Page 10 of Taming His Teacher

I’d had Thanksgiving with a few friends in Somerville. They’re all in grad school or law school or med school. I’m the odd one out with an actual job. They’d expressed envy over the fact that I earn a paycheck, but I placated their egos by insinuating how little I get paid.

Teaching at a boarding school has its advantages: room and board are provided, the benefits are good, and the strength of community is unparalleled. Rolling in dough is not one of them. It had been fun to see everyone and catch up, gossip about our classmates. It was good to not be alone in that in-between space: the not-quite-adult I have to be with my colleagues and not-quite-adolescent I’m not allowed to be with my students. But I’m an introvert at heart and it was a distinct relief to climb into my car at the end of the night and drive back to my own apartment instead of crashing on a futon.

But in the stillness of the empty dorm, the silence is oppressive. I’ve finished the book I’ve been savoring—one that’s incredibly hot in a way I should be perturbed by liking because it’s hovering so close to the edge of being not okay. Followed by taking a bath in my too-small tub to wash away the slickness of my arousal and the subsequent orgasm I’d rubbed myself to while imagining all of those invasive and intimate and hotly shameful things happening to me.

Once I’d gotten that out of my system (and put the book in the freezer), I’d watched a few movies while eating leftover Halloween candy and folding heaps of overdue laundry. I’m looking forward to the boys coming back, settling into the familiar routine that fills my waking hours. It gives me confidence to get through the day. In the meantime, my body is bouncing, full of energy. The athletic facilities are locked, won’t open again until morning, so I’ve got one alternative: Dance Party.

I’m already decked out in myFlashdancebest: cropped leggings, a tank top and a sweatshirt I’d cut the neck off. It’s a short trip to turn on my laptop, hook it up to the speakers and crank up my eighties mix. Soon I’m rocking out hard, busting out my best moves. For a white girl, I’m not too bad, thanks to the hip hop classes I’d taken to blow off steam and take up time in college.

After a good twenty minutes of shaking what my momma gave me—one of the only things she gave me—I’m sweating. They’ve turned the heat on in the dorms though this fall’s been unseasonably warm and my apartment’s sweltering. I shove open the window that’s been painted a dozen times, the last coat still sticky from when it was painted over this summer, and open my door to let the cross-breeze in.

My head is clearing while I’m doing my best Molly Ringwald impression when there’s a knock at my door. Or, more accurately, my doorframe. I’m startled into a shriek and clap my hands over my mouth, turning to see who my intruder is.

Shep.

My face flames and I hold up a finger to tell him to wait. We won’t be able to hear each other over Deniece Williams. Never mind I need a minute to collect myself. How long was he standing there? This is humiliating. Although it could’ve been worse. I could’ve been going to Funkytown. Or whipping it. Or it could have been someone other than Shep. Shep’s not going to do an impression of me in the dining hall and he’s not going to bust my chops about my sick dance moves in class. My mortification settles into a low burn of embarrassment. Shep will keep my secrets.

“Mr. Shepherd. I thought you boys weren’t due back until four.”

He’s standing there in jeans and one of the light fleeces all the kids seem to wear when they’re not required to be in dress code, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He stubs an Adidas-clad toe into the dingy carpet of the hallway and looks down.

“My dad has to work tomorrow. He wanted to get home early.”

Right. His eyes find mine and his gaze makes me flush hotter. It’s not a leer like I get from some of the boys, especially the ones who don’t have me in class, but it is an observation. A study. I have a flashback to Shep’s drawings in the art show and all the wrong areas in my body tighten when I picture him sketching me. I drag the cuff of my sweatshirt over my forehead to wipe away the sweat and shove some escaped tendrils of hair behind my ears.Don’t remember me like this.My thoughts stutter as I try not to imagine how Iwouldlike Shep to draw me. A rational thought would be great, but my head doesn’t seem willing to supply one. I’m grateful when Shep does.

“I told Mr. Foster before I left I’d have to come back early. I guess he forgot. Dorm’s locked.”

“Of course. I’ll get my key.”Jeez, Erin, why did you think he was showing up at your door? To seduce you?I hurry to the rack on the wall where I keep my keys, find the extra set to Ford, and shove my feet into a worn pair of flip-flops. “Let’s go.”

Shep eyes me closely. “It’s kinda cold out there, Miss Brewster.”

I wave a hand. “It’s not far. Besides, I need to cool off.”

He tilts his head in a way that makes me want to run back to my bedroom and grab my warmest parka, but I’ve made my call. I shut the door to my apartment and scrawl a note on my white board to say I’ll be back in five in case there are other early arrivals who come looking for me. Then I traipse down the stairs, Shep’s heavy footsteps following mine.

I do my best not to look back at him and try to make small talk about his vacation as we cross the small quad. Shep’s not a big talker anyway, but his one-word answers tell me home is not the greatest place in the world. It’s possible he’d rather be here, feels more at ease on campus than he does with his family. He wouldn’t be the only one. The Hill is the only place on earth where I can plant my feet on the ground.

By the time we reach the front door where a worn duffel and his familiar backpack are waiting, I’m shivering. My stubbornness has turned out to be foolishness. I use one hand to rub my arm while my shaking fingers attempt to get the key into the lock.

It’s not that cold outside, but in my overheated state and sweat-drenched clothing, I’m freezing. My toes are thin and shivery, like they’d snap off if I stubbed my toe. The lock thunks open and I pull the door to let Shep in.

“Leave a note on Mr. Foster’s door to let him know you’re back, okay? See you in the morning.”

I turn to skitter across the frozen tundra to Oliver, hugging my arms against my chest and trying to rub warmth into my biceps. I’m stopped by a warm hand on my shoulder. “Miss Brewster, take my coat.”

Shep is stripping out of the fleece, revealing a hint of plaid boxers peeking out over the waistband of his jeans and a tantalizing strip of skin and a dust of hair trailing…No, no, no no no!I clench my eyes tight to get the picture of my fingers running over that skin, the ripple of muscle, out of my head. I open them to Shep holding out his fleece, a rugby shirt settled on his frame, mercifully hiding any more skin I might covet.

I hesitate. This seems inappropriate even if I weren’t having the thoughts I’m having, and I am. I’m a second from waving him off.

“Erin.”

His voice is a command. It’s almost the tone I’ve heard him use on the soccer field with his teammates, but there’s a different edge. One that makes my knees weak and, heaven help me, everything south of my waist tighten and throb. I should scold him for using my name but my synapses are too busy sending signals to other parts of my body to get the words out.

“Take my coat. Please. You’re freezing. I don’t want you making yourself sick.” My lips part, revealing chattering teeth, and I reach for the coat. The expression on his face softens when I take it. He’s back to being one of my students. “Can’t have you missing class. There’s too much to cover. I’ll never pass the AP if we don’t get through it all.”

I yank the fleece over my head, warm from his body and smelling of his clean, Ivory-soap scent. A lot of the boys wear expensive colognes. They smell like luxe department stores. Not Shep. His aroma is drug-store toiletries made irresistible by the fragrance of him layered underneath. I tug the zipper all the way up my throat and realize I’m swimming in it. I have to push up the sleeves so I can see my hands. I look like a toddler in my father’s clothes.

“Thank you. I’ll have this back to you tomorrow.”