Learning Curves (7 page)
From:[email protected]
Subject:Re: Tix?
Leanne—I’m in studio in the morning but I’ll drop them by after my rehearsal.
Brandon.
PS—and I wouldn’t have offered if I hadn’t wanted you to come.
Sinking back into the cushions piled against her headboard, Leanne read the message one more time. He couldn’t really mean that he wanted to continue to see her, did he?
Even if he was interested in sleeping with her again—and their rain-fueled kiss had laid any doubts she might have had on that count to rest—she knew there was no future for them. She had her career and more immediately, the Walters Prize to consider. And while she didn’t know what drove Mr. Brandon Myles, she’d bet her next shot at a tenure-track position it wasn’t anything involving commitment or a relationship. He gave off a vibe—an edgy, don’t-pin-me-down kind of vibe—that made anything long-term an impossibility.
Feeling unaccountably vexed at that conclusion, she clicked off the bedside lamp and sank into the warm flannel of her bed. In the dark, her mind wouldn’t quiet, replaying their incendiary encounter under the portico, playing back their angry accusations and their even angrier embrace. She was still jittery and aroused. Slowly, her hands slid down, across her stomach, and parted the moist curls at the apex of her thighs. She caressed the sensitive bud, circling round and round. In her mind’s eye, she remembered the feel of her body Saturday night, stretching to accommodate Brandon’s long fingers.
Panting, she stroked herself harder, slipping her fingers inside. She crested hard, her breathing labored, as images of her fantasy flashed in sexual Technicolor against her eyelids.
“Miss?”
After a troubled night with little sleep, Leanne found it hard to summon her typical enthusiasm for her weekly seminar discussions. These small groups were supposed to supplement the larger lectures and allow students to develop their ideas. It would help if some of the students had original notions to expand on. And it probably wouldn’t hurt if more than half of them actually opened their readings.
“Amy. What can I do for you?”
“I have a question about the term paper.”
“Sure.” Turning from the broad desk at the front of the crowded seminar room, she settled against the table as Amy rummaged in her book bag for her laptop.
The young girl opened her laptop and pulled up the beginning of her term paper. A quick read through of the opening lines revealed troubled syntax and a garbled thesis statement. With only a few minutes until her next seminar, there was no way Leanne could help Amy rework her paper right now. They’d have to meet one-on-one.
Leanne reached behind her for her day planner, then flipped through the pages until she could see her schedule for the remainder of the week. Her office hours were already busy, since the end of the term always brought with it a flurry of late-onset diligence, but Thursday might work. She had an appointment with Armstrong at eleven and a committee meeting in the afternoon but maybe earlier in the day?
Amy moaned softly under her breath.
Leanne looked up. “Are you okay?”
The hairs on her neck stood at Amy’s dazed look.
Schooling her face into a mask of friendly neutrality, Leanne turned toward the open doorway. Her diagnosis had been correct. Another case of Brandonitis. If only there was an inoculation against the infection. But thus far, and despite repeated exposure, she was no closer to developing an immunity against him.
“Brandon,” Leanne said brightly, hoping against hope that neither he nor the eighteen suddenly fascinated students noticed the squeak in her voice. If only, she thought, taking in their interest, they showed as much enthusiasm for Blake’s poetry. Clearly, long-dead poets had nothing on the stunning presence of a very much alive hunk.
“Wow,” Amy said
sotto voce.
She looked from the door to the table where Leanne stood, new respect for her seminar leader in her eyes. “You know him?”
Leanne’s lips quirked at the disbelief evident in the girl’s query.
“Yes.” Making the short list for the Walters Prize didn’t elicit the same envy as being on a first-name basis with someone who looked like Brandon. While she could certainly understand the young woman’s interest, it was her job to present a professional and unflappable front. It wasn’t easy, what with her body still vibrating with lust after their furious kiss last night. But thoughts like that wouldn’t help in her present situation, so she simply gave a noncommittal nod and met him in the doorway.
Brandon at least looked apologetic. “I’m sorry for interrupting you between seminars. I stopped by the English department to drop off your tickets and Cora said you were here, so I thought I might as well bring them by in person. Just to make sure you got them.”
Suppressing a shudder at what the departmental secretary must be thinking after meeting him, she took the tickets from his outstretched hand.
“Thanks. That was very nice of you.”
Cora would be turning her personal, nearly supernatural, relationship radar to the possibility of a juicy interdepartmental encounter. Leanne had no doubt she’d already contacted her Fine Arts counterpart for the full and unadulterated rundown on Brandon Myles, up to and including his primary school transcript, plus key details like his relationship history and personal affiliations. Because there was nothing—no dating disaster, no familial crisis, no potential romance—too small or insignificant to escape the notice of the administrative staff at a university like Wellington.
