Page 8 of Meeting Melody
But that would be giving in to him, in a way.
Just turn around, Mel.
When I do, I yelp.
He’s right there. Inches away. And I hadn’t even heard him move.
“What’s up, Professor?” He smirks.
I have to tip my head back to meet his gaze, and heat flashes through me.
That’s so wrong.
“Back up, Mr. Rhodes.” My voice comes out stronger than I could’ve hoped.
But more surprising is that he does it. He moves to the side and lifts his arm, gesturing for me to pass. My skin prickles under the weight of his gaze. I’m more aware of myself with him behind me. The way I’m walking, the bag over my shoulder, my shoes clicking with every step.
I unlock my door and step inside.
Jacob follows.
My office isn’t particularly large. Two windows that overlook the quad, a standard desk that must’ve been assembled in the room—too wide to fit through the doors, I reckon—and a cushioned wheeling office chair.
But I haven’t yet made the officemine. Not really. I have a blanket stashed in the bottom drawer of my desk, for the late winter evenings I spend grading papers. The icy wind forces itself through the cracks in the panes if it blusters hard enough.
There are no pictures on the desk or framed photos on the wall.
Yet.
I keep telling myself,Not yet. I’ll do it eventually. Except a day became a week, which turned into a semester. And then a year. And now we’re four months past that, and I’m no closer to making this office…
Feel like I belong in it.
Until I turn around and Jacob is closing us in, pulling the shade down over the glass upper half of the door. Giving us privacy we definitely don’t need.
“Mr. Rhodes,” he says under his breath. He flips the lock, then faces me.
He makes my office seem tiny. Or maybe he’s just larger up close, as opposed to across the classroom. Where he only tripped up my gaze when I glanced in his direction, instead of commanding me to look at him just byexisting.
“Relax, Professor.” He steps closer and swings his bag off his shoulder, setting it on one of the two chairs in front of my desk. He unzips it and rummages through until he finds a purple folder. He flips it open and produces a paper.
I take it and scan the first page.
“You made the corrections already?”
He inclines his chin.
I set it down and step away. “Thank you, Jacob. I’ll read it over and grade it accordingly.”
“Or you could do it now,” he says.
I frown. “I don’t like to grade students in front of them. It gives away my trade secrets.”
“Your bullshit secrets,” he says, dropping his bag to the floor and taking the seat it was just in. He reclines, extending his legs out in front of him. “Go on, then. Or I’ll tell everyone that sweet Professor Cameron slapped me around after class. And you wouldn’t even pull my hair.”
Oh god. My body turns to ice, but at the same time, my cheeks flame. I shakily go around the desk, to my chair, but he snags my wrist.
“No, no, Professor. Here. Next to me.” He tips his head to the chair beside him.
