3. Sammie

CHAPTER 3

SAMMIE

L ate again . . .

Mr. Sullivan stands behind the lectern, hands white-knuckling the sides like a tornado is about to rip him from the ground. His gaze floats across the filled seats of the auditorium, returning to me every few seconds. If it wasn't for the scowl on his face, I would think he enjoyed staring at me.

Five minutes late—that's not bad ! This place is huge; my last class was on the other side of the campus. I practically ran to make it here. It's literally five past noon.

My phone vibrates.

Serena.

Girl, guess who got accepted to Castleton University?!

Goddess! Yes!

Sliding the phone onto my thigh, I tap out a reply.

Yay!! This is going to be so much fun! Maybe your mom is right? ;)

Ugh, maybe. Gotta go and fill out some more forms. Pick you up in 30.

Okay.

The room goes quiet. With a movement that would bore glaciers, I shift my gaze up. Every set of eyes is homed in on me. Including Mr. Sullivan's.

Shit.

Sullivan's eyes, laced with annoyance, burn into mine, and I force a smile.

"Miss Williams?"

I wriggle on the seat. "What's the question?"

"Are you done?"

Knuckles white around my notebook, heat flushes my neck and face. "Ah, sorry, yep, all done."

Dropping my attention to my notes, I wait for the lecture to resume as normal. When nobody speaks, I raise my focus back up. His dark brown eyes bore straight through me, fire lacing his icy stare. My stomach flips as warmth pools in my belly. Seriously? Why can't I be attracted to the average guys, instead of a professor who loathes me? I clear my throat. "Is there something else?"

Chuckles spill from behind me. Mr. Sullivan holds our connection for a moment longer before pulling his attention back to the slide show lit up behind him. That countenance is what people refer to as quiet rage. He sure does send those kinds of vibes my way.

Another long and painful twenty-seven minutes later, we are dismissed. Well, not all of us. Mr. Sullivan waves me down. Maybe I should apologize. I can talk my way onto his good side, right? Since I can't afford to fail any of my classes, having a professor who hates me isn't going to bode well.

I make my way down the soft steps and fall in beside the lectern, waiting for him to finish packing up his laptop and notes. His tousled blond hair falls over his forehead for a second, and he brushes it away. Swallowing, I try to squash the butterflies in my stomach that insist on taking flight. Hands around the strap of my satchel, I wait, rocking back and forth on my heels.

He finishes his packing and walks toward me. Hands in the pockets of his cargo pants, the polo shirt he wears is more casual than I have seen him in before. Focus on his face, Sammie. His mouth is a thin line over his square jaw, and his brown eyes all but drill me into the floor.

"Tardiness is unacceptable in my class, Miss Williams."

I step forward, taking a long breath.

His jaw clenches, and he all but flinches backward.

"Sorry. My class at eleven is on the other side of campus. I've tried to be here in time." A blush swallows my neck and face, and I pull my hair away from my skin, letting it fall over one shoulder.

He stills, nostrils flaring.

"Are you okay?"

He swallows and his chest heaves for a second, like someone punched him.

"Mr. Sullivan?"

I move toward him; his face twists in horror, like he's seen a ghost. Or something else really bad, because his face is torn by something like disgust and fear. He wavers on his feet.

Dropping my satchel to the floor, I hold out a hand. He staggers back a step, gripping the lectern.

"Do you want me to send for help?"

He shakes his head, his face too pale.

"No," he rasps.

"What is happening? Are you having some kind of episode?"

"No."

"Are you sure you don't want?—"

"No, Miss Williams, please"—he raises his head—"just go."

"I can't leave you here like this; what if you're having a stroke or something?"

He shakes his head again.

With a sigh, I pick up my bag and move away from him. He pulls in a deep breath and releases the lectern. Making my way toward the door, I glance back at him. His disheveled hair, his lax stance, his arms hanging by his sides, his chest heaving, his eyes tracking my movement.

His face returns to a normal color by the time I reach the door. It opens, and Serena runs right into me. "Hey, you okay? You look flustered," she asks.

I turn back to check on Mr. Sullivan. He stiffens, eyes widening and settling on my best friend.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I ask him, brows lowering.

"I said get out," he snarls.

"Jesus! Cool your jets, man; we're leaving," Serena bites back, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and leading me through the doors into the sunshine.

I stare at the heavy door as it closes with a thud. What's up with him? I hope he will be okay. He isn't my favorite person in the whole world, but I wouldn't wish him ill. Not with a face like that. I suppress a groan at my overactive attraction to my professor and lean into my best friend. I so need lunch. Depleted blood sugar is messing with my sanity.

We settle in at a table at the campus cafeteria and Serena orders for both of us, chili fries and chicken wings with sodas. She plops back onto the seat opposite me and pulls out her phone.

