Searching for Mine (Searching For 4.5)

He held out the paper. "I got an F. I apologize again for turning it in late. See, I'm about to graduate with a business management degree. I need to pass this course." His smile held well. "When we last spoke, I assumed you understood my position and told me it was acceptable to turn it in a few days late."

Oh, she remembered that conversation perfectly. He'd given her excuse after excuse for why he deserved more time, and she just nodded and didn't have to say a word. The man was probably so used to women giving him everything he wanted, he hadn't even bothered to wait for her verbal assent. Just walked away with a smile and a wink. He'd actually winked at her like this was 1970 and calling women in authority by honey and babe was fine.

"It was acceptable," she said calmly. "But if you'd read your syllabus carefully, you'd see each day it comes in late one full letter grade is taken off. I gave you a break though, Mr. Dunkle. I didn't count the weekend because I was feeling quite generous. Is that it?"

He blinked. Confusion flickered over his face and she had to tamp down a chuckle. He leaned in just a few inches and dropped his voice to a concerned level. "Professor Blake, I need to get a C in this class. My job right now depends on my graduation this June."

Her eyes glinted behind her glasses with pure intention. "Did you read The Story of an Hour by Kate Chopin? Or did you scan the Internet for analysis and summaries and stick them into your paper to make it look like you read it?"

Oh, she knew that look well. Ella waited to see if he'd lie straight to her face. A tiny crease in his brow gave him away. She was the one surprised when he finally answered. "No."

"No, what, Mr. Dunkle?"

"No, I didn't read the story. I tried. But I got bored and stopped."

She nodded. "I'd suggest if you want to pass my class you begin taking it seriously and doing the assignments. On time."

His aura simmered with frustration. "I understand. I'll be sure to read the next short stories thoroughly. Who's the next author we're studying?"

"Virginia Woolf."

He looked like he'd rather stick needles in his eye than read Woolf, but she gave him credit. He kept his expression open and understanding. "Fascinating. Hey, maybe we can get some coffee after class? Discuss some of your viewpoints. Get to know one another better? I feel like we may have gotten off on the wrong foot."

Unbelievable. The man just kept digging the crater larger and larger. He'd be lucky to graduate. She switched to her disapproving teacher voice: hard, controlled, and full of ice. "I dislike cliches, Mr. Dunkle. In both speech and company."

"Huh?"

"Gotten off on the wrong foot," she pointed out. "It's called a cliche. Look it up. Now, do you have any issues regarding the next assignment?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm just surprised we're reading another woman writer. This was never explained as a feminist course. I assumed we'd be reading Hemmingway, or Fitzgerald, or Poe. Getting more of the male perspective in society, too, you know?"

Once again, he realized he'd misspoken too late. Her gaze flicked over him, then slid away in dismissal.

"You know what they say about the word assume, Mr. Dunkle?"

"No."

Her smile was mean. "It makes an ASS out of you and me. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get ready for my next class."

She focused on the stack of papers in front of her and began to read. His stunned silence seethed with unspoken emotions, but finally he walked away with his failing paper clutched in his hand. She risked a peek.

His stride owned pure grace and swagger. His tight, perfect ass made women want to weep. Or cop a feel.

She tamped down the flare of guilt from ogling a student, but the man was her age and ready to graduate, so it wasn't all that terrible. Besides, she'd never date the man. If he thought their little chat meant she was going to forgive lateness or inane answers in her class, Connor Dunkle would learn quickly enough.

Sighing, she began prepping for her next class. God, she was tired. She loved teaching, but lately, burnout threatened. How long had it been since she spent a night out? Or did anything more exciting than grading papers and playing Wii U Super Smash Brothers? She adored her ten-year-old son, but maybe she needed more balance in her life. Ella didn't want Luke growing up thinking women didn't leave the house other than to work. But every time she thought about going out with some friends for a drink, mama guilt kicked in. They'd already been forced to move twice before she got her permanent job at Verily College, and he was still adjusting to a new neighborhood and school. How could she leave him to pursue her own fun? The divorce may have been final for a year now, but the first year was filled with pain, anger, and lawyers back and forth. Luke probably needed more time to accept his parents would never get back together. He'd probably freak at the idea of her trying to date, and Lord knows her first priority was to her son.