“It was no trouble. It wasn’t far out of my way.”
The fine arts building was on the other side of campus.
Still trying to close her mind to the image of Cora sifting through her own unsuccessful dating history, she tried to act naturally. “Well, I really appreciate it.” From the tittering and wide-eyed stares of her students, she was pretty certain that plan wasn’t going as well as she might hope for. She slipped the tickets inside her day planner. “What do I owe you for the tickets?”
He scoffed. “They’re a gift, Leanne.”
“I hardly feel…”
“If you don’t use them, they’ll just go to waste. You’re the one doing me the favor here.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“I am.” He moved aside as he spoke. The students from her next class began to file in. She gestured apologetically at the new arrivals, all of whom openly gawked at his presence in the room.
“My next seminar starts soon.”
“No problem. I’ll let you get on with your class,” Brandon said easily.
Too easily
. The thought popped into her mind before she could crush it. Oh for heaven’s sake, she was trying to get rid of him. She didn’t want him to stay. This was getting ridiculous. He’d entered every aspect of her controlled life. Her teaching, her free time, even her dreams.
Then Brandon did something absolutely unexpected.
Raising a casual hand, he lifted it up to her cheek. He didn’t touch her; it simply hovered millimeters from her face. But his eyes glittered with an unspoken message that Leanne was unwilling to decipher. It was all she could do not to bend her neck and feel the warm strength of his fingers against her skin. Was he trying to say what she thought he was saying? She was giddy and a little breathless at the mere possibility, even though the risk to her carefully laid plans made her feel sick to her stomach.
A one-night stand was one thing.
Even a no-strings-attached affair, where both participants were aware of the rules up front.
But the look in Brandon’s eyes seemed to suggest that he at least might view their one-off encounter not as an end but as the beginning of something more.
He’d bearded Cora in her den.
Visited during seminars.
And withstood the withering curiosity of nearly three dozen undergraduates, whose well-honed noses could sniff out the merest whiff of a hookup.
Those weren’t the actions of a fling, were they?
And if they weren’t, where did that leave her?
Their eyes met and Leanne’s knees shook with lust.
In a low voice he said, “See you tomorrow night, then. I’m looking forward to it.” Turning, he strode from the room, leaving Leanne perplexed and aroused and anxious all at once. Realizing she still clutched her planner to her chest like a life vest, she loosened her fingers from the leather book.
Around her the chatter of the seminar ebbed and flowed. Before she could question the impulse, she darted into the hall.
“Brandon?”
He turned, his satchel slung over one broad shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“Do you…I mean, do you have plans for tonight?”
Striding closer, he shook his head.
“You won’t let me pay for these,” Leanne said, holding up the tickets. “But if you’re not busy tonight, a bunch of grad students I know get together every Tuesday for a potluck dinner.”
“Potluck?” His mouth curved into a small smile, as though the word amused him.
She rushed through the invitation before she could change her mind. “It’s just a casual thing. Everybody brings something, and we hang out, eat, maybe watch a movie or play cards.”
“Are you sure?” he asked finally. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“You wouldn’t be imposing. It’s very flexible. And casual,” she said. Perhaps she’d stressed the word
casual
a little more than she’d intended, because his warm smile dimmed. “People usually just drop by when they can.”
“What time do things start?”
“Seven, seven-thirty,” she said, hardly believing her own audacity. What was Cassandra going to say when—
if—
he showed up at her place tonight? How was she going to explain that a one-night stand seemed to be, against her better judgment, morphing into something else entirely? This was a bad idea. A horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad idea that was going to cause her no end of trouble.
She had no time for anything but school right now.
Certainly no time to incorporate a man into her life.
But it was too late to rescind the invitation. Despite her intentions to the contrary, their lives were intermingling in ways she’d never have anticipated Saturday night.
“I’ll be there,” Brandon said. “Why don’t you write down the address for me and I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay,” she agreed, trying to repress the wide grin determined to break out across her face. “Okay, that’s good, then.”
He smiled back, and this time her grin wouldn’t be controlled. “Very good.” They stood, looking at each other.
“Miss?”
She turned, startled, and saw that her class was assembled, waiting for her to begin the seminar. She hastily scribbled Cass’s address on a sheet of paper, tore it from her agenda and handed it to him. He tucked it in his coat pocket before he loped off down the hall.
