When It's Love
When It’s Love
Copyright © 2013 Emma Lauren
Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to S.P.P.
Professor Sparling, sexiest man alive, comes in late to class. “I’m sorry,” he says. “The storm slowed me down.” He takes off his wet brown coat and hangs it on the back of his chair. No one has ever looked so insanely hot while hanging a coat. Every time Professor Sparling moves his hands I imagine them touching me. I’m completely mesmerized as he smiles at us, his twelve writing students, sitting around tables in a U-shaped formation. I wonder if anyone can tell how attracted I am to our professor. Is it obvious that I’m gawking?
Today Professor Sparling is returning our personal essays along with our final grades for the semester. He’s known to be a tough grader, but I’m not worried about that. What I’m really anticipating are his comments on my essay, and I’m terrified that he’ll discuss the essays in front of the whole class. If he talks about my work here in front of the other students, I will die on the spot.
The room is quiet as Professor Sparling arranges his laptop and papers on the desk. The only sounds are from his sorting of things and rain pelting the windows of Union Hall, the oldest building on the Addison College campus. “It sure is cold outside, but it’s too warm in here,” Professor Sparling says, delivering the line like he’s straight out of a bad porn movie.
I can’t take my eyes off Professor Sparling as he pulls his olive colored sweater off over his head. Beneath it, he’s wearing a light blue button-down (oh, please take off that layer, too) and dark, tight jeans that make him look more cowboy than professor. His black hair is still damp from the rain.
That hair …
Every Tuesday evening for the last fourteen weeks I’ve been staring at that hair, dreaming of running my fingers through it. I have imagined what the skin on his cheeks feels like with just a trace of stubble. Sometimes when he’s talking during class I tune out his real words and pretend I’m alone with him in my tiny apartment, and he puts his hand under my chin and nudges my face upward to look him right in the eyes. “Take off your clothes, Sydney,” he says.
In reality, though, Professor Sparling has barely looked at me all semester.
Now Professor Sparling is telling the class how pleased he is with our work. “Your writing has matured tremendously over the semester,” he says.
I try to meet his dark green, intelligent eyes, and give him a warning look that says, “Don’t mention my essay!” but he’s looking straight at Melanie, the girl who somehow manages to have a tan all through Michigan winters. She looks so healthy while the rest of us are pale and red-nosed. Melanie and I both have light blue eyes, but hers project happiness, while mine are pallid. Today Melanie is wearing a tight white cashmere sweater that clings to her breasts. She’s in black jeans and tall black boots with a good 3-inch heel. Every single one of her auburn hairs is in its place. She is beautiful, and she knows it.
Back in high school I wore nice clothes, too, maybe not designer, but fashionable clothes in fancy colors like lavender and chartreuse, silky tops, clingy leggings, skintight jeans, and shirts that barely reached my waistband. I had friends. I went to junior and senior proms. I wasn’t exactly the prom queen, but I was well-liked at school. The clothes I’ve been wearing since I moved to Addison, Michigan almost four years ago, though, are as dreary and gray as a Michigan winter. I have hoodies in charcoal gray, blue gray, and a gray so light it looks like a white sweatshirt that needs a good wash. I have a gray parka, and gray cords. With the way I dress, it’s no wonder guys don’t look at me.
Today I’m wearing the blue gray hoodie and slim fit jeans. It’s the best I could do. Before I’d left my apartment, I dabbed shiny pink gloss onto my lips, and brushed out my long, straight blonde hair. I didn’t try to do anything more dramatic because there is no way I can compete with Melanie. Everything about her – hot body, full lips, curve-hugging clothes - screams out sex, while everything about me screams out depression.
“Melanie,” Professor Sparling says. “Do you want to start off our discussion on the assigned reading, the O’Brian essay?”
“Of course,” Melanie says. “I’d love to. But what about our personal essays? Are you going to comment on those?” She bats her eyes and flashes a glorious smile at Professor Sparling. “Are we going to share them with each other?”
Please, no! Let’s not share.
“I’ll hand them back to you at the end of class,” Professor Sparling says. “I want to use the time we have to review O’Brian. Please begin, Melanie.”
I don’t know how it happens, but just as Melanie begins to speak, words escape from my mouth. I can’t believe I’m interrupting her. Only a moron like me would do something this stupid.
“I don’t like the O’Brian essay,” I blurt.
Everyone turns to look at me. I can feel my cheeks heating up, and I put my head down. Suddenly the room feels unbearably hot. I expect Professor Sparling to tell Melanie to continue and scold me for my rudeness. Instead he says, “Go on, Sydney. Tell us why you don’t like it.”
When I lift my head, Professor Sparling is looking directly at me. Has he ever looked at me, let alone with such intensity? This might be the best (and most embarrassing) moment of my life! Everyone is still staring at me, and I feel pressured to answer, but trying to form a coherent sentence with Professor Sparling’s astonishing green eyes on me is almost impossible. Finally, after a long, awkward pause, I begin to say what I think, praying that the words coming out of my mouth are about the O’Brian essay (and not about how much I’d like to run my finger along Professor Sparling’s pronounced lips).
“O’Brian’s essay implies that there’s no room for imagination in personal writing. I don’t agree with that,” I say with confidence that surprises me.
Several of my classmates nod, but Melanie scowls at me and takes over the discussion, interrupting me just as I’d done to her. In no time, the handsome, sexy, talented, and brilliant Professor Sparling’s attention is completely focused on her again. I go from elated to deflated in a blink.
I’d been so nervous before this last class with Professor Sparling. As I got ready to go, I texted my best and only real friend at Addison, Henry, about what I should wear to class. He texted back:
Nothing.
:)
If only. Henry was right, though. I should have come in naked instead of in this dull sweatshirt. At least then Professor Sparling might have given me some real attention. As it is now, I’ve accomplished nothing aside from busting into a conversation, embarrassing myself, and pissing off Melanie.
The ninety minutes of class pass in a flash, which is no surprise. (Time flies when you’re gawking at the hottest man on the planet.) As the class comes to an end, Professor Sparling hands our essays back and thanks us all for our participation this semester. “I truly enjoyed our class,” he says.
Same here
.
This class has been the highlight of my years at Addison. It’s the only part of college that has made me feel somewhat happy, and it’s not only because of my epic crush on Professor Sparling. I really love to write, and I’ve improved my skills a lot this semester. This has been my most valuable college class.
Students are packing up their backpacks and saying goodbye to each other. There are only three days until Christmas Eve. No one is lingering around to look over the professor’s comments and feedback on their essays because tomorrow winter break officially begins (and then just one semester left until graduation). Everyone is eager to start vacation, but unlike the other students, I’m in no rush to go anywhere. Clarksville, my hometown, is only an hour’s drive away, but I’m going to spend vacation right here in Addison, this tiny college town surrounded by icy lakes. I have no reason to go home. The truth is, I don’t really have a home.
I take my time packing up my bag and peek at my essay. There are a few lengthy comments in the margins that I decide to read later and one word from Professor Sparling at the end, along with my grade: Extraordinary! A+