19. Fern

Chapter 19

Fern

"Ms. Montgomery, can I speak to you for a moment?" Professor Yoon summons me from the cubicle where I'm grading papers near their office.

"Sure. What's up?" I sink into the seat opposite their desk, cringing a little at how informally I just answered them. They always seem so serious and busy. I can't get a read on them.

They set down a stack of papers and glance at me over the top of their glasses. "I heard about your acceptance to Imperial College. Congratulations." They don't smile when they say this so I'm not sure how to respond.

"Thank you?" My voice tilts up at the end of my sentence. "It's a huge honor."

Professor Yoon takes off their glasses and folds their fingers together. "It's an honor for us as well, to have prepared a student for such a prestigious program. I will be following your career with interest." I can't quite tell, but it almost seems like they smile, so I relax a bit and let out a huge breath. They pick up one of the papers from their desk. "I'm told you are avoiding grading the word problems on the exam?"

My cheeks flush. Have the other teaching assistants been talking about me? My heart races a bit. "Um, well, some of the students' answers have seemed partially correct and I wasn't sure how to give credit for those."

Professor Yoon chews on one of the stems of their glasses. "I do not typically award partial credit. Math is a very precise endeavor, as you know." I nod. They sigh. "It occurs to me that you have not had the benefit of an orientation. The other teaching assistants get a bit of guidance when they arrive for graduate school. Have there been other gaps preventing you from completing your work?"

My eyebrows shoot up. There have been so many gaps I don't even know where to begin, but it won't do me any favors to ask them to start at the beginning. Especially since we're a month into the semester at this point. I clear my throat. "Um, not that I can think of? But I might not know what I don't know… my recitation grades are still just pass-fail based on attendance, right?" They nod. I think of Wyatt, of how I should have mentioned a prior relationship with him a long, long time ago, but now that ship has sailed halfway to London. "I'm good," I stammer. "I'm enjoying learning the ropes."

Now Professor Yoon actually smiles. "You won't need ropes for long. You won't even have the burden of teaching your first year in England."

I am surprised to learn they think of teaching as a burden. I think about how much I enjoy breaking down the concepts with my recitation students and how it helps my own thinking for my work when I have to explain basic concepts. I shrug. "It's a great scholarship."

They nod. "Well, back to it." They slide me the pile of exams, and I head back to the cubicle to re-do them. Right or wrong. No gray area for Professor Yoon. I need to keep that in mind.

I pass the row of mailboxes on my way and see that there is something in mine. I grab the slip of paper and see that it's a flyer from the student law clinic.

Wyatt.

I look over my shoulder, which is ridiculous because I would surely hear if there were someone else in the hall. Seeing no one, I unfold the paper and see a handwritten note from him on the back of the form.

Sorry again about my sister. Thanks again for the law clinic advice. I have so much to tell you. Let me take you somewhere we can talk? Say yes. Call me.

I sink back into my seat in the cubicle, staring at the mountain of exam papers, thinking about my own coursework as well as lesson plans for Friday's recitation. What does he even mean, take me somewhere?

I grade papers for another hour, trying to get as many done as I can, which is a little easier now that I'm not giving anyone room for doubt if they got the answer wrong but the approach correct … it's not a policy I would choose, but it's not my call.

What is my call, is the hushed conversation I have with Wyatt from the 23rd floor, where nobody is around because I checked. Twice.

"Hey," he answered. "You got my note?"

"I did," I whisper, which I realize might make me seem even more suspicious if someone shows up. I remind myself that nobody would have any idea who I'm talking to as long as I don't use his name. "What did you mean?"

I can practically hear him smiling, which is unusual for him. "My family has a house in the mountains, right on the ski resort in Hidden Valley. Let me take you there?"

I puff out a laugh. "I don't ski. Is there even snow?" Our winters have been incredibly mild lately.

He scoffs. "We wouldn't be going there to ski, Fern. Although I can teach you if you want." I frown. He continues. "I'd cook for you. And there's a hot tub."

