Page 90 of Lucky Star

“Let me guess,” I said, relaxing into the conversation, “you love him.”

“I certainly appreciate the way Faulkner’s work helped shape the American consciousness. You can’t deny he gave a voice to the misfits and malcontents, whereas his contemporaries typically used them to serve as fodder for the ‘more important’ characters.”

“Spoken like a scholar. Or a misfit or malcontent.” I fought back a smile.

Personally, I found Faulkner’s characters—at least the ones I’d read—tiresome and troublesome. Then again, I was no scholar.

The handsome man, no longer quite a stranger, turned to face me fully, his hand outstretched. “Professor David Carstairs.”

“Victoria Witherspoon.” I placed my hand in his and tried not to swoon when his fingers skated over my palm as he pulled away. “Professor, huh?”

David’s head ducked forward and his cheeks flushed. Setting his hand to the back of his neck, he made a face. “American Literature, I’m afraid.” He looked flustered, as if being a professor wasn’t really fucking cool.

And hot. Oh so hot.

Maybe most people thought his job made him a nerd, but I wasn’t one of them. And as for being attractive … well, forget about all those grunting alphaholes. I swooned for kind and cerebral. To me, smart and well-spoken was the sexiest combination you could find in a man. And Professor David Carstairs had both in spades.

“That’s very impressive. You obviously wouldn’t know it from the way I just maligned poor Mr. Faulkner, but I actually do love books. Just maybe not that one.”

“Oh yeah?” His eyes sparked with interest and he leaned closer. “Who’s your favorite author?”

Since I had an inkling the sexy professor wasn’t looking for my thoughts on the latest shifter-meets-witch romance I’d stayed up all night reading the weekend before, I scrunched up my nose and looked to the ceiling, cataloguing the authors I’d studied back in college. It had been years since I’d read anything that didn’t come with a guaranteed happily-ever-after. Life was too short for anything but stories that made me happy.

Bringing my gaze back to his, I finally said, “I really enjoyed Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, The Fitzgeralds—both F. Scott and Zelda, mad as she was—and Edith Wharton. Although, now that I’m saying it out loud, I realize practically all the novels I love best have been made into movies. For all you know, I’ve never even picked up a real book.”

David moved to the empty seat next to me and reached for my dog-eared copy of Faulkner’s seminal masterpiece. Thumbing through it, he examined the notes I’d scribbled in the margins and chuckled at some of my more colorful observations. Eventually, he set it back down with the rest of my belongings.

“Anyone whose notations are filled with that much passion on the subject is a true reader. I particularly appreciated the part where you ranted about how Caddy only existed to showcase Faulkner’s misogyny and hatred of women.”

“Spoken like a true professor,” I snickered, remembering the paper I’d written on that very topic my senior year.

My instructor had returned it with a bright red “C” in the upper right-hand corner. While my thesis about the prevalence of sexism in early American literature had been well researched and supported, apparently, I’d missed the point of the assignment entirely. Alas, that’s what tended to happen when I was fueled by Red Bull and righteous indignation at two o’clock in the morning.

“Since you’re the expert,” I continued, twisting in my seat and bringing our knees within scant centimeters of one another, “what’s your favorite book?”

“Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon. Also made into a movie.

His sexy smirk threatened to undo me.

Do not swoon, do not swoon, do not swoon.

Difficult, given the temperature, but I somehow managed to hold it together.

“I’ve read the book and seen the movie,” I told him. “I’ve even been inside the house they used for filming Grady’s place. One of my professors lived there.”

All at once, David’s smile dimmed and he eyed me with what I interpreted as disappointment. I was confused for about two-point-two seconds until I realized that he’d misinterpreted my statement.

“Oh! No, nothing like that,” I blurted with a laugh and a wave of my hand. “I assure you, my presence there was entirely on the up-and-up. Every year Professor Burrows hosted an end-of-term cocktail party for the program’s graduating seniors. He thought it would help us transition into the ‘real world’ where grown-ups didn’t do keg stands.” I chuckled and used my fingers to make air quotes. “The joke was on him though because two years later a couple of guys ended up getting high in his bathroom. Rumor has it his parties were by invitation only after that.”

All at once, David relaxed and his gaze dropped to my mouth. “Can I confess something?”

Unbidden, I felt my tongue dart out and lick my lips. His eyes flared with heat, and I nodded.

“You can call me a creep and tell me to fuck off, but I find it incredibly sexy that you’ve read my favorite book, seen my favorite movie, and have a unique piece of trivia about it to boot.”

Feeling myself blush under the weight of his stare, I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear and dropped my eyes to gawk at David’s hands. I’d never been a hands girl before. Traditionally, forearms were more my thing, but I couldn’t stop picturing them molded to my naked body. What would it feel like to have those long, tapered fingers digging into my flesh as he rocked me back and forth over his cock?

I blinked and shook my head, pushing the inappropriate fantasy to the back of my mind. This was bonkers. I’d known this guy for all of thirty minutes and I was fantasizing about getting horizontal with him. That never happened.

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