1. Jenna

1

JENNA

" H ey, watch where you're going!" The guy I had bumped into wiped off the coffee I spilled on his arm.

Thankfully, it was an iced latte, so no harm was done.

"I'm so sorry," I turned and gave him an apologetic look.

"Oh, Ms. Jenna. I didn't recognize you for a moment." He sounded much friendlier now that he realized who I was. "Running late for class again?"

"I'm afraid so." I didn't recognize him, but apparently, he was a former student of mine.

So many had passed through my Intro to Creative Writing class that remembering them all was impossible, especially given my poor memory for faces.

"I'm sorry," I said again. "I have to run, but I hope the next time we bump into each other, it will be without incident." I gave him another apologetic smile before turning around and picking up my pace.

I was always rushing and late for one thing or another. Teaching in three different colleges was a big part of the problem, but I could have made it work if I had been less scatterbrained and more organized.

I wished I could do all my teaching at Reddington Community College instead of running all over town, but regrettably, there was little demand for creative writing courses in the tech-and-science-oriented school.

Still, the caliber of students attending this college and their dedication to their studies made it my favorite. Many were mature people who attended community college because they wanted to further their careers and not because they wanted to party while their parents thought they were studying.

One student in particular came to mind, but shamefully, my obsession with Vas was not due to his academic excellence. Six foot one or two, with full, sexy lips, smoldering eyes, and the confidence of a man who knew his worth, made him my kryptonite.

Vas Singh was the bane of my existence through no fault of his own.

My crush on him was utterly inappropriate for a woman my age and all the more