Only For You Page 3

  “I’m sorry everyone. I neglected to take attendance, a consideration in your final grade. Before you depart, allow me to correct my oversight. Feel free to respectfully exit once I have called your name.”

  As the roll call began, I shut down my laptop and slid it into my purse. I was poised and ready when he called my name—“Carsen, Everleigh.”

  “Present,” I responded as I quickly reached for my belongings. In a moment of sheer clumsiness I knocked over my coffee, groaning at my inelegance while assessing the damage. Mercifully, the cup was nearly empty, but enough spilled to require minor clean up. Frustrated I hunted through my bag for the tissues playing hide-and-seek. I considered feigning ignorance and leaving, but I would feel guilty if I left the mess—stupid conscience.

  At the exact moment my fingers connected with the crinkly rectangular package, I heard the unthinkable—“Charles, Hunter.” I halted all movement as if I had looked directly at Medusa and turned to stone, not a muscle or hair shifted. From the seat directly behind me, I heard, “Here,” in the same low baritone that chastised me earlier.

  I was reeling, a slight wheeze escaping just before the chorus of “Sweet As Hole” began playing through my mind, causing an unsanctioned laugh to spring forth. I slapped my hand across my mouth desperate to stifle the sound. Unfortunately, the hilarity of the song coupled with how apropos it was for the man seated behind me would not be contained. Hell, I was tempted to turn around and inquire if he had ever met Sara Bareilles personally as it clearly was her ode to him. At that thought, the last of my composure crumbled. With effort I managed to remain silent, but my shoulders shook with muted laughter. Wiping the desk with shaking hands while caught in clutches of my humorous musing proved challenging.

  “Are you having a seizure? I don’t see a medic alert bracelet,” he whispered. His tone was staid, but I also detected a hint of amusement. No, that couldn’t be. Any humor I heard must be at my expense, he was mocking my clumsiness. What a jerk!

  I immediately lost the mirth that possessed me moments ago. Satisfied the desk was sufficiently dried, I rose with my belongings in hand and fled for the door projecting serenity, but internally it was an emergency evacuation mission. As I exited, I detected his presence tailing behind me.

  “Would you like to tell me what brought on your epileptic fit?” he inquired smugly.

  It was the perfect set-up—a gift given to me to redeem all that had gone awry today. I spun around to face him, forcing him to stop abruptly.

  It was cruel. How could he be even more enticing than before? His hair was damp from a recent shower, though he still had not shaved. He wore a thin knit sweater that emphasized his expansive shoulders, defined pectorals and developed biceps. His jeans showcased the powerful thighs beneath, temptingly. I wished for the superpower to freeze time, allowing me to behold his derriere, confident it would be awe-inspiring. A black leather racing jacket dangled from his right hand where I spotted a wide hammered silver band on his middle finger. Why was that stupid ring obscenely sexy?

  Regaining my composure—despite his penetrating crystalline eyes—I asked the question that would not be refused.

  “Have you ever met Sara Bareilles?”

  He shook his head, puzzled. “Who? I don’t think so.”

  “Are you certain? I would have bet every dime in my savings account you knew her.” Granted, my savings account was pathetic, but it was all I had.

  “I’m positive.” He was thoroughly perplexed, mentally reviewing the entire catalogue of women he had ever met. He shook his head again assured there was no Sara Bareilles in his memory bank.

  “Why did you think I knew her?”

  “Perhaps I was mistaken,” I replied sweetly, feigning innocence. “Sara wrote the most remarkable song, and after meeting you, I was positive you were her muse. The description was so precise, it seemed logical that you knew her personally.”

  He eyed me skeptically, “What‘s the name of the song?”

  “Nevermind. If you don’t know her, it’s not relevant.”

  I abruptly turned on my heel and headed for the exit. I was feeling sassy after the exchange, triggering an extra sway in my hips as I sauntered away.

  Following my second and last, class of the day, I was in need of a restorative cup of coffee. I debated my options, deciding on Cup O’Joe, the small University owned coffee shop, which offered the best on-campus coffee. I entered to the voice of Meg, my favorite barista, greeting me.

  “Hey Ev. Want your usual?”