Ella sighed. She had no time for dating anyway. Weekends were filled with endless errands and running around. The idea of putting on something more than a pair of sweats seemed painful.

Right now, her legs resembled a porcupine. If she ever had sex again, she'd need to bribe the beautician to give her a bikini wax.

She was thirty-five years old, and an official old maid. Maybe they'd make a card in her honor one day. If children even played that game anymore. Oh, Lord, now her mind was chattering about inane things again and she needed to get herself together.

Ella bet Connor didn't have such problems. His biggest issue was probably what woman to sleep with and what type of beer to drink with dinner. Yeah, she was being judgy, but damned if she didn't feel like she had the right just this once.

She sorted folders and her fingers closed around the glossy postcard she'd found in the Verily bakery. With purple and silvery scroll, the logo of Kinnections matchmaking agency made her pause. Tapping her finger against the edge, she rotated it in her hands and pondered.

It may be a bit pricey, but imagine someone taking the time to personally screen her matches? No bars or losers or meat markets to deal with. No dreaded Internet. Maybe there'd be a nice single father out there who was perfect for her. A man who took responsibility seriously. A man who wouldn't dump his family for a newer, flashier model like her dickhead ex-husband.

The next group of students came straggling in, and Ella shoved the card back into the pile of papers. She'd think about it. Right now, she needed to concentrate on Edith Wharton.

Ella got back to work.

Chapter Three

"I would always rather be happy than dignified."--Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

Connor climbed the steps to his apartment, looking forward to some good TV, his meatball parm sub, and a cold Guinness with the perfect head. The conversation with Professor Blake kept replaying over and over in his head. What had he done wrong? The damn class was ruining his perfect GPA, which he'd worked hard for. Was she really going to bust his balls on essays that meant nothing?

He muttered a few choice curse words and stopped short. A voice hit his ears along with the sound of metal dragging on concrete.

"What's a matter, new boy? You too good to hang with us? Maybe I'll teach you a lesson. Gimme that DS!"

"No! Leave me alone!"

Connor bit back a groan and turned. The same three boys--he called them the gangsters--were tormenting some poor kid who had been shoved to the ground and pinned by his bike. An open backpack spilled a variety of contents over the sidewalk. The main bully gave a satisfied sneer and held the red Nintendo DS high over his head.

Little shits. They liked to play dirty and tended to pick out kids a few years younger. Connor knew the type well. His younger brother, Nate, had fallen victim to bullying in school and it had almost destroyed his ability to concentrate on his studies. Connor made sure no one messed with him, but he felt bad for the kids who had no one to protect them.

Connor put his purchases down and walked over to the crew. "Practicing for prison?" he drawled. He stood in front of them with his arms crossed casu

ally, an intimidating stare on his face. Like clockwork, the three of them looked at each other, their faces reflecting wariness and a coward's fear. Yeah, the bullies were only strong together. Break them up and they were helpless. "Here. Let me help you."

The boy on the ground ignored his outstretched hand and dragged himself to his feet. No tears shone in his dark eyes, but his skin was mottled red, and his lower lip trembled slightly. Still, pure rebellion reflected in his face and attitude. His dark hair was cut too short, emphasizing a wicked cowlick in the front, and he was skinny and all legs. A thin trickle of blood dripped down his arm. Probably a scraped elbow. He wore a red sweatshirt with the Captain America logo, athletic pants, and some type of expensive looking sneakers. Connor respected him wanting to handle the situation himself, especially at his age. What was he, about nine? Ten?

"We weren't doing nothing," the lead gangster replied. "He fell off his bike."

The boy didn't deny it. He stared at the bullies with a fierce resentment that shimmered in the air. His hands clenched into tight fists, but he didn't move, just shifted back and forth on his feet.

"Convenient. Give me the DS."