"So, I have classes on every day except Fridays at this stage. When are yours?" she asks.

"Every day except Wednesdays."

She rolls her eyes. "Trust our days to not line up. Ugh. Also, you're moving in with me. That big old house of my grandma's is lonely, babes. And the commute from home is too far."

I laugh at her. "Ah, thank God, another night with Wednesday Addams and I am likely to set myself on fire."

She is always thinking of the fun things, never the serious things, like plans or goals. Her journal, the one she showed me in senior year, is full of doodles and daydreams. She's always drawing sketches of a guy dressed like Mr. Darcy, or some other regency type.

Mine, in true Sammie style, is set out in a logical layout of career waypoints and challenges I want to accomplish over the next ten years. Everything I want to do prior to thirty. Jackson calls it my dirty-thirty bucket list. Like he doesn't have his own catalog of things to do before he graduates, the dork.

To practice and regain the use of my magic is my number one non-academic project this year. But that is something I can never share with Serena. Apart from the basic Wiccan routines my parents have, she doesn't know about my magic, the power I inherited from my grandmother. The ability to bend and control the elements.

Grandma once told me that a great witch can not only control the elements, but they can command them to appear at will. I almost perfected that the day Jackson got hurt. Stopped trying after that. Just because you have the ability to do something, doesn't mean you should.

A girl around our age drops our order onto the table between us. Serena gives her a snarky smile. Stomach grumbling, I dig into the chili fries. The spice and salt make my mouth water, and I grab another handful, loading them onto a napkin in front of me. She gnaws away at a chicken wing, absent-mindedly scrolling away on her iPhone.

The hairs on my neck rise, and I look up from my food. Mr. Sullivan sits a few tables over, tapping on his phone, his jaw tensed, a hand shoved into his hair. I stare at him while I eat, one fry at a time. He obviously recovered from whatever that episode was that affected him before. His coffee cup sits by his laptop. He drops his cell onto the table and swipes up the cup, downing the contents.

Feeling silly for staring for so long, I return to the food. I guess he's embarrassed I saw what happened to him. But I should make sure he's okay. Despite the unwelcome reception from him almost every time we are in the same space, I still feel like I want to be around him. And with that slightly insane thought... "Hey, I'll be back in a sec, I need to ask Mr. Sullivan about our midterm."

Serena glances up from her iPhone and mumbles something. I doubt she heard me. Standing, I grab my stuff, wiping a hand over my mouth to make sure no chili fries are hanging from my face. Mr. Sullivan stares at his cell. But I can tell from here, he isn't really looking at what's on the screen.

When I make my way to his table and stop a foot from where he sits, he turns his head; his deep brown eyes find mine. The breath leaves my chest. I try to clear the stone lodged in my airway but fail.

"Samantha?"

Drawing in a ragged lungful of air, I huff a small laugh. It's the first time he's used my first name. His voice is raw with the word.

"Ah, I wanted to make sure you're okay? You looked pretty pale before."

He stands, moving into my space. "I'm fine. You shouldn't worry about me." His aftershave slams into my senses, his breath falling onto my face.

"Okay, I?—"

"You what?" His head tilts to the side.

"I think we got off to a wonky start, and I wanted to apologize. To start over. Usually, I'm a devoted student. Guess there is a settling-in period or something."

He steps back to the table and gathers his things. "Or something. Don't be late again."

Ass.

Something like a smile peeks on one side of his face before it disappears, and he turns and heads for the parking lot. He strides toward a black vintage convertible Mustang. If my brother could see that, he would lose his mind. Jackson is obsessed with vintage muscle cars.

He unlocks the car, tosses his backpack over to the passenger seat, and slides into the driver's seat. A heartbeat later, the engine roars to life, and he backs out of the space. I track my gaze with the gleaming V8 as it rumbles to the university's exit. The rumble intensifies as it gains speed, disappearing down the winding road toward Main Street.

Serena comes to stand beside me. "Sweet ride."

"Yeah."

"Whose is it? And the real question—is he hot?" she jokes.

I turn and stare at her, unable to find the words to answer. Not sure which way to go with this.

"Can college professors be hot?" The words almost choke their way out and, for the umpteenth time today, crimson flies up my neck, filling my overheated face.

She winks at me and shakes her head. "Girl, professors are off-limits. For the love of all things holy."

As I groan into her shoulder, she chuckles at me. Every time one of us has a crush, we navigate it together. But this time, he is out-of-bounds. Off-limits. Not in my league. Forbidden. Both of us would lose our spots at the college.

A full-price program isn't something I can afford. Plus, Castleton is my first pick. Whatever this physical response to Sullivan is that has me riled up, it stops now. No more trying to make him like me. No more unnecessary interactions.

No more Little Miss Sunshine.

Just study.

I'm here for an archaeology degree.

Nothing more.