, but that was the thing – I wasn’t a boy. I was twenty-eight years old, just trying to take advantage of the military’s generosity and get my damned degree so I could get the fuck out of there. I was surrounded by teenagers, and kids so barely into their twenties that they may as well be teenagers too.

But not the princess.

No, as annoyed as I’d been by that little accidental exchange in the classroom door, I couldn’t deny that unexpected softness of her body against mine had felt good. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her – she was always in the lecture hall on Fridays, sitting at the table next to Professor Bryant, looking good as hell.

Pretty copper-brown skin, big brown eyes, and a sexy ass mouth. She had her hair done in thick, jet-black braids that hung past her waist, grazing the soft curves of her hips. The obvious hint that she was older than the girls of campus lied in the fact that she was a grad assistant. She had to have at least graduated with a bachelor’s to be in the position she was, which meant at least twenty-one, twenty-two, but I suspected even older than that. Something in her vibe – easy, breezy, bougie as hell – spoke to a level of confidence the younger women didn’t seem to have.

Not to mention, I’d heard the little smartass remark she hurled at my back after we bumped into each other. Even though I hadn’t responded, only a self-assured woman fired back like that, despite the fact that she was clearly the one at fault.

Aiight.

So… maybe that’s not completely accurate.

Maybe she was too busy looking at her phone to watch where she was going.

Maybe I was too busy looking at her ass, too distracted by the sliver of brown skin between the top of her jeans and the hem of her shirt – she had those little dimples, the thumb placement guides, you know? – to watch where I was going.

So maybe it was both of our fault.

But the princess didn’t have to act like I was covered in grease and grime either, so there was that. She wasn’t into men who got their hands dirty, and I wasn’t into stuck up women.

The end.

I finished up my shift at the service center, and went home, dodging my father and brother on the way out. There, I pulled out some leftover chicken and rice, and stuck it in the oven to heat while I got in the shower.

Afterwards, I set up my laptop at my desk, and sat in front of the computer with my dinner while I worked on my paper.

While I aced my paper.



- & -



What the fuck is this?!

I sat back from my computer screen in disbelief, staring at the score at the bottom of my paper for Modern Black Lit. I blinked, looked at it again, and then looked around me, searching for someone to confirm whether or not I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.

82.5%

Yeah, yeah, that was a passing score. A lot of people would have been fine with that, but I wasn’t, because for one – I wrote the shit out of that paper. Two – a “B” was aiight in passing, but the final grade for the course was based on a cumulative score, not weighed by the letter grade. It was too early in the semester to be dragging my score down. And three… I wrote the shit out of that paper.

Wearing a scowl, I scrolled furiously through the paper, reading the comments. I was in the library, studying fucking thermodynamics for a test later in the week. But nah, I heard the little ping from the email, and had to check it. Now, I was pissed off and worried about my GPA over a class that didn’t have shit to do with the degree I was seeking.

I wanted to get a little bit pissed at my advisor, but it wasn’t his fault I was one of the last students to register. I was lucky to get into any classes, let alone the ones I actually needed, that weren’t just filling out my electives. I was known to pick up a book or two in my spare time, so the last-minute opening in Modern Black Lit worked for me. Added bonus: Professor Bryant was grown-woman fine, which made it easy as hell to pay attention in class. Things were good.

Until now.

My eyes narrowed as I read over the comments. Underdeveloped thesis, rambling paragraphs, how does this connect to your (underdeveloped) thesis? Citation needed, blah, blah. Ultimately, she left a nice little note at the end about how this was a strong effort, but “Strong Effort” and “82.5%” didn’t compute. At least not to me.

Since I was already in the building, I packed up my stuff, printed a copy of the paper, and went upstairs to Professor Bryant’s office. I didn’t know her schedule, if she had office hours or was in class, but if I could catch her, I wanted to talk in person about the paper.

The door was already open when I got there, so I stuck my head in and looked around. Professor Bryant’s office was large, enough to comfortably fit two desks and still look spacious. The larger desk, undoubtedly hers, was unoccupied.

The princess sat behind the other one.

She had her head down, scribbling away in a notebook. Skinny purple headphone cords disappeared behind her braids, and I had to stop myself from staring too hard at her round, plump titties, filling out the front of a royal blue Blakewood tee shirt, with a v-neck.