  “It has been a rollercoaster of a day. Dark Brazilian Santos is necessary for recalibration,” I replied after careful consideration.

  “What size?” Meg inquired.

  I stared silently until she made eye contact and chuckled. “Right, Ph.D. it is.”

  “Unless there is a larger size available now? The B.A. and M.A. only serve as an appetizer for me,” I replied sharing her delight in my well-known addiction. When speaking of coffee, amongst other things, bigger is always better.

  “I tried to persuade them to sell gallon size jugs for you. I even suggested we keep the plastic milk containers in lieu of a cup. Management thought I was kidding,” Meg shrugged, “Black?”

  “You know it. I don’t see the point in selecting the perfect bean just to dilute its luscious body and flavor with milk and sugar. It’s sinful, I tell you.”

  Meg smirked at my usual rhetoric. When she directed a pointed look to the new barista beside her, I realized I had been baited. My reply must have been the evidence necessary to verify stories she shared about my epic love affair with coffee. Oh well, if I had to be remembered for something at least I wasn’t reputed for kicking puppies or stealing candy from babies. I grabbed my twenty-four ounce Ph.D. and headed next door to the buffet.

  With a grilled chicken sandwich and soup in hand, I searched the tables and found Sam by the windows.

  “I knew I would find you here,” I declared proudly as if I had just mastered nuclear fusion.

  “It was a safe bet,” she replied while taking a bite of her pizza. “Are those your new skinny jeans?”

  “They are,” I answered, quickly confessing, “along with your sweater.” She nodded, not minding my thievery.

  “Those jeans are killer. I love the combination with my sweater and those boots.”

  I smiled at her approval. Sam was as opinionated about clothing as I was about coffee. She taught me much over the years, taught being a generous description. To be accurate, she beat her will into me over the last fifteen years. Now I wouldn’t dare go out in public in my flannel pants and worn sweatshirts, having learned that lesson the hard way. When caught trying to sneak out freshman year, Sam withheld coffee until I returned to my room and removed the offending clothing from my person. Many people subscribe to the theory—dress for the job you want. Sam concurred, but her real mantra was, “Dress for the man you want…and make the bitches jealous.” Clothing didn’t have to be designer, but every outfit must be strategized to convey a message. Yes, she is crazy, but everyone has their hang-ups, so I overlooked her clothing tyranny.

  “How were your classes? You’re done for the day, right?” Sam asked.

  “Yep, I’m working a swing shift at Higher Yearning from three until eight.” My job in a top-notch coffee shop located adjacent to campus was not work to me. It was a veritable playground filled with fragrant coffee beans, my idea of heaven. “My classes were okay,” I stalled to generate suspense for my big reveal, “and the Karate Kid was in my Business Strategy class.”

  Sam paused, pizza halfway to her mouth. “You’re kidding. That must have been awkward.”

  “Actually it was invigorating,” I replied cryptically, wanting a dramatic reveal for my triumph. “We had an exchange.”

  “Spill it,” Sam demanded, losing patience.

  “Actually, that is how it all started,” I mused before continuing to give her the blow-by-blow.

  Sam gasped. “It was…it was…perfection,�
�� she paused to collect her thoughts. “I think this may be one of your finest verbal altercations to date. He doesn’t even know you were insulting him,” she marveled.

  Content with the knowledge my best friend appreciated my duplicity, I sighed. Only a true friend can revel in your achievement as if it was their own.

  “It was the least he deserved after berating me. I’ll have to see him in class for the rest of the semester; I couldn’t employ a direct strike, it had to be the Trojan horse of retaliations.”

  “What if he figures it out? You just called him an asshole in the guise of a compliment. I can’t imagine he would appreciate the sentiment, despite its brilliant delivery and execution,” Sam worried.

  “He probably isn’t bright enough to figure it out.”

  “He’s attending Hensley, he can’t be an idiot,” Sam reasoned, “I haven’t seen him on campus before. You?”

  “Nope. He seems a bit old to be an undergrad. Maybe he is auditing courses in return for teaching the seminar. There’s enough space in the classrooms with the mass exodus of female students.”

