Her Dirty Professor (10 page)

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* * *

C
hapter
1

T
he door
to my new office hits me in the back as it closes too quickly, and I nearly take a dive into the carpet—heels, boxes and all. Of course, when I say ‘office’ I really mean to say ‘small, out-of-the-way converted broom closed where it’s easy for my uncle to hide me from his colleagues.’ I sigh, putting down the small box of personal items I brought from home and the huge box of new work files. It’s a year. Just a year. A year here, and I can move to a different firm. One year and I can leave this city and get out of my uncle’s house. He doesn’t want me there anyway. All I have to do is survive.

A picture of my father goes on the desk, my paralegal certificate goes on the wall. There’s a short filing cabinet in the corner—one that I can’t imagine will hold everything I’ll need in this job—next to the trash can. That’s about all this tiny room can fit besides a desk. I should be grateful to have an office as a paralegal, but the more I think about it the more I realize it’s probably because my uncle wants me out of sight. At least there’s a window.

The door flies open, rattling on its hinges. Speak of the devil, it’s my uncle, Roger Grayson. He’s tall with graying hair and beard, and a glare that could finish melting the polar ice caps. That same glare is searching around the tiny office. “Are you settled in?”

“Yes, thank you,” I say, holding back a sigh. After so many years I should stop expecting the small courtesies and affections that the term ‘family’ usually implies—like asking how I like the office or how my first day has been going so far—but I can’t help wishing things were different.

“Good. There’s a stack of files on my desk. I need copies made for my meeting with the partners at three. Check the schedule for who will be there and make a full set for each.”

“Okay.” I nod, and glance at the clock. It’s two o’clock now. Should be plenty of time.

He turns and leaves without saying anything else. Before I can stop it, a wave of anxiety crashes over me. I try to pep talk myself out of it. You can do this. You can do this. You can do this. That’s going to be my mantra for the rest of the day. Hell, the rest of this year.

I check the schedule and count seven partners attending the meeting. I step into my uncle’s office and get the files—he’s on the phone and doesn’t even notice me—and realize that I may have been wrong about getting this job done in an hour. The pile of paper is huge. Looks like it might be three separate case files. And although I know what I’m doing when it comes to paralegal work, my copy machine game is not strong. Doesn’t matter. I have to do it.

Luckily the copy room is empty, and I can’t help noticing that it actually looks bigger than my office. But what I also notice is that there’s only one copier for this entire floor, and I can already imagine the copying back-ups on days when there are urgent cases. I’m really going to have to stay on top of things if I want to keep this job.

I hum to myself as I get the copier up and running. It’s sweet and soulful, something I worked on during one of my last jobs as a songwriter. I actually sang back-up on that one too. It’s new but reminds me of the classics. Has a Temptations vibe. I can’t wait to buy the song when it’s finally released. Probably about as close to hearing myself on the radio as I’ll ever get. I try to shake myself out of any lingering wistful feelings. Clearly that ship has sailed. Time for the big girl pants.

I’m about halfway through the stack of files when I hear a noise that no copier should ever make. Scratch that,
no
machine should ever make that sound. It’s a sickening crunch and grind followed by the squeal of gears and the full stop of the copier.

Shit.
Shit.

I check the screen and see that the power to the machine is still on, so it’s not completely fried.
Paper Jam
, the little screen says. No kidding. Must be one hell of a paper jam to make that kind of sound. Having been through many similar technical difficulties in the past, I confidently open the drawer of the copier and feel around in the back, certain I can fix this before it becomes a real issue. I find nothing. None of the usual culprits; no crumpled paper, no shreds caught in the feeder. Nothing in the second paper drawer either.

Shit. I glance at the clock, rapidly losing my cool. I have thirty minutes till the meeting and no time for this. I guess I don’t have a choice. I kick my heels to the side and hike my pencil skirt further up my legs. Wrong day to wear this skirt.

I take the paper drawers all the way out and stack them to the side. Looking up inside the innards of the machine, I think I can just see the bottom corner of a piece of paper in the rolling mechanism. I open up the door to expose the rest of the machine—
POOF!

Okay, apparently it’s more than just a paper jam. I blink to get the toner out of my eyes. Of course this would happen on my first day, on my first assignment. It’s so perfect I can’t even think of an appropriate swear word. At least I see what the main problem is. A bunch of papers that got stuck together have snarled in the gears, twisting to make everything come to a full stop. Toner be damned, I am going to get this machine working again.

The only problem is, the paper doesn’t want to move. I mean, it’s really stuck. I keep ripping off little pieces accidentally because the mess just doesn’t want to budge. Finally, I shove both arms into the machine, grabbing whatever pieces of paper I can get a grip on, and
pull
.

The paper releases all at once and I go sprawling backwards onto my butt. Over the machine making chirping and clicking sounds of resetting itself, I hear laughter. Male laughter.

Dear god, just kill me now.

“If I had known what kind of view I’d be getting, I’d visit this floor more often.”

I turn my head and…

Staring. You’re staring, Naomi.

But when someone looks like that it’s almost rude not to stare, right?

Wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and cheek bones that belong in a magazine and not in the copy room. The copy room.

Suddenly I realize what he’s seeing—why he’s smiling. I’m barefoot, sprawled across the floor with my skirt hiked up almost to my hips, my face and chest covered with a fine spray of toner powder. I can feel all the blood run to my face.

Say something, you definitely say something right about now.

Nope, of course not. There’s no voice there. He still looks amused though.

“Do you need help?” he asks, reaching out a hand.

I grab it, using his firm grip to get to my feet less than gracefully. “Thanks,” I say, pulling my skirt down to normal.

