Chapter 3

Chapter Three

T he bastard who spilled his hot coffee all over me, effectively ruining my dress, and who did not appear to have the decency to apologize, was going to be my Shakespeare professor. My skin echoed the ache of the burn as I peered at him and his stupid cup with a venom I hoped he could taste.

Sam elbowed me softly, wiggling her eyebrows.

I knew what she was saying. He was…handsome. Devastatingly so. His sharp features were only accented by the high planes of his cheekbones. And he boasted both thick muscles and lanky limbs.

He'd shaved, his skin creamy and smooth, free of the dark shadow from yesterday. Tendons in his neck stood stark and his Adam's apple knotted deliciously in the midst of it all. He had a cute little dimple in his strong chin which I hadn't noticed the day before. His long fingers adorned several rings, but it was the one on his pinky that drew my attention—thick, fat silver with a round ruby embedded within.

But, no amount of looks or pinky rings granted anyone the ability to be such a rude and careless human. My teeth ground noisily.

Professor Wilder sat on the edge of his desk, taking a deep drink of his coffee.

"This course isn't like some high school Shakespeare class where you pick apart his meter and try your best to decipher what exactly he's trying to convey to you in your modern jargon. No, in this course you're going to delve into his symbolism, his language use, the care this man put into crafting such deep, profound art that still, several hundred years later, resonates with us.

"We are going to delve into Elizabethan England and discuss the influences such a climate had on his work. You'll pinpoint exactly what it is that makes us continue to read and study Shakespeare and present it at the end of the semester." His voice was velvet, dark and alluring and I swear I could listen to him go on for hours.

Even if I was a bit jaded.

That annoyed me.

"Will we be going over the fact that Shakespeare wasn't even a real person?" someone from the back called.

We all twisted to find him, a young man with a gray polo. His hair was shorn short and his cheeks were ruddy. He balked in response to the sudden attention he found himself faced with.

"Let me make one thing clear."

I jumped as I realized how close Professor Wilder had come to my table. He was stood at my side, spidery fingers propped on my desk rendering me still. His proximity set my skin crackling with the electric need to touch him and stroke the smooth skin of his hand. The warm scent of his drink washed over me, reminding me of my grudge and I crossed my arms tight over my chest in an attempt to discreetly scoot away from him.

"We will not be entertaining such conspiracies in this course throughout the semester. Nothing of that is fact, or based in reality in any measure of the imagination. Of course, we are obsessed with learning more about the measly bard who seemed to capture the world's attention, but we will not be wasting our time focusing on things we cannot prove, which we cannot analyze in the same way we can the ink on this paper." His finger came sharply down on my book. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Sure, whatever," the guy grumbled, shifting in his chair uncomfortably.

"Good." Dr. Wilder returned to the front, eyes briefly flashing over mine before he pulled from his bag a stack of papers. "Now, I'd like to go over the syllabus with you very carefully so we might ensure that everyone is on the same page and set ourselves up for success. This is an intensive course and I expect each and every one of you to put forth the required effort."

Professor Wilder handed the front tables a small stack of his syllabi, allowing us to pass it around and behind us.

Amongst the noise of the rustling pages and quiet "thank yous," Dr. Wilder rapped softly on my desk with his knuckles, crouching down beside me, eyes trained to the board. "I should have known my assailant would be in my class today. Do try to stay out of your phone."

"I find it amusing that I am supposed to learn to analyze literature from a man who can't seem to accurately analyze an accident," I grit out.

As he rose on long legs I swore he muttered something like, "mouthy," but I couldn't have been sure.

Taking his place at the front of the class, the professor set his cup down and flicked a paper in front of him. "Let's begin."

The hour and a half lecture flew by with the usual easiness of the start of the semester. We went over the syllabus, the required readings and projects down the line, and had a brief icebreaker where we discussed who we were ( What's in a name?) and what we were studying.

