Page 3 of Can't Have Him

“He was,” I say. “I don’t know if I’d want him to be a rebound, though. Rebounds never last.”

“Why does it have to last? Girl, you just need to have some fun.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, then change the subject, asking her how her day was. Soon, we’re back at the apartment, lamenting the fact that classes start tomorrow. In truth, though, I enjoy school. I’m passionate about my major—Art History—and am especially looking forward to my courses this semester.

I actually get a decent night’s sleep—something I would have never expected to say after getting dumped—and wake up bright and early the next morning. My first class is at eight o’clock on the east side of campus, so I get out of the door with plenty of time to spare.

It’s a bit of a walk, and by the time I reach the building and find the classroom, I’m a little overheated. Wanting to make a good impression on the professor, I take a moment to catch my breath before heading in.

But when I walk in, I quickly realize that making a good impression is going to be the least of my worries. That, in fact, I’ve already made an impression.

Because my new professor is James from last night.

Chapter Two

James

The moment I look up and see Olivia walk into my classroom, I mistakenly think she’s somehow tracked me down and is here to surprise me. A ridiculous thought, I know. Then common sense kicks in and I realize that this isn’t some cute thing she’s doing.

She’s walking into my classroom because she’s a student enrolled in my class.

“Good morning,” I say to her, trying to speak the words exactly the same way that I’ve said them to every other student who’s walked in. In reality, though, my heart’s racing at the sight of her. I thought she was pretty last night in the bar, but in the soberness of day? She’s drop-dead gorgeous. I know I shouldn’t think that—I really, really shouldn’t think that—but it’s impossible not to.

“Morning,” she replies, stunned.

And we don’t say anything more than that.

As the last of the students trickle in—there are three minutes left until class starts—I replay the previous night in my head. I left the bar last night feeling great, but now, suddenly, she’s not just some sweet girl I met in a bar. How the hell didn’t the fact that she’s a student come up?

Well…I guess we weren’t talking for that long. And she didn’t look like a student. Especially not when sitting in a bar.

I glance up into the tiered rows of seating in front of me. Olivia is up in the back row of seats, sitting on the outside of the row, not too far from the exit at the back of the classroom. There could be no clearer sign that she doesn’t want to be here. And I don’t blame her. This is embarrassing for both of us.

It could be worse, though. We could have…well, we could haveslepttogether. Imagine how mortified we’d both be right now if we’d donethat.

The fleeting thought of having sex with Olivia stirs something in me, and I immediately force it away. Fuck. This is not good. This is really, really not good.

“This is Art History 313, right?”

I look over and see a shaggy-haired guy lingering in the doorway.

“Yep,” I say, then check the clock. “Come on in. We’re just about to get started.”

I walk over to shut the classroom door, clear my throat, and smile out at my room of new students. The only place I avoid looking is the upper corner where Olivia is sitting. If I look at her, it’s going to screw with my head. I’ve got to stay focused.

“Good morning, class,” I say, projecting my voice. “And welcome back to the school year. I hope everyone had a nice summer break. As you may have heard, this is Art History 313, Ancient Egyptian Art and Archaeology. I’m Professor Davis, but you’re all welcome to call me James. Is everyone in the right place?”

A girl in the second row curses and gets up to rush out of the room. Some scattered laughter follows.

“All right,” I say. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

* * *

Over the next hour,I try my fucking hardest to ignore Olivia’s presence. But as I go over the course goals and objectives, the required texts, the schedule for the semester, my grading policies and office hours—all the necessary stuff that needs to be covered on the first day of class—her presence in my classroom gets harder and harder to ignore. And I finallyhaveto look at her. It’s a quick glance, but it’s still a glance.

When I look at her, I know without a doubt that this semester is going to be hell.

Because I want her.

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