As she took her place inside the classroom, she told herself it didn’t matter that he hadn’t looked back.
Except that no matter how hard she tried to focus on the students’ comments during the next hour, the feeling of disappointment didn’t subside.
The temperature had dropped by the time Brandon climbed off the bus that evening. He’d spent the day trying not to go over and over his brief conversation with Leanne, but the memory of her dark eyes and shy smile crept into his thoughts despite his intentions to the contrary.
Shrugging deeper into his coat, he was glad he’d liberated his gloves and scarf from the back of his closet before he’d set out. He tucked the shopping bag under one arm and rummaged for the scrap of paper with the address for tonight’s dinner.
563 Tisdale Ave., Apt. C.
Leanne’s neat writing sloped across the lined paper, as elegant and controlled as she was, he thought fancifully. He could have ridden his ten-speed, but he’d picked up a bottle of wine and hadn’t wanted to show up hot and sweaty, so caught the crosstown bus instead. Looking up at the street sign, he set off. The houses here were older, many with generous porches and tall, mature trees, all bare now against the dark autumn sky. Once upon a time, it must have been a prosperous neighborhood, but it looked a little tired now. Many of the big brick homes were ragged, narrow metal fire escapes revealing their conversion into apartments and student housing.
563 Tisdale looked like its neighbors. The outside light was on as he walked across the porch, its gray paint faded. Pushing open the leaded glass door, he could see the main hallway had been sectioned off. Apartment
C
was on the topmost level; he climbed the steep stairs, the bag in his hands bumping against his leg with every step. He could hear lively music and chatter, even though the door was closed. Straightening, he knocked and after a moment, the door opened.
The woman on the other side was tall and striking, with cropped hair and a row of fierce-looking piercings running up one ear. Her eyes were discerning and not particularly welcoming.
“Yes?”
“I’m Brandon,” he said by way of introduction. “I hope I’m in the right place. Is this where the potluck’s happening?”
“Yes.”
Her dislike was palpable and for a moment, Brandon was at a loss.
“I brought food,” he said, holding up the cloth bag in a gesture of appeasement. He liberated the wine bottle and handed it to the woman. Her long fingers wrapped around the neck, the electric blue polish on her nails vivid against the dark green glass.
“Hey Cass, do you know where the salad tongs ended up?” Brandon relaxed a little at the familiar voice.
Cass leaned back into the apartment and called, “Check the shelves in the dining room.”
“You sure? I looked there and I couldn’t—” Leanne strode into the entranceway and stopped short at the sight of him waiting in the hall. Several emotions flitted across her face so quickly he couldn’t identify them before she smiled and beckoned him inside. “You made it.”
The hostess relented a little, opening the door wide enough that Brandon could slip in. Leanne made the introductions, her color a little high but her tone friendly. She wore the same dressy sweater and slacks she’d worn during her seminars but had slipped off her dress shoes to reveal a pair of brightly colored polka-dot socks. A quirky and unexpected touch.
“Brandon,” Cassandra said, holding out her hand stiffly. It was a statement, not a greeting. Leanne shot a wary look at her friend and after a moment, she relented enough to feign a smile.
“I brought a salad too.” Reaching into the bag again, he pulled out a large container of couscous salad. It was just a premade salad that he’d picked up from the deli but Leanne’s smile of pleasure sent a thrill through him, and he felt vindicated in the face of the hostess’s restraint.
“Lee?” a voice called from the dining room. “Did you find the tongs?”
“I’ll show you through to the kitchen,” Cassandra offered to Brandon. “Lee, why don’t you help Mohammed get the table set? We’ll eat as soon as you’re done.”
Slipping off his shoes before adding his coat to the top-heavy pile of outerwear balanced on a chair near the entranceway, he padded behind Cassandra into a small galley kitchen, feeling adrift and unsure of himself. The walls were bright yellow and the cupboards had been painted in a riotous Van Gogh-like starburst of colors.
“Let me get you a bowl for that salad,” she said, her voice more welcoming than before. But her shoulders remained tight and she stalked around him in the enclosed space. She set down the wine bottle and pulled out a deep ceramic dish. “The corkscrew’s out already. Stephanie and Jamie brought bottles too.”
“Would you like me to wait to open this then?”
Cassandra shrugged. “If you like.”
“Thank you for hosting this,” he said, searching for some way to thaw the ice.
“It’s hardly a big deal.” There was another awkward pause and then, as if she relented a little, Cassandra said, “Everyone contributes something, which makes it easy and no one has to eat my food. It’s a win-win situation.”