Page 1 of Playing with Fyre

Chapter One

Charlotte

My gaze is glued to Professor Gideon Fyre’s tall, commanding frame as he stalks through the clinically neat arrangement of tables, easels, and workbenches inside his classroom. Every few seconds he’ll stop beside someone, whether they’re standing or sitting, and murmur a few words to them. I can’t help but watch him, and it’s not just because he’s handsome. He has power over me—over everyone—and it’s obvious he knows it.

Today’s art therapy class is about identifying. Identifying with ourselves, identifying the root of our issues. We’re eight weeks into our course at the local community college. I never thought art could be so…well, therapeutic, but the credit undoubtedly goes to Professor Fyre.

When I laid eyes on him the first time, I thought I’d walked into the wrong classroom. Tall and broad-shouldered with thick dark hair, he didn’t look like a college professor. He introduced himself with a laundry list of qualifications during that first lesson—including but not limited to a psychologyandan art degree. He also told us he enjoys heading out to his cabin in the mountains for some deer hunting when his schedule allows.

Professor Fyre looks up. Our eyes lock, and I blush crimson. When he heads in my direction, I quickly go back to my scribbling. He encourages us to use any medium we want. Something that speaks to us. That expresses our emotions. That ruled out pasta art—I went straight for a thick piece of charcoal and got my fingers dirty.

Now they’re pitch black, just like my soul.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile, Charlotte,” a voice murmurs beside my ear.

I drop my piece of charcoal. Fyre knows he’s dealing with goddamn trauma victims—how dare he sneak up on his students?

“I smile all the time.”

“Less often than you lie, it seems.”

I stiffen. “You said we’re supposed to concentrate. Can’t go around grinning like an idiot.”

He’s standing so close I can smell his cologne—earthy, woody, and spicy, just like I imagine his cabin must smell like—and feel the warmth of his body, despite the layers of clothing I’m bundled up in because the heating is on the fritz. Pneumonia wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me the past few months.

Fuck…it wouldn’t even crack the top five.

Fyre lets out a low chuckle that makes my insides tingle in response. How often does he go to his hunting cabin? Has he ever considered taking one of his students with him?

Ha! A man like him? He says he does this class because he loves helping people discover themselves, but I’ve seen how the other college students and teachers treat him out in the hall. He has clout. Probably getting tenure in a few years. He’s at least a decade older than me, and that should put my fantasies to rest, but it just makes me wonder what it’s like to be with an older man. Especially one as mindbogglingly good-looking as him. With his dark hair, and his warm brown eyes. Those thick brows and strong nose. The dimple in his chin and the sensuous curve of his mouth.

Fyre makes a sound in the back of his throat. Does he know what I’m thinking? My heart pounds at the thought.

“Are you challenging yourself, Charlotte?”

I quiver at the sound of my name. It happens whenever he speaks to me.

Professor Fyre crouches beside my chair, laying a hand on the desk before grabbing the back of my chair with the other. He brushes my shoulder, and that touch sends a shiver through me that I barely suppress.

I stare at the sheet of paper in front of me. I never know what I’m going to draw—I just pick up a piece of charcoal and start doodling. He told us this wasn’t an art class, so what is he expecting from me?

“I want you to bleed,” he says.

I turn to stare at him, my lips parting. His dark eyes have the tiniest flecks of gold in them. Heat flashes onto my cheeks when I realize he’s studying me as openly as I’m studying him. Which doesn’t explain why he looks so fascinated. I’m as interesting as a brick.

“Bleed?” I murmur.

“Slice yourself open, Charlotte. Pour all your anger, your rage, yourpain—”he glances away, taps the corner of my black drawing “—onto this page.”

It’s difficult, but I finally manage to face forward again. “But…I have.”

He grasps my wrist, but as soon as we make contact he tugs his hand away like I burned him. His fleeting touch leaves behind an ephemeral ache. “Dig deeper, Charlotte. Dig until you see bone.”

I’m still trying to catch my breath when his warmth fades away. My head is forward, my chin dipped down. I scan the class through my curtain of black hair. Fyre reappears a few tables away. He walks with his hands tucked behind his back, gripping his wrists, his eyes darting to every artwork he passes.

I can still hear his voice.

I can still feel his touch.

---