Forbidden Heat (Firework Girls #1) (4 page)

A couple weeks into the semester, the girls and I are lying on the grass on the main quad. It’s a large area the size of two or three football fields, with pathways leading to the various buildings on campus. The grand, colonial-style administration building is down the quad from us to the left. The social sciences building is across the way, and Old Main down the way to our right.

We’re under our favorite tree, the library behind us, working on various homework assignments and taking frequent breaks to chat and snack on our stash of treats.

I’m lying on my stomach, working on my reading assignment for biochemistry and enjoying the gorgeous weather. Just as I’m downing two Pringles in one bite, Sam says, “Holy god. Is that a student or a professor?”

I have a feeling I know who’s she’s talking about before I even look.

Yep. There he is, in all his glory, walking from the administration building towards Old Main.

He looks even better outdoors and all sun-shiney.

I need serious help.

I’ve had four more classes with Professor Brooks (not that I’m counting) and have spent exactly four of them trying not to drool all over my desk. I keep thinking it’s going to get better, but if anything it’s getting worse.

At first, he was only a distraction during class, when he was right in front of me and I couldn’t help but think about him. Now it’s gotten to the point where he’s invading my thoughts at unexpected times all during the week.

In the hours leading up to his class, I feel the anticipation of it all throughout my body. An anxious, delicious, tingling sensation. Like I’m feeling right now.

I know it’s an obsession. It has to be. It’s bound to pass eventually, but that can’t happen soon enough. It’s starting to feel like torture.

“That’s my philosophy professor,” I say, in as neutral a voice as I can manage.

“Damn,” Chloe says. “You did not tell us
near
enough about
that
professor
.
”

I feel so guilty and embarrassed about my obsession with Professor Brooks, I haven’t even confessed to my girls. And I tell them everything. But I can’t bring myself to admit just how much he’s gotten under my skin. I feel like a ridiculous school girl.

We all check him out appreciatively as he walks across the lawn. Sam’s pulled herself up into a sitting position and is practically drooling.

“How in the hell are you resisting
that
one?” she says.

I snort, as if I’m appalled by her suggestion. As if the heat’s not climbing in my body right now.

“What?” Sam asks. “That’s the perfect way to get over Leo.”

“I’m okay about Leo.” The break-up had been short and not too emotional. We even ran into each other at Subway the other day and it wasn’t that awkward.

Sam shushes me. “I’m giving you a golden reason. Come on, take it.”

“Did you miss the part about him being my professor?”

“Maybe I should take him then,” Sam smiles and I tense up. “If it weren’t for the blazer. I mean, what’s up with the blazer? Why does he dress like that?” she asks.

“You mean like a
professor?”
Chloe asks, as he ascends the steps of Old Main. “You want him in torn jeans and a muscle tee?”

“God, yes,” Sam breathes.

“I think it’s cute,” I say. He disappears into the building and we all look away. I roll onto my back and look at the canopy of branches above us, willing my heart to settle down.

“It’s the blazer that bothers you,” Ashley says to Sam wryly, “not the professor thing.”

“As if you don’t know the answer to that question,” Sam says. I can just imagine her grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“You’re shameless,” I say, trying to sound disdainful of violating such a taboo, and ignoring that little part of me that wishes I was brave enough to violate it myself.

Or would that be stupid enough?

I’m not sure I know.

At the end of class the following day, Professor Brooks wraps up our discussion the same way he always does: he comes away from the front of table (which he tends to lean against, instead of hiding behind the podium), claps his hands together once, and says, “Alright!”

It’s kind of adorable. It’s also my least favorite part of the day, because it means class is over.

“Make sure you come to the next class prepared to discuss Wittgenstein’s essay, ‘On Certainty.’ Have a good weekend everyone.”

The class rumbles into action, gathering books and laptops and leaving their seats. From my usual spot in the back row, I watch half the freshman girls give him a goofy smile and wave as they leave. I’m not the only female in class with a crush on him, that’s for sure. In fact, I think I’ve identified at least one guy with a crush on him, too.

I’ve been pointedly avoiding such giggly, obvious behavior. Instead, I’m hiding my childish obsession like a grown up. I don’t say hello or goodbye, and I try to look at him as little as possible (though I’ve become an expert at stealing glances). I stick to the back but haven’t been able to resist jumping into discussions. The class is out of my comfort zone but it’s fascinating the hell out of me.

