To Professor, with Love (Forbidden Men #2)(6)

Gamble’s derisive snort followed me, telling me he knew I was running scared. The arrogant douche thought he was all that just because he was an athlete, a treasured football star. Okay, so everyone on campus treated him that way, from students to teachers and even the president of the university. To them, Noel Gamble could do no wrong. To me, he still couldn’t write a decent English essay to save his life.

But I didn’t want to think about him anymore. Blocking all things blue eyed and cretin from my brain, I marched on. After growing up with my parents, I’d mastered the small talent of shoving away unsettling thoughts. And I was particularly grateful for the technique now.

Thinking of the book I’d begun this morning, I focused on where I was going. Since I was headed in the direction of the student union and had an hour to spare before my next class, I decided not to head out to my car to fetch my jacket as I’d originally planned because I’d been chilled in the classroom, where it felt as if I’d been standing directly under the air handlers. I popped into the union and bought a sandwich and cappuccino from the food court.

It was an unseasonably sunny day, so I ate on a bench, warming myself under an oak tree where the spring air was coaxing a wealth of green buds to sprout among its branches. I liked how pockets of sunshine stole through the limbs and splashed warm puddles of color in the grass around me.

Comforted by the cozy umbrella of shadow and light, I pulled out my Kindle and took up reading the story I’d started before leaving for work today. A hopeless romantic, I was currently devouring everything Jennifer L. Armentrout.

Two chapters and half of my ham and cheese sandwich later, just when I’d decided Alex had to hook up with Aiden soon, my cell phone buzzed from my briefcase I was using as a makeshift table. It took me a few seconds to sweep it clean of food, crumbs and ereader before I could snap the lid open and check my caller ID. When I saw my parents’ names on the screen, my stomach clenched.

I cleared my throat and took a deep breath before answering. I could do this. I could do this. I could do this. “Hello?”

“Hello, Aspen.” Just hearing my mother’s voice, frigid and businesslike as always, made my heart thump hard in my chest with a combination of hope and intimidation. “As you know, your father had his last treatment this morning.”

Swallowing the suddenly dry piece of bread I’d been chewing, I nodded. “Yes, I...I was going to call after my last class today. How did it go?”

In the past two years, my father had needed to get three toes amputated. His diabetes had progressed so badly he’d just finished a six-week stint of oxygen therapy, visiting a hyperbaric chamber twice a day, to heal from a nasty gash he’d gotten on his calf. If the sore hadn’t healed after his last treatment this morning, his doctor wanted to take his leg next, from the knee joint down.

Holding my breath for the prognosis, I waited tensely for my mother to answer. “They want to extend his therapy another two weeks.”

I exhaled a lungful of air. “Well, that’s...that’s good.” Right? At least they weren’t ready to pull out the ol’ saw and start chopping off limbs yet.

“Really?” My mother’s tone suggested she was frowning with her usual pinched-eyebrow expression.

Oh, shit. Maybe that wasn’t so good.

“And how is this good, Aspen? Your father’s health is still at risk, and you’re…rejoicing?”

I flushed. Even at twenty-three and living eight hundred miles from home, teaching at a top-notch university, I still gave her the power to render me into a blubbering moron with a single question.

“I...” Fumbling blindly, I used my napkin to pat my face free of stray crumbs. My palms began to sweat, so I rubbed them dry too. “I just meant—”

“Stop being facetious. Your attempt at humor is completely uncouth and disrespectful. This is nothing to jest about.”

“But I didn’t mean...” Biting my lip, I hung my head, wishing my hair were down so I could conceal the tears glistening in my eyes. God, why did words to defend myself always fail me when Dr. Mallory Kavanagh attacked? “Yes, you’re right,” I murmured. “I apologize.”

She sniffed in irritation. Not quite a pardon. “I just knew studying that rubbish literature would transform you into some kind of vulgar imbecile. You should’ve listened to us when we tried to steer you toward theoretical physics. Something sensible and worthwhile.”

Studying literature had been my one great rebellion, and neither of my parents had ever forgiven me for it. Briefly, I’d been tempted to appease them by going into the sciences, but I’d never been able to betray my devotion to the written word. And the one thing I hadn’t acquiesced to had led to their eternal scorn.

If it had been up to me, I would’ve been satisfied with a bachelor’s degree in English. I would’ve been fine sharing my love of stories with first graders. But I’d gone all the way through a doctorate program to mollify Richard and Mallory.

It didn’t seem to matter what I did, though. Neither of my parents had ever been “proud” of my accomplishments. They had never shown approval. They had always pushed for something bigger and better.

But their constant disapproval was becoming tiresome. For once, I wished I could simply be good enough in their eyes.

Sadly, today obviously wasn’t going to be that day.