  Sam nodded in agreement. “He mentioned his family owns Higosha Dojo—the big chain of martial arts schools across the East Coast. He is probably taking business classes for the good of the family empire.”

  “Which reinforces my point that he won’t clue in to my insult. His family probably bought his way into Hensley,” I concluded confidently.

  “Whatever you say. The class was actually decent—challenging but instinctive. You should try again next week; you would enjoy it if you gave it a chance.”

  “I would enjoy it if He-Man and She-Ra weren’t the instructors, and if I hadn’t been disrespected. My pride is worth more than free self-defense training.”

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” Sam returned in a terrible Scottish accent. “Seriously, nothing has changed since this morning—the bad guy is still at large. If something were to happen to you—God forbid—I would never forgive myself for not forcing you to return.”

  Sam played on my conscience to get her way. She rarely wielded guilt to manipulate me, but when she did, it had a one-hundred percent success rate.

  “Fine, but don’t expect me to become teacher’s pet.”

  “Yay!” Sam clapped her hands in approval. “Besides, Hunter was a terrific teacher, professional and patient.”

  “I already got a taste of his professionalism in class. I’m not sure I can take much more.”

  “In all fairness, you were interrupting,” she gently reprimanded.

  “You’re defending him?” I asked disappointed by her lack of backing.

  “I find your caustic tongue absolutely hilarious, but there’s a time and a place.”

  “From the girl who says anything that crosses her mind, no matter how personal or graphic.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Sam affirmed proudly, “but I do switch on my filter when required, such as in a professional or educational setting. You never switch your filter to the ‘on’ position.”

  Dang, she had a point and, by the smirk on her face, she knew it.

  “You may have a point,” I conceded. “I might have been slightly disrespectful in choosing to share my thoughts at that precise moment.” Sam was about to praise my admission, but I continued, “However, it didn’t warrant being ejected.”

  Sam sighed dramatically, “You’re right. He was probably making an example of you to stress the seriousness of the situation.”

  I was about to launch into another rant about Mr. Hunter Charles’ behavior when Sam cut me off.

  “It’s over. You need to let it go so we can start with a clean slate next week. Give the seminar a chance; it’s important.”

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  "My sexual orientation? Horizontal, usually.” -Unknown

  When I arrived on campus Thursday morning, I obtained my mandatory cup of coffee before heading to class. Several students were already present, but my customary front row seat was vacant. Business Ethics, my final undergrad course; I couldn’t believe graduation would arrive in four months, and I would finally have my Bachelor’s degree in Business Management.

  The person coming down the aisle on my left stumbled over my purse protruding in the aisle. I raised my eyes to offer my apology and stiffened. Not again, this could not be happening to me. I blinked repeatedly hoping my eyes were deceiving me. Just to be certain, I blinked again. He was sinful in navy wool trousers and a light blue shirt. Damn him and his supermodel gene pool! Recognizing I must address the interloper, I pasted a fake smile on my face.

  “Hello, Mr. Charles. Fancy meeting you here.” Cheesy, but it was the best I could do in my current condition. Was fate toying with me? Had I committed some grievous crime unaware, for which I must now pay?

  “Hello, Miss Carsen.” He returned my greeting while occupying the seat behind me…again, “I’m surprised to see you, too. Although there are a limited number of advanced business courses offered in the morning, so odds were high we would share a course or two. You’re a business major, I presume.”

  “Yes, I am. Are you?” I asked him suspiciously.

  “No. I already have my Bachelor’s from Columbia in Sociology. I decided to enroll in several upper level business courses that I regret not taking during my undergrad studies.”

  “You already completed your degree and returned for more by choice?”

  He shrugged casually. “It’s beneficial to my family’s business interests for me to have the extra classes. I don’t mind. I’ve always enjoyed learning.”

  “Aren’t you the overachiever,” I retorted, frustrated that he had disproven my dunce theory.

  Then it happened—his million-watt smile hit me full blast. His lips quirked slightly higher on the right side, permitting me to see a row of straight pearly whites peeking out. Am I drooling? I stealilthy wiped the corners of my mouth. I asked again—what deity had I offended or profaned resulting in this torture?