Today I have to break my don’t-engage-him-as-you’re-leaving-class rule.

I approach his desk as he’s packing up his leather bag. I should be regretting the fact that I’m having to break my rule and get so close to him. I really should. But I’m not.

He notices me and smiles. “Ah. Miss Procopio Caivano Nikas,” he says grandly.

I stop short, my eyebrows raised.

He lifts a little green folder. “They sent the updated roster.”

“Ah.”

He stuffs the folder in his bag and goes for his stack of books. “That’s quite the list of names you have there.”

The list he has is still one short. “Family names,” I say, coming the rest of the way up to his desk. “You know how that goes.”

“Are your family Greek or Italian?” he asks.

I remember how he correctly identified the origin of the name Nikas on my first day. “Both,” I answer. “My maternal grandmother was Greek. She fell in love with my grandfather, an Italian Catholic, when he was in Greece on leave. She converted to the Catholic Church and everything. Being Greek Orthodox, it was quite the family scandal, as I understand it.”

He smiles. “I can only imagine. The rules people will break for love.”

He doesn’t see my reaction to this statement because he’s looking up toward the ceiling and furrowing his brows like he’s trying to remember something. I take in his profile and broad shoulders, my heart getting worked up yet again. It’s galloping away all on its own, as a matter of fact.

“If I remember correctly, Procopio is the name of the first Christian martyr in Diocletian’s persecutions. Back in 300 AD, I think.”

I laugh a little. I can’t help it.
How the hell do you know that?
I want to say. But he’s my professor, so instead I say, “Is it? Did you just... know that?”

He smiles. “No. Google. I’m kind of a dork about names.”

I can’t figure him out. I would agree he’s kind of a dork (not that I mind, because I’m kind of a dork too), except ‘dork’ just is not the right word for a man who looks like that and gets my skin all tingly every time he’s within fifty feet of me.

“What about the others?” I prompt.

“Caivano is a city.”

“Near Naples, yes.” That one I knew. My grandfather was from that city and I still have cousins there.

“And Nikas I knew was Greek. It sounded Greek anyway. But I had to look that one up too. It’s just short for Nikolaos.”

I nod. “That about covers it.”

“It’s a rich heritage.”

“It’s a whole lot of names,” I say rolling my eyes.

He packs the last book, closes the flap on his bag, and hoists it over his shoulder. He’s close enough I could reach out and touch that shoulder if I wanted to. “At least you have a middle name or two to call your own,” he says.

“Don’t you have a middle name?”

“Nope. Shane Brooks. That’s it.”

“What? That’s not possible. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with no middle name.”

“Ah, we’re out there. We have a support group that meets on Tuesdays.”

I laugh. “Well, I have more names than I need. Feel free to borrow one of mine.”

“Hmm,” he says, eyeing me.
Be still my heart.
“But how would I pick? It’d have to be one with some nice meaning, I think. There’s nothing too mysterious about the meaning behind Brooks.”

“Nope. I don’t even think I need to Google that one.”

He laughs. “How about Procopio? That one has an interesting story behind it, even if it is grizzly. I like stories.”

I grin. “Shane Procopio Brooks. That has a certain ring to it.”

“I think so, too. I thank you for your generosity, Miss Nikas.” He bows his head slightly, keeping his eyes on mine and giving me a heart-stopping smile.

My god, isn’t it bad enough that he’s so delicious to look at? The fact that he’s so easy to talk to is not helping me. Why have I been standing here chatting with him? I didn’t mean to. All this is doing is pulling me into his orbit even more. I should go. I really, really should.

But once again our gaze deepens into something that feels impossible to look away from.

Neither one of us says a word

Suddenly, he says he has to go and I’m watching his back as he heads for the door.

Dammit.

I slowly trail after him, a little numb.

What the fuck just happened? What’s the matter with me?

I exit the room and notice he’s gone down the hall to the right when I need to go left. I force myself to go left and not trail after him like a little lost puppy. I take only a couple steps when I remember why I needed to talk to him in the first place.

I spin and call down the hallway, “Oh, Professor Brooks?”

He turns and stops, waiting for me as I walk back to him. I stop several steps short. It feels dangerous to get any closer.

