Why We Fight (At First Sight 4)

He dropped his hands, looking relieved. “Thank god. So you’ll stay?”

I cocked my head at him. “What? Why wouldn’t I?”

He pointed between the two of us. “It won’t be… weird for you? Having me here? I know I’m probably not what you expected, seeing as how I used to be your professor and all.”

If by weird he meant bad for my libido, then yes. It was going to be very weird. Possibly the weirdest thing that ever happened. But since I was cool and calm and collected, I played it off. “Nah. I think we can make it work. Besides, you were pretty much my favorite.” I managed to cut myself off before I told him I’d anonymously gone on RateMyProfessors.com and written eight hundred words about how wonderful he was. Barely.

He frowned. “Oh. That’s… good. I just—I remember asking you to be my TA, but—”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Uh, yeah,” I said weakly. “I just—didn’t… have… the time?” That was a lie. I didn’t want to have to spend day in and day out nursing a crush on someone unattainable, though wild horses couldn’t have dragged that out of me.

“So nothing to do with me, then.” He sounded dubious.

“No,” I said, the lie coming out easy. “Nothing. You were great, and I’m happy you’re here too.”

He nodded, looking relieved. “Good. I’d hate to think—you know what? It doesn’t matter.” He grinned at me. I wanted to climb him like a tree. I needed to get the hell out of here.

I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “Will that be all?”

His smile faded slightly. “Yeah, sure. Hey, thanks for spending some time with me. I was serious when I said I’m glad you’re here. It’s going to make things much easier for me, I think. I hope you don’t mind if I have to lean on you every now and then.”

I barely managed to keep myself from fleeing with my arms flailing over my head. “That won’t be a problem,” I choked out. “Lean away. In fact, I insist upon it. I mean, you know. In a strictly professional way.”

“Right,” he said slowly. “What other way would there be?”

“Right!” I exclaimed. “So glad we’re on the same page. I have to go now. I think Marina is calling for me.”

I turned and fled the office.

At least I attempted to. The problem with being flustered in a new place is that one has a tendency to forget how doors work. Instead of pulling on the doorknob to open the door, I pushed. Doors, for the most part, tend to swing in one direction. The direction I chose was the wrong one. So there I was, trying to make a relatively smooth exit, only to crash full-body into the door, causing it to rattle in its frame.

“Motherfucker,” I growled. “Shit ass bitch!”

Jeremy made a wounded sound, and I turned in time to see him cover up a laugh by coughing. “Are you all right?”

“Fine!” I nearly shouted. “Just fine. Doors, man! Right? Can’t live with them, can’t live without—and that makes no sense. I’m just gonna—”

I managed to make my way back out into the hall and shut the door behind me without further injury.

I slumped against it, closing my eyes. “Fuck,” I whispered.

What the hell was I going to do now?

Chapter 4: Code Orange Banana

I FOUND a mostly empty closet down the hall from Jeremy’s office. There was an old mop and bucket inside, as well as what looked like five million rolls of toilet paper. The closet smelled like feet, but it would do for what I needed it for. I looked both ways down the hall before stepping inside and closing the door behind me.

I pulled out my phone and highlighted a phone number to an insurance company. It took a few prompts through the phone tree before I put in the extension I needed.

The line connected. “This is Sandy, how can I help you?”

“Code Orange Banana!” I whispered harshly. It was the code we’d made up for a non-life-threatening emergency that was still pretty terrible but meant no one was dying or on fire. We hadn’t had a chance to use it before because it was oddly specific. He would know exactly what I was talking about.

Silence. Then, “What?”

“Code Orange Banana!”

“Sir, are you having a stroke? This is an insurance company. For cars. You need to hang up and dial 911. Is your face drooping? Oh my god, please don’t die on the phone with me. I will be traumatized if you do.”