He chuckles, “No problem. But I have to ask, was there really a problem with the copier or were you gearing up for something more intimate?”

“Um…no,” I say, my pulse kicking, “It was a paper jam. Really bad one.”

“Well, if I ever get jammed up I’ll call you to help me loosen up.”

He’s still holding my hand. My fingers run along his wrist and feel the taut, smooth muscle under his skin before I can stop myself, and he grins. I force my voice out. “I’m not really that good with copiers.”

“Who says I was talking about my copier getting jammed?” He goes to the water cooler and fills one of the paper cups, and then hands it to me along with his handkerchief. He actually carries a handkerchief. “Here. Looks like you might need that.”

I look down. Crap. I quickly brush as much powder as I can off my shirt, knowing that if I touch the toner with the water it will be a complete disaster. My skin, however, is a different story. I wet his handkerchief and quickly clean my chest and neck. Nothing says professionalism like ink all over you.

“What’s your name?” he asks, and I glance up to find it’s his turn to stare. At me. My entire chest now damp, my button down shirt pulled wide open at the neck.

I step into my high heels, and try to pick up the paper trays as smoothly as possible, though I can’t ignore that I’m giving him yet another view of my ass. “Naomi,” I say as the machine comes back to life again now that it has paper.

“Here, wait,” he says, and takes the handkerchief from my hand.

Then he moves into my space and when I look up into his eyes I suddenly can’t breathe. “What are you doing?”

He smirks a little as he raises the cloth. “You’ve got some toner on your face, and I don’t see a mirror in here.”

“Right.”

He gently wipes my face with the damp cloth, across my cheekbones and down to my chin. He drags it across my lower lip, and I think my heart stops. I haven’t been this close to someone in a long time. Okay, maybe I’ve never really even been this close. I find myself looking into those blue eyes again, and I allow myself to get a little lost, to think that this moment means more than it actually does.

The cloth passes over my lip again, and his gaze drops to my mouth. My heart picks up and I think for a moment that he might actually kiss me. That would be…

Who are we kidding here, that would be amazing.

Instead, he says, “There you go, beautiful.” He gives the wet hanky to me.

“Thanks.” I swallow and take a step back, breaking that connection. Wow. My flirting brain kicks on, and I smile at him. “It’s always nice to know a man who isn’t afraid of a little cleaning.” Really? That’s what you come up with, brain?

He laughs. “I’ve had more than one bad experience with a copier, myself. The ones here are especially picky.”

“That’s good to know,” I say, trying to hide my real relief. “It’s my first day, and I was about to fail my first assignment because of that copier.”

“That explains why I’ve never seen you before.”

“Yes it does.”

“Well,” he says, “if that one ever gives you trouble again, you can use the one on my floor. I’m downstairs on eleven.”

I look at him, and he doesn’t seem to be kidding. “Thanks, that’s really nice of you.”

“No problem. We’ve all had first days. I could tell you some stories that would make this one look tame.”

“Oh?” Please tell me something that makes me feel better.

He grins, “Let’s keep that for after your first day is over so we can fully compare.”

“I’d like that,” I say. I smooth my skirt, trying not to look awkward.

“I’ll see you around.” He nods and starts to turn away.

“Don’t you want this back?” I hold out his handkerchief.

He’s grinning again. “It’s easier for you to explain that you borrowed it than it is for me to explain that it got wet by cleaning your breasts.”

My mouth drops open, and my brain short circuits on the image of him cleaning my breasts.

“I’m all out of handkerchiefs, but if you find toner anywhere else,” his eyes roll down the length of my body, “I’m sure that I can find something else to clean you with.”

The little smile on his face tells me he’s not talking about a towel. My whole body heats and I feel like the room is now a sauna. I’ve never had a man look at me like that before—like he’s ready and willing to take me right there. I know I should probably feel offended.

I don’t.

It feels…hot.

He’s holding my gaze, and I can’t move. It’s almost like he knows that he’s making me squirm and he enjoys it. Of course now is the time when my brain absolutely refuses to come up with any witty comebacks. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I murmur.

If lightning could strike me dead, that would be great. The most attractive man you’ve ever seen is hitting on you, and you’ll keep it in mind?

“Believe me, I will too.”

I think I might actually be on fire, and I start babbling to keep my mouth from dropping to the floor and to keep from thinking about the fact that he’ll be thinking about me. “Thank you again for offering your copier. And thank you for touching me. I mean, cleaning me off. No. I mean—”

Just then the door opens, and I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s my uncle, bursting in with his usual sharpness. “There you are,” he says to me, sounding annoyed. “I need this added to the files for the meeting.” He hands me another stack of paper, and I manage to hide the handkerchief in my hand. I don’t want him asking questions about it. I catch sight of my attractive rescuer’s face, and he looks like he’s about to burst out laughing. Probably at me. I flush red again.

“Sure.” I turn and add the stack to the copier’s queue. I take the opportunity to breathe, and maybe make it look like I just wasn’t blatantly flirting with someone at the firm.

“Andrew,” my uncle says, “What are you doing in here?”

“Just visiting the water cooler,” he replies.
Andrew
. His name is Andrew. Good to know, even though I now feel like an idiot for not asking. He asked my name.

“And I see you’ve met my niece.”

I give a tight-lipped smile. Andrew also smiles. “Yes, I did. She is lovely. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you in the meeting.”

Andrew gives me a final glance—that totally steals my breath away—and leaves. I go back to my stapling, desperately hoping that my uncle won’t see the residual embarrassment—or toner—hanging off me.