Page 1 of Tangled with the Professor

Chapter 1

Mark

Fresh Meat.

The start of every new semester is the best time of year, it’s like opening a gift to see what kind of students I’ll be introducing to the world of biochemistry. A week before classes start, I’m tidying up my office, checking the schedule, and setting up the lab. It’s a lot of busy work but I love what I do and have got my routine down.

Why do a job if you’re not going to do it right, or infuse it with your passion? All of my preparations are going great until I get called away to hear an unwanted announcement.

“Absolutely not,” I say to the dean, who’s been a thorn in my side since I earned tenure a few years back.

“I’m sorry, Mark, but this is a new policy. You’d know that if you came to the meetings.”

His sly dig doesn’t faze me and I can tell he’s not sorry at all. He loves wielding his power over the staff.

“Having to train a TA will take more time than it’s worth. Time I could be actually doing my job.”

“I get that you’re… exacting in your process,” he says.

He means control freak, as if I’d be offended to hear something like that. My class is popular because the students actually learn something by the end of it, and feel accomplished for making it through such a rigorous course.

“So, we’re agreed that I don’t need a TA,” I say, turning to leave his office.

It’s pretty cushy, lined with books and a huge window overlooking the agriculture center. But he’s lost his grip on what it’s like to actually teach, if he ever had it in the first place.

“Stop,” he says, a bit of backbone showing for the first time. I give him a look that sends my first year students to the medical center but surprisingly, and disappointingly, he doesn’t back down. He outlines the new policy, the reason we have to offer more students these jobs.

By the time his well-rehearsed lecture is over, there’s not much I can do except agree to the interviews. Turns out I don’t even have any control over who they send me, because I could have easily picked one of my best students and told them to leave me be for the semester.

But no, the ones in this new program have to actually report back to the tyrant committee that dreamed this shit up.

A week later, I’m sitting at my desk, glaring at the first of my prospects. The second year grad student seems capable, says all the right things, but is robotic. When I ask him a question any undergrad could answer in regards to biochemistry, he stutters, strings a bunch of words together that might fool someone at a cocktail party, but I immediately put a big X near his name as I dismiss him.

The second is better, and I force myself to be more open minded. I’m not getting out of having a teaching assistant, and no matter what my reputation may be, I’m not out to make either of us miserable for the school year. She seems like she’d be able to grade papers in no time, and never have a file go missing, but when I ask her why she wants to have a career in science, she gets flustered. She finally admits she wants to get a job in the pharmaceutical field, but more on the sales side of things.

I put the X over her name and barely refrain from swearing as I dismiss her. What the actual fuck are they sending me? I only have one more interviewee.

Isabelle Knight is a first year grad student like the second candidate, but she has a solid chemistry and biology background, and has been putting in time at the lab since she started here four years ago.

Great. What kind of know-it-all nerd is waiting to torment me with an overeager, bumbling attitude? As much as I don’t want to ask for more candidates because I want this hellish process over, I’ve pretty much already dismissed her before she even walks through the door.

Then she walks in.

My hand moves to put the X over her name as she enters shyly, with a slightly nervous smile. Isabelle is my worst nightmare. An attractive female student. And I mean, really attractive. While young women are constantly in and out of my office and usually do incredibly well in my classes, I’ve trained myself to become immune to them. I very rarely even register what they look like, not about to get caught up in any kind of scandal or ruin everything I’ve worked for over the years.

I’ve seen too many of my colleagues, men and women alike, fall to the charms of a bright young student, and it only hurts both parties in the end. I’ve been steadfast in my professionalism and never faltered.

Isabelle is someone who could make me falter.

Her auburn hair is tied loosely, hanging about halfway down her slim back. A few strands of the golden, coppery curls have come loose from the staid black hair tie and frame her soft, almost angelic features. Blue eyes are bright and sharp, despite the nerves she’s trying to hide under straightened shoulders and delicate hands that clasp her resumé.

She’s the only one who brought me a physical copy and I like that extra touch. Even though it’s unnecessary, it shows she put some effort in. When I wave for her to have a seat for the requisite three to five minutes of the interview, her cheeks get a bit pinker than their already rosy glow, highlighting a sprinkle of freckles across her much too cute nose.

God damn it.

She crosses her legs, and smooth, pale skin draws my attention downward for a split second before she tugs her dark blue skirt down over her knees. That hint of creamy thigh has me wondering if I need to get up and turn the thermostat down and I just barely refrain from asking her if she’s too warm.

I have eyes and I can see how hot she is. That’s another X.

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