See Me After Class(42)

His door is open and he’s sitting at his desk, looking over papers. School let out two hours ago, and I came as soon as I could from practice. I’m thankful he’s still here. I didn’t want to drive to his house to have this conversation. Lucky for me, Gunner said Arlo stays late on Mondays to catch up on work.

And he was right.

With a sigh, I lift my hand and give his door a knock.

His head turns toward me, and I’m struck by his brilliant eyes first, then the chiseled features of his handsome face.

If I were a student of his, there’s no way in hell I’d be able to concentrate. I’d be infatuated. I know this because, even as a grown woman, I’m taken aback by just how good-looking he is. It can be distracting, getting caught up in his eyes, in the way his cardigans are perfectly pushed up to his elbows, revealing tanned and muscular forearms, or the way they lay over his carved shoulders. And his dark hair, mixed with the dark scruff on his face . . . It only highlights how symmetrical his face is.

Positively devastating.

Turning back to his papers, he asks, “Can I help you with something, Miss Gibson?”

Ahh, back to Miss Gibson now. Fair enough.

After the confusion, taunting, and angry confrontations on Saturday, I agree that’s for the best.

I step into his classroom and ask, “Do you have a minute?”

Not answering right away, he finishes reading the paper in front of him, flips it over, and circles a C at the top. God, so automatic, no thinking it over. A grade, just like that.

A part of me wonders how well I would have done in Arlo’s class if I were his student. I’m starting to believe not well with my ability to barely focus when I’m around him.

Pushing back from his desk but staying in his chair, he asks, “What’s up?”

I study him for a second, gauging his mood. No furrow in his brow, no clenched jaw. He actually seems . . . reserved, emotionless, and I don’t know what’s scarier—Arlo Turner emotionless and shut down, or Arlo Turner charged up and ready to destroy any walls I may have erected around my libido.

From my back pocket, I place Blair’s paper on his desk and then sit on the edge, looking down at him while I speak. “Can we have a civil conversation about Blair’s paper, please? Without yelling at each other or pointing fingers?”

“Sure,” he answers, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his stomach. “What would you like to talk about?”

Okay, he’s starting to scare me now. He’s too casual.

Did someone slip him a tranquilizer and not tell me? Whenever I’ve been around him, there’s always been some sort of emotion grappling at him, but not today, not now, and I truly don’t know how to handle it.

“Okay, um . . .” I clear my throat, trying to gain my bearings. “Can you explain to me what you’re looking for—”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Uh, sure,” I say.

He picks up the paper and flips through it. “Why is it that you’re in here talking about this paper, but Blair has yet to come to me and discuss it herself?”

Oh God, here we go, I can feel the condescending attitude rearing up and ready to go.

“I thought if I gained a better understanding of how to assist her, it might be more beneficial. She did come to me for help.”

“I see.” He rocks in his chair. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe your advice should have been ‘See Mr. Turner, talk to him, and maybe he can assist you’?”

“Frankly, you don’t seem like the approachable type,” I say, keeping my voice even.

“And yet, you’re stepping out of your day to approach me.”

“Because I can handle my own.”

“Don’t you think she should learn how to do that?” he asks, making a point that I don’t want to admit could be right. “She’s not going to have you in college. What happens when a professor fails her? Think she’ll ask her college coach to do the heavy lifting for her?”

“No, I just thought—”

He tosses the paper on the desk and says, “She’s about to cross over into adulthood. Let her.” He leans forward in his chair but keeps his eyes trained on me. “It’s nice that you care, though.”

And then he turns back to his papers, starting on the next one.

Uh, was that . . . a compliment?

Did I hear him right?

There was no sarcasm in his voice.

No hate.

Just a plain old compliment.

When he sat back in his chair, did he push a button that slipped me into some kind of alternate universe?

“Is that all, Miss Gibson?”

“Uh, yeah,” I answer, unable to move from the spot on his desk.

He looks up at me. “Then will you be going?” He nods to the door.

“Yeah.” But I don’t move. I sit there, stunned, wondering what made him have a change of heart.

Was it a change of heart?

Or was he just appeasing me to get me out of his room?

His pen drops to the desk and he leans back in his chair again.

“What?” he asks, his voice growing annoyed now.

Turning so my legs are now parallel with his body and I’m facing him, I say, “You gave me a compliment.”

“I was merely stating a fact. No need to get emotional about it.”