Perhaps not so shockingly, Dr. Wilder wanted to know what sort of history we had with Middle English, if any at all, and if any of us had spoken Shakespeare aloud. I stayed quiet, of course, not wanting to draw any more unwanted attention to myself until the end of class.

I was going to say something to him about the accident. It was irresponsible to walk around campus with an open mug, but to continue to do so after burning a student? Come on. He had to practically be begging for a lawsuit and how would his oh-so-powerful father feel about that?

Something in the back of my mind thought perhaps he wouldn't care. Men of their social standing often got away with much more than they deserved to.

As everyone filed out, hurriedly making for their next class, umbrellas slapped their legs and they hoisted bags onto their shoulders. Sam bid me goodbye, still wrapped in my blazer and headed to a history class in another building while I was to spend much of my day in this one—down the hall from Professor Wilder.

I stood by his desk, students brushing past, and he sat in his leather chair with a smirk on his mouth. He was leaned back so casually, one elbow propped on the arm of the chair, his thumb tucked under his jaw and a finger over his lips. The other hand was relaxed, thrumming absentmindedly.

He raised an eyebrow as the last of the class managed to get out. "Well, now you have me to yourself. What can I do for you? Vivian, is it? As discussed in our syllabus, I normally hold office hours on Wednesday afternoons." He leaned forward in such a feline way my throat locked for a second.

I cleared it, "Oh, no, please, I was merely sharing a suggestion."

"By all means, share away." Amusement danced in his eyes and for some reason, that only angered me more.

"It's just that I couldn't help but notice that you failed to learn your lesson from Sunday, carrying around a coffee mug on campus." I stared down the culprit, his black—now empty—mug beside a stack of Shakespearean literature.

Professor Wilder laughed, coming to his feet and around the desk so we were face to face. Something about that had my heart sprinting.

"I'm not sure what's funny, but if you feel so inclined, you are free to let me in on your amusement." I tucked my arms over my chest, lips pressed in a thin line.

"I'm not sure you'll find it as humorous as I do," he parroted. One hand slipped into his pocket.

"Try me."

"I've been carrying an open mug around on this campus every day for—god, what is it now? Fifteen years?—and not once have I had anyone spill it on me."

" You spilled it on us. " I corrected, my finger going from his chest to mine as I spoke.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, which up close, had fine strands of shimmering gray.

"We will have to agree to disagree."

"Regardless of what you think happened, you really ought to invest in a proper to-go mug so you don't end up with a lawsuit on your hands." I headed for the door, frustration burning my cheeks. Was he going to gaslight me into believing that I'd done something wrong when I was merely turning around? He'd been entirely too close before the accident, what had he been paying attention to, if not the walkway?

Before I reached the threshold of the door, Dr. Wilder's voice was no more than a purr in my ear. "Are you threatening me, Vivian?"

I spun to find him close, a breath away, and the way my body reacted betrayed me. A wave of hot desire parted my lips and drug my tongue over the lower. He was intimidating in height and in position.

He was my superior, my teacher.

The power he held over me was entirely too great.

And he knew it.

And that… delighted me.

"No," I whispered with widened eyes.

"Good. I wouldn't want us to get off on the wrong foot, would you?"

I shook my head, dumbstruck.

"Besides, I can't stand to-go cups." He sauntered back to his desk, taking his seat and opening one of the books whose margins were scribbled in loping cursive. "They alter the flavor of my coffee, making it absolutely putrid. I'd rather risk a lawsuit"—those steel gray eyes flashed—"than drink bad coffee."

I was flustered, teeth rolling over my lip, unsure of what was even happening anymore. How was it fair that he could unnerve me so easily?

It was all I could do to stare at the man, a classic depiction of stunning charm and danger who flipped through his copy of Romeo & Juliet as if I wasn't even there in the room.

He peered at his wrist watch a moment and gazed at me from over his glasses.

"You'll be late if you don't hurry."

It was a snap, releasing me from the trance he'd cast so artfully and as I bounded down the hallway, his chuckle carried with me.