He’s gripping the strap of his bag with one broad hand. He almost looks leery of me.

“I’m sorry, I forgot,” I say. “The chemistry majors have a field trip to Carson Laboratories on Tuesday. I won’t be here for class. Is there something I need to do to make it up?”

“As long as you know the material, you should be fine,” he says. He looks about to say something else, but hesitates. I hover there, waiting for the rest. “You’re welcome to pick up a copy of the lecture notes after,” he says. He takes half a step back. “Have a good day, Miss Nikas.”

It’s starting to feel weird to me that he’s not calling me by my true last name, Maddox. Even though that’s what every professor on campus has done for the last three years.

“You too, Professor Brooks.”

We both turn and go our separate ways.

I’m so distracted by my interactions with Professor Brooks, I literally run into the back of another student at the on-campus snack bar, the Gizmo.

“Oh sorry!” I say, as the guy turns around to see who’s accosted him.

My face works into a look of disdain as I see who it is. Justin Kirby.

He gives me that evil smile of his and says, “Been drinking again Mistress Maddox?”

Bastard.
One person on campus calls me by my real last name and it has to be this asshole.

He’s never gotten over the fact that I tried to have him investigated after the incident freshman year, and whenever we run into each other on campus (which happens more frequently than I’d like), he goes out of his way to make some sort of snide remark.

The whole situation makes Ashley nervous. She’s suggested he might be stalking me, but I figure if he were going to try anything else with me, he would’ve done it by now. He doesn’t scare me anymore. He’s just a gargantuan prick.

I roll my eyes. “Looking to refill your supply of roofies?” I say calmly, turning away from him. “I don’t think they sell that here.”

I walk away and he lets me go without further comments.

Though I feel like I’ve learned how to handle him, he’s one thing I won’t miss when I graduate. I can tell you that for sure.

The following Wednesday, I head to Old Main to pick up the lecture notes from Professor Brooks. I locate his office on the second floor, but when I knock on the door, there’s no answer. The anticipation I felt at the prospect of seeing him drains out of me. It’s both a relief (because my crush on him feels unbearable at times like this) and a disappointment. I need the notes, yes, but really, I just wanted to see him.

Even though I shouldn’t want that. Shouldn’t want it at all.

His door doesn’t have any of the whiteboards or decorations the other professors sometimes have. There’s only a simple, brown name plate with his name in white, block letters: Shane Brooks.

I let out a slow breath. I’ll just get the notes after class tomorrow. It’s what I should’ve done anyway. There was no reason to make a special trip for them.

No good reason anyway.

I head back down the hall and toward the stairs. A class is letting out just ahead. When I pass the door I glance in and see him at the table inside, packing up. My heart does a flip.
Stay cool, Isabella.

I weave my way through the exiting students and stop when I reach the corner of the desk. This is a different classroom, but it’s set up pretty much the same. He does a double-take when he sees me, as if I’ve caught him by surprise. He recovers quickly though.

“Hello Miss Nikas.”

“Hi Professor. I came to pick up the lecture notes.”

“Ah,” he says, pulling a folder out of his bag. “I made you a copy yesterday. Here you go.”

He hands me the notes and goes back to packing his bag.

And that’s that.

So much for any kind of special interaction with him. What was I expecting anyway?

I have
got
to get it together.

I thank him and turn to leave.

“How’s your studying going for the GREs?” he asks.

I turn back to look at him. He offers me that friendly professor smile. My heart dances around in my chest. I’ll take what I can get.

“Pretty good,” I answer. “I do a little each night. I have a healthy stack of note cards.”

He raises his eye brows. “Actual notes on actual cards?”

I nod. “It’s a little old-fashioned, I know. But I find writing things down by hand is the best way for me to retain information.”

“I agree. I do the same thing.”

“You do?”

Sam thinks I’m a total nerd the way I study. I probably am, I don’t know.

He digs around in his bag, pulls out a stack of cards, and plops them on the desk top.

“Impressive,” I say, grabbing them and leaning against his desk. His neat print is on each card and the titles are cleanly highlighted in one of four colors. I have to smile a little, feeling in fellowship with a fellow scholar.

“Early Gnostic thinkers in Rome?” I say, reading the title of a card.