Page 5 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

“It’s not every day that I get called nice and normal,” I answer, a real smile stealing over my face in spite of my nerves. “It’s kind of refreshing, to be honest.”

He leans his head to one side, brow creasing with curiosity. “What sorts of things do you usually hear?”

“Oh you know,” I say airily, waving my hand and pretending like it doesn’t bother me, “things like, ‘Why didn’t you wash my work jeans, you dumb bitch.’” I laugh, then stop abruptly when I realize he’s not laughing with me.Shit. I’ve already put my foot in my mouth. I try to recover. “I mean, obviously I kicked that guy’s ass to the curb.”

“He obviously deserved it.”

I squirm on the spot, not knowing how to break us out of this awkward silence. “Have you heard of the lecturer?” I ask, attempting to keep the desperation from my voice, gesturing through the open door.

A strange look comes over the man’s face.Double shit. Another mistake, although I don’t know what kind. I’m racking them up faster than the minutes are ticking by. Fantastic.

“Yes,” he says at last, but like he’s not quite sure. “I suppose I have. Are you going in? You seemed like you were in a rush to escape.”

Drawing in a steadying breath, I turn to face the classroom. “I just didn’t expect so much . . . lipstick.”

“You and me both,” the man mutters, giving me a look that, while dark, makes me chuckle. Then he pushes past me and nods his chin for me to follow.

What else can I do? When a man that gorgeous tells you to follow him, you follow him.

I walk in his wake, then slip into a desk near the back of the room — close enough to see the board at the front, but near the door so I can make a mostly-surreptitious escape if I need to. No one will notice a middle-aged woman like me making her exit mid-class, except maybe the lecturer, who isn’t here yet.

I look around the room to see if he’s visiting with any students.

Then with a sinking feeling in my belly, I watch as the young man I was talking with steps to the front of the class, slings his messenger bag on the desk there, and faces the class.

“Good evening,” he says, opening his arms wide. “Welcome to Intro to Poetry. I’m Rowan Keating.”

A strange sort of ripple goes through the collection of students, something between excitement and swooning.

But I only half hear it. Because when Rowan Keating speaks, he only has eyes for me, humor glinting in those beautiful blue orbs.

Triple shit. Yet another faux pas — mistaking the teacher for a student.

I wonder if I said something worth getting expelled over. I can’t recall anything, but hey, it’s me, queen of awkwardness. Even if I didn’t say something weird before, I’m sure I will soon.

Still, before Rowan Keating bends his head to open his bag and pulls out a sheaf of paper, his gaze lingers on mine, a smile playing over his lips.

And that look with that sweet smirk? It almost makes me forget to worry about a damn thing.

Almost.

Rowan

Iknow I shouldn’t.

It’s against everything I’ve come to stand for — secretly, at least. It wouldn’t be good for my career if word got around that I can’t stand the shamelessly flirting women that tend to comprise my classes.

But when I see the curvy woman in all her unpretentious beauty hovering at the door of my class, my heart expands a little, as if it wants to shelter her inside of it.

She’s not shellacked with makeup like the rest of the women, and she’s cradling an armful of notebooks along with the semester’s required reading.

This woman is here to learn. To write. To grow as a poet and a person. I see it immediately.

So yeah, I know I shouldn’t, but I fall a little bit in love with her right then, before I’ve even spoken a word to her.

Then I do, and she speaks back, and I realize two very important things.

One, she has no idea who I am. Which means that she’s here purely for the poetry. A woman after my own heart.

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