Page 10 of Falling for Mindy

KYLE

Dr. Amboy had sent me an email and left a voicemail. She had a family emergency and was having to delegate some of her advisory responsibilities. She asked me to coordinate the off-campus internship for the semester, assuring me that the selection process was complete and all I would need to do was monitor their progress and provide support if needed.

I agreed immediately and was secretly glad she offered me the internship supervision position instead of her introductory seminar. I’d much rather check up on a couple of senior interns than teach another course on top of my full load. As soon as I accepted, she shared her files on the internship including the objectives, the grading rubrics, the site-specific regulations and privacy policy, and the contact information for the two students who’d been awarded the internship at the shelter.

Jeff Chambers and Mindy Sayers.

Fuck.

I checked my student database, hoping against hope that Melinda Rose Sayers from my class and my worst fantasies was not the same person as the Mindy Sayers whose internship I’d be supervising. Maybe she had a cousin with a dumb name too close to hers. Maybe it was coincidence. I told myself all kinds of lies when the truth was obvious.

I had just agreed to be her point of contact on an elite internship that would require mentorship and advice and guidance. For the last week, I’d managed to get her mostly off my brain. I’d resigned myself to seeing her during class. I’d managed to ignore her almost completely during the last class period, only acknowledging her when she raised her hand to offer a response.

Damn her clever and engaged participation. It was good for her grade, but bad for my sanity. I didn’t need to hear her husky voice or have to offer grudging appreciation for her insight. She wasn’t lazy or stupid. She didn’t fall asleep or play on her phone or even talk in class. No. Ms. Sayers was a model student, and maybe she didn’t even remember me. It had been a brief meeting, under flashing green lights. And if I had residual feelings of attraction toward her, that was entirely my own problem. I was conquering it, one workout at a time.

Aaron thought it was hilarious that I had to come in for long workouts every day, but twice as long on Mondays. My entire body was sore. It hurt to get up off the damn chair after leg day. But it would be worth it, once I’d managed to sweat out any impure thoughts I had about a student. One I’d have to meet with regularly now that I’d taken on the interns.

She was a promising student and deserved this opportunity. I would not refuse to work with her or to offer my guidance. I had a great deal of salient expertise in this area with my background in social work as well as my women’s studies professorship. She deserved the benefit of that experience and wisdom, no matter how trying I found it.

I could do this. I had written my thesis, including citations, in two weeks and not only got full marks on it, but received publication as well. I could do incredible things if I was determined not to fail. There was no reason why I couldn’t be a successful and helpful mentor to both interns.

I would treat her no differently than I did Jeff Chambers. Although he had been in my junior seminar last year and liked to play devil’s advocate for the Founding Fathers, the little smart ass. He was intelligent, and his work had been sufficiently persuasive to win him this internship. So I would deal with both of them as the professional I was. My personal feelings—no, I had no feelings about either of them. They were students. That was all. Number on my roster. A time slot in my full schedule.

Just because I now had to meet with Ms. Sayers twice a week, one on one, didn’t mean that anything inappropriate would happen. It would be a brief, businesslike consultation in which I answered questions and offered suggestions based on her assignment at the shelter. No personal chitchat. I wouldn’t even call her by her first name. Not if she begged me. Okay, it was better not to think about her begging me for anything. I tugged at my collar that suddenly felt too tight.

Five minutes of jotting down notes for their orientation and another five listing bullet points of specific things to say to each in their first sessions, and I was prepared to deal with them and with this additional work I’d taken on.

A brief mental pep talk was all I had time for. Then I strode from my office and into my eight-thirty lecture. There she sat, front and center, and I swear to God, I nearly groaned out loud when my eyes fell on her. I looked away quickly and had difficulty plugging in my flash drive and setting up the projector because my hands had started shaking. This fucking semester would be the death of me.

I texted the guys quickly and told them I needed to meet for a drink tonight. No excuses. This was an emergency meeting. If I muttered something under my breath about ‘lead me not into temptation’ before I began class, that was purely a coincidence, I’m sure.

She was wearing workout clothes—some kind of leggings and a loose red tank top. Jesus Christ, her exercise bra was visible from the side. What kind of sadistic designer made big open arm holes for the sleeves on a loose top that should have been shapeless and unappealing? Now I had caught myself literally peeking at the side of her admittedly modest black workout bra.

I groaned before I could stop myself, frustration and annoyance threatening to take over. I was about three seconds from turning into a puritanical TV sitcom principal and demanding that she go home and put on some decent clothes. I felt like a fool. She had a right to wear whatever she wanted, particularly in the heat of early fall in California, and it was my responsibility to keep my eyes to myself and my hands off of her.

I swallowed hard, feeling breathless for a moment before fury at myself kicked in to stifle the surge of arousal I’d felt slide through me at the sight of a sliver of skin over her ribs. I shut my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. I had seen a swirl of dark ink there, something tattooed on her rib cage, that tender, secret skin.

For the moment, I began class, crisp and detached, businesslike as usual. Inside, I was slightly obsessed with the fine scroll or vine inked on her side. Was it a picture? A word? A quote from a poem or a movie? I had to get a hold of myself. Drinks with the guys would have to be my lifeline. So I’d quit thinking like a horny adolescent and start thinking like a tenured professor of women’s studies at a premier progressive university.

The irony was enormous and painful.

CHAPTER 7

MINDY

When Professor Quinn walked in to class, he gave me a look that was almost annoyed. I made a point of not looking directly at him most of the time. When he had entered, earlier than I’d expected to see him, I had just looked over at the door. There he was, filling my vision, all hulking, six-foot-three of him.

Those broad shoulders seemed to strain at his striped shirt, his muscular build threatening to shred the starched cotton fabric. I licked my lips unintentionally as I flashed on an image of his clothes tearing and peeling off of him like my own private Hulk, a naughty version of the Marvel movies just for me.

There had to be something seriously wrong with me. I thought about him the way I used to think about Harry Styles during my One Direction phase. That bad-boy smirk, that long hair—I had gazed at his poster for hours and imagined us running away together and kissing on a beach.

I hadn't been this worked up since my teenage crush on Leonardo DiCaprio. This was Professor Kyle Quinn, not a teen heartthrob. I was all grown up and this was embarrassing as hell.

Almost as embarrassing as the fact that I’d tried to Facebook stalk him and found he only had an old profile that hadn’t been updated in like four years. He didn’t have Instagram, and his Twitter was mainly retweets of feminist activists and information about local fundraising events for women’s shelters.

I’d resorted to looking on LinkedIn and found out he was a licensed clinical social worker and worked in that field for several years before completing his post-grad work in women’s studies right here at Berkley and moving on to an academic career.

It struck me so forcibly that he had majored in both clinical social work and women’s studies like me.

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