On a Tuesday (One Week 1)

“Are you implying that I want sex?” I smiled.

“I’m not implying that you want anything. I’m confirming that you should stop with the unnecessary compliments, as they won’t get you any closer to what you’re after.”

“I’m not after anything,” I said. “Yet.”

She shut her book. “You’re never going to see me as your tutor, are you?”

“Very much so.” I leaned over and opened her book. “Tucker’s analysis fails to adequately address all of the issues with the post-modern society.”

She raised her eyebrow.

“This is the part when you ask me why I feel that way,” I said. “Unless you’re the one not taking me seriously.”

She shook her head before asking, and for the next hour, I did my best to stay on topic—to not get distracted by how fucking sexy she was, how she blushed every few minutes, and how she bit her bottom lip whenever she was contemplating a thought.

“I think your analysis is good enough for you to get an A on your first paper,” she said over an hour later. “Do you have any final questions?”

“Are you seeing someone here?” I asked. “If not, who’s my competition?

She blinked. Then, just like she did the last time I tried to ask her something personal, she simply stood up, pushed all her things into her bag, and left the gallery.

This is strike one. No, strike two.

If she were any other girl, I would've immediately emailed my advisor and demanded that she be replaced with someone else, but I was beyond intrigued for some reason. I shut my notebook and went after her, catching her at the light. “Charlotte, wait. Can we start over?”

“Can you buy your books?”

“Under a few conditions." I extended my hand. "I'm Grayson Connors, the number one college quarterback in the country and the sexiest guy you'll ever meet in your life."

“This is you starting over?”

“I listed all my other accolades the first time we met, and you didn’t seem too impressed with those.”

Her lips curved into a slow smile and she shook my hand. “I’m Charlotte Taylor, your tutor who is beyond fed up with you.”

“Nice to meet you, Charlotte. I think you should come with me to get my books right now. That’s what the new version of you in our relationship would do.”

I expected her to reject the idea, but she crossed the street with me.

“I have to pick up a few new books, too,” she said.

We walked the rest of the way in silence, and when we arrived at the bookstore, she followed me to the literature section.

“Do you not trust me to get them on my own?” I asked.

“Given your track record, no." She laughed and headed down the feminist aisle. "I'm assuming you didn't pick your courses this semester anyway.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know too many guys who would pick one feminist course, let alone three.” She picked up one of the books I needed and handed it to me.

“Why not? It’s the perfect way to meet new women and potentially knowing them a bit more intimately outside of the classroom.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.” I stepped in front of her. “I would’ve never met you if I didn’t take these classes.”

“I’m going to email my advisor right now and tell him that I don’t want to tutor you anymore.”

“Prove it.”

She pulled out her phone, but I could tell she wasn’t going to do anything by the blush that crossed her cheeks.

I picked up one of the other books I needed and noticed she had a tattoo on the back of her left leg. It was far too small for me to make out from where I was standing, so I made a mental note to get a closer look at it later.

“Good first game, man.” A guy walked down the aisle and tilted his hat at me. “Wishing you guys another good season this year.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, yeah.” Charlotte looked over her shoulder. “I heard you guys won over the weekend. Congratulations.”

What? “What did you just say?”

“Congratulations?”

“No, before that.” I was certain I didn’t hear that right.

“Um. I heard you guys won over the weekend?”

“You heard?”

“Yeah.” She looked confused. “Was I misinformed?”

“You didn’t go to the game?”

“No, I gave my dad my ticket. I’ll watch the replay later this week since I’m not that big on college games.”

Strike three.

She picked up a book from an endcap, and I followed her to the register.

“Will this be together?” The cashier asked.

"Yes," I answered before Charlotte could and took out my wallet. "You can pay me back with your phone number."

“In that case, it’ll be separate.” She started to take out her credit card, but the cashier swiped mine.

I handed Charlotte her books and we left the store.

“So,” she said, looking up at me, “You promise to take the next Tuesday seriously?”