  “Did you have braces?” I blurted suddenly, searching for any imperfection, willing to settle for one that was no longer visible.

  “No,” he answered puzzled, “I do have three implants from competition injuries though.”

  “That’s something I suppose.” I sullenly clung to the image of him missing his four front teeth. You would think this would extinguish the fire of my lust. Apparently, Hunter would be smokin’ hot even without teeth.

  His astonished gaze met mine, undoubtedly prepared to ask for an explanation to my peculiar comment, but I was saved by Dr. Kull’s arrival. I whipped around, temporarily rescued.

  At the end of the lecture, I roughly shoved my precious into my bag, grabbed my possessions, and dashed for the door. I succeed in covering half the distance to the exit when he called me. I pretend not to hear as I clumsily pulled on my jacket.

  “Miss Carsen,” he reiterated. Again, I played deaf.

  “Everleigh,” he nearly shouted with exasperation.

  I considered the ramifications of ignoring him and sprinting for the exit until two simultaneous obstructions stopped me. First, Hunter stepped directly in front of me, effectively blocking my getaway. Second, while winding the scarf around my neck, I was unaware the end had caught in the sleeve of my jacket as I effectively managed to strangle myself. Every effort to free the scarf only tightened my noose. The only redeeming aspect of this nightmare—if my escape failed, I could kill myself and be saved from further indignity.

  Hunter carefully placed his hand over mine, and stilled the jerking motion that further deprived me of oxygen. He extended one finger, silently requesting a moment as he studied my predicament. After a series of calculated maneuvers, he draped the scarf loosely around my neck; how he managed to free me without dissolving into laughter remained a mystery.

  “There we go. The oxygen deprivation must have impaired your hearing, explaining why you didn’t stop sooner.”

  “Thank you. I have to get going now,” I said, intending to s
tep around him.

  He neatly repositioned himself to block my flight. “I just need a moment of your time. I did save your life, you owe me.”

  “Calling in your favor for saving my life so soon? Fine, what do you need?” I tried to sound unaffected.

  “Why thank you, Miss Carsen. I greatly appreciate your sacrifice,” his tone lacked the acid his sarcasm should generate. “I wanted to tell you I identified the song you referenced yesterday. I listened to hours of Sara Bareilles’ music to locate it. She is remarkably talented, don’t you agree?” he asked conversationally. I hesitantly nodded my agreement. “I wanted to thank you for your compliment; I was touched that you felt I exemplified the song so completely that you were convinced it was written for me.”

  “What song would that be?” I hedged, certain his ego had guided him to the wrong song.

  “Not Alone,” he paused, “of course. The part about him not having to fight for her. Very touching.”

  “That wasn’t the song I was referencing. I’m not even familiar with it.”

  “Really?” He drew out the word dramatically. “Then to which song were you referring?” He grinned like a cat who ate the canary.

  The manipulative, conniving, scheming snake. He knew precisely what I had implied yesterday, having decrypted my slur. How dare he pretend I paid him a compliment? He was undermining my moment of greatness.

  “You…” I trailed off desperate for words to reflect the magnitude of my anger. I looked him dead in the eyes and started again. “Sir, you are no gentleman.”

  With that parting gem, courtesy of Scarlett O’Hara from ‘Gone with the Wind,’ I strode to the exit, my shoulders back and head held high.

  As I reached the door, he called to me, “And you, Miss, are no lady.”

  Shoulders sagged and my head bowed, I left defeated. He had done it again. Twice in as many days, that blasted man had circumvented my inspired attacks. What man can quote a scene from the 1939 film classic? That does not happen in real life, hell, it doesn’t even happen in books. I halted hastily in the middle of the parking lot. Of course—how obtuse I have been—it was as obvious as a hooker at a debutant ball—Hunter. Was. Gay. It explained his extraordinary looks, for no straight man looks that good—it’s God’s joke at women’s expense. It explained his dislike of women, at least this woman. It explained his willingness to sit and listen to emotive music and contemplate the lyrical significance. Most importantly, it was the only plausible explanation for him quoting Rhett Butler, the dashing yet scandalous civil war hero from the gold standard of chick-flicks.