A vision of Wyatt shirtless in bubbly water is impossible to tamp down in my mind. Fuck, that sounds amazing. "When would we even do something like that?"

"Any time. Nobody uses that place during the week. Do I remember that you only have one class on Thursday? We could go Wednesday afternoon, skip your class, get back in time for you to be my teacher Friday ... "

I am positive my entire face and neck are bright red at this point. Two entire nights in a mountain cabin with Wyatt Moyer sounds like something from a romance novel. One of the books where I got my idea for that thing we did the other night. "I can hear you breathing hard, Fern." Wyatt's voice teases me. "I'm sure you've never skipped a class before in your life, and you probably know all the material."

I bite my lip. My Thursday class this semester is the art history class I saved for this year because it's pure enjoyment. It doesn't even count toward my degree, although I'm using it as an elective. The professor is one of those people who gets me to see the world differently and think about art not just as a bonus but as an important part of being human. "I don't know if I want to miss my Thursday class," I admit.

"Hm. Well, think about it. I can make it worth your while. Over and over again … in the hot tub. On the counter. On the rug by the fire…"

"Okay, okay. Wow."

"Are you blushing, Fern? I wish I could see. Snap a picture."

I hear someone come up the stairwell and turn to see a red-faced student huffing and puffing a bit. Hopefully, they see me in a similar state and assume I also took the stairs up here. "You have to stop talking that way."

"Meet me at my apartment tomorrow?"

I bite my lip. "What do I even bring?"

Wyatt laughs. "Strip of condoms and a bottle of lube?"

"Wyatt!" I swear I'm going to pass out if he keeps talking this way.

He laughs again. "Just comfortable clothes. There are sheets and towels at the house. I'll take care of all the food and everything. Including you …"

We hang up, and I immediately call Thora, who texts me that she picked up a bartending shift and can't talk. I feel this counts as an emergency, so I make my way to the bar on Forbes Avenue, where I first met Wyatt Moyer on New Year's Eve.

Thora is slinging bowls of soup and pints of dark beer to the lunch crowd, and I make my way up to the bar, grabbing a stool at the far end, hopefully out of earshot of … well, everyone.

Thora's brow furrows when she sees me, and she slides a menu my way along the bar. "What are you doing here? You never spend money."

I lean forward. "I have to tell you something."

She bites her lip. "Bowl of soup?"

I glance at the prices on the menu. "Cup of soup."

She nods and disappears, serves a bunch of food and drink to some other patrons, and makes her way back to me, where she starts rinsing glasses. "What happened?"

I tell her about my chat with Professor Yoon and Wyatt's indecent proposal. She grins. "I did see him at the clinic. He left there pretty happy. He had some weird thing about his name?"

I wave a hand. "That's not our business. The point is he wants to …" I don't even know how to describe what he seems to be offering.

She leans across the bar and takes a bite of my soup. "He wants to sex you up in a fancy-ass ski chalet where nobody is going to interrupt you."

"I'm sure it's not a chalet."

Thora arches a brow. "You really haven't looked up his family at all? They're, like, super famous Pittsburgh royalty."

I frown at her. "I had no idea."

She nods. "I've been doing a little stalking action on his cousin Odin, arguably the hottest Stag."

I recoil. "Odin? He's …" obnoxious … loud … not Wyatt … I'm not sure how to finish that sentence.

Thora pats the bar. "He's in my argument class. I'm supposed to work with him on the next paper."

I laugh. "Well, you'll like that. He's an athlete so you can probably–"

"Boss him around? Take over the project entirely." She beams. "You know me so well." A bell rings from the kitchen, and Thora rushes off to grab another order, shouting over her shoulder. "It's okay if you're smitten with Wyatt. There are way more sexy dudes in his family, though, for the rest of us. And you should definitely go to the Winter Palace . Do it for the rest of us, toiling away behind the bar." She leans back and presses the back of her hand to her face like a fainting Victorian woman.

I roll my eyes at her and finish my soup.