Forbidden Heat (Firework Girls #1) (6 page)

I’ve spent the last two and a half days reliving the evening of the recital, much to the chagrin of my chemistry lab partners who started complaining about my level of distraction. Yesterday I accidentally put sulfur in a mixture instead of sulfite and damn near started a fire in the lab. We had to throw out the mixture and start all over again.

Now that I’m finally sitting in class, listening to Professor Brooks lecture on the philosophy of religion and Michael Martin’s essay, “The Cosmological Argument,” I’m not feeling much better. He’s acting no differently than he usually does. Even when I contribute a comment to the discussion, he responds to me just as he does every other student in class. It’s not like I expect him to stare longingly into my eyes or anything, but there’s not the slightest hint of...
anything
.

I would wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing Saturday night, except that I’m sure I didn’t.

Even so, the longer I sit here, the more I’m reminded about what we really are: a student and a professor. Nothing more.

I find that cold, hard reality by the light of day strangely settling. I can’t say that I don’t long for more. I do. But I can’t have it. Knowing that is better than being worked up into the frenzy that’s had me so befuddled for the past few days.

Right?

Just as I’m starting to settle for admiring his chest from a distance, he catches my ear when he mentions the working title of his dissertation.

Did he just say ‘The Philosophical Foundations of Atheist Spirituality?’

I raise my eyebrows and wonder what my Catholic mother would think of that. I don’t even know what
I
think about that.

A minute later he straightens, claps his hands together, says “Alright!” and dismisses us for the day.

I sigh and gather up my things, hitching my bag over my shoulder. Why, oh
why
didn’t I take History of Education instead?

As I’m passing his desk, head down, he casually says, “Miss Nikas.”

I blink at him and stop.

There are still a few students packing up their things. “Did you enjoy the performance the other night?” he asks.

He gives me an easy, professor-type smile. This guy is killing me.

Fine. Two can play that game. “I did,” I say easily. “My friend Ashley was one of the pianists.”

“Ashley Morrison?”

I smile. “That’s right.”

“She was my favorite.”

No shit,
I think, remembering what happened during Ashley’s piece. But I keep my cool. “She’s really good, isn’t she? My friends and I try to go to all her performances.”

“Is that who you were with?” he asks. “Your friends?”

And there it is. Just a hint of something else underneath the facade. I realize that night I was sitting next to Jack, standing next to Jack, and taking Jack’s arm, all under the watchful eye of Professor Brooks.

I have a weak moment and I’m tempted to play up the notion that Jack was my date, for the sole purpose of trying to make Professor Shane Brooks jealous. But honestly? I’m not that kind of girl. And for all I know, he doesn’t care anyway. Who can tell what this guy is thinking?

“Sam, Chloe, and Jack,” I confirm, as the last student exits the room and we’re left alone. “We’ve known each other since freshman year. They’re my best friends. Ashley, too.”

He seems relieved, but maybe that’s just my imagination.

“Who were you with?” I ask boldly. Fair’s fair, after all.

“It was a... a blind date actually,” he says with a slightly embarrassed grin.

“Ah.” I’m disappointed. I was hoping she was just a friend, too.

But still, it doesn’t have to mean anything. After all, what tiny percentage of blind dates actually work out? Though, maybe the statistics would be different if all blind dates were as gorgeous as his was. He hit the fucking blind date
jackpot
as far as I can tell.

“Blind dates can be pretty harrowing,” I say, and give a little laugh that I hope comes across as casual instead of awkward and stupid, which is how it sounds in my head. “Think you’ll go out again?”

He looks at me and there’s a pregnant pause.

I half expect him to say students have no business knowing who their professors date. He has that look of authority, which actually turns me on, pathetic girl that I am.

But he doesn’t correct me. Instead he answers, “No.”

No explanation. No nothing. But it was a firm no and I don’t doubt he means it.

My chest is fluttering again.

“So...” I say slowly. He watches me expectantly. “Your dissertation title sure caught my attention.”

He smiles. More like a devious grin, actually, and that’s just as attractive as the stern professor look he gave me a few minutes ago. “Are you an atheist, Miss Nikas?”

I laugh. “No. Are you?”

“Perhaps.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Does that shock you?” he asks, amused. “You don’t strike me as the church-going type.”

“Well, I’m not really,” I admit, smiling. “I pretty much only go to mass when I’m at my parents’ house. But don’t tell my mother I said that.”

He laughs. “The staunch Italian Catholic?”

“That’s the one.”

“Is she disapproving of atheists?”

I shrug, though I know the answer. “I was just... taken aback by the topic of your dissertation. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard the phrase ‘atheist spirituality’ before.”

“That probably seems a little contradictory to you.”

“Well... yeah. Maybe more than a little.”

“Spirituality is pretty tied to religion in our Western society,” he says, “but in Eastern traditions, that’s not necessarily the case. Spirituality is about nurturing an inner life. The process can include a god or gods, but it doesn’t have to.”

“Huh,” I say, trying to wrap my brain around that one. I wouldn’t say I’m a card-carrying Catholic, but I’ve always believed in God.

Carefully considering me, he smiles. That gorgeous, delicious, lip-smacking smile that yanks my thoughts far, far away from anything holy.

Why
am I standing here talking to him and
torturing
myself? Why do I keep letting him draw me in
as if I think I have any chance at all with my freaking professor?
My heart is beating so soundly I wonder if he can hear it clear on the other side of his desk.

“Come with me, Miss Nikas.” He grabs his laptop bag and heads for the door.

I blink, not moving. He turns and waits for me.

Gathering my wits about me, I follow and he leads me out of the room. We go down the hall and around the corner to his office door, the words “Shane Brooks” on the little brown name plate.

He opens the door and steps inside the tiny room. I linger in the doorway, holding the door open with one hand since it seems to want to close on its own.

There’s not much to his office besides a desk, a filing cabinet, and two bookcases overflowing with books. He deposits his laptop bag on his desk and approaches one of the bookcases. I glance around. There’s not much in the way of decor, except for a huge impressionist-style painting of a wooded glen, hanging on the wall opposite the shelves. I’m impressed to see that it’s an original, but I don’t recognize the artist.

“I didn’t know adjunct professors got their own office,” I say, moving closer to the painting in search of a signature.

“Only if there’s room,” he says. “I saw they had a vacant closet so I took it.”

He laughs but I’m not sure he’s kidding. He doesn’t even have a window.

I locate the signature and read the name aloud. “I’m not familiar with this artist.”

“It’s a local guy. He’s just getting started in his career, but things are starting to take off for him, from what I understand.”

“It might be worth something someday,” I say, turning to him.

His profile to me, he’s leaning over slightly, scanning the middle shelves. God, this guy is easy on the eyes. He shrugs. “I doubt I’d sell it. I love that painting.”

I notice the door has swung closed, leaving a gap of just a couple inches to the doorjamb. I’m in a room alone with Professor Shane Brooks.

I glance first at him, then at the broad surface of his desk. Suddenly my mind goes all steamy romance on me and I imagine what it would be like to have him pounding me on that desk.

He pulls a book from the shelf and holds it up so I can see the title. I can only hope I’m not blushing. I read the title, “
The Little Book of Atheist Spirituality?”

I raise my brows as he goes back to scanning his shelves, apparently on the hunt for something else. “Read this one first,” he says, still holding it aloft. “It’s written by a French atheist philosopher and will give you a good idea what I’m looking into for my dissertation.”

“Um...”

“Ah, here we go.”

He pulls another volume off the shelf and stacks it on top of the first book, straightening. “Read this one second. It’s about the intrinsic value of our basic virtues. Service. Honesty. Love. Stuff like that. It’s written by the same philosopher.”

He approaches and holds out the stack.

“Are you assigning me extra work, Professor?”

He gives a slow smile. “I thought you were interested.”

“I am but... you know I have a pretty full load this year.”

“Is that giving you trouble?”

“Well...” I grin. “Not really.”

He smiles with approval and my heart skips about in my chest. “You seem like the kind of person who’d rather be challenged,” he says, “not held back.”

His words strike a chord with me and I blink at him. So few people ever try to push me beyond what I take on for myself. Too many times, the default stance is to try to reign me in, like Dean Jennings did.

Professor Brooks steps closer and raises the stack a little higher, gripping them with both hands.

I likewise reach for them with both hands. Our fingertips touch and we freeze, both of us still holding the books.

Our gaze locks.

He’s giving me the kind of look I thought I saw from across the auditorium last night, but this time we’re only inches apart. This time, no one’s turning away.

He looks down to my lips, then back up to my eyes. My breathing has shallowed. My entire body’s tingling.

Oh god, I want to kiss this man.

We hover there, my heart threatening to break right out of my chest. The flecks of green in his eyes are sharp against the penetrating blue.

Something inside me makes a decision.

I move my fingertip, brushing it a fraction of an inch along his finger. Such a tiny movement, but the feel of his skin lights me up. He looks down to our hands.

I move again, just barely caressing his knuckle with my fingertip. His eyes dart back up to mine. It seems neither of us are daring to breathe.

He leans ever so slightly closer to me.

It’s so slight I’m not sure he’s doing it.

Then he moves enough that I’m sure. I lean in slightly too.

Suddenly, he turns his head away, takes a step back, and releases the books. I almost drop them after receiving their sudden weight and tighten my grip.

“I—” he says.

There’s a knock as the door swings open and we both jump.

“Professor Brooks?” A young student sticks his head in. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the boy says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You weren’t interrupting,” Professor Brooks says.

“I was just leaving,” I say at the same time, stepping away from him and toward the door.

“Come on in, Jimmy,” he says.

I don’t look to see if Jimmy comes in or not. Head down, I mumble a “Thanks, Professor Brooks,” and scurry away like a thief leaving the scene of a crime.

That night I’m in my room with the door closed. I’m lying on my bed on top of the covers, fully dressed, and staring at the ceiling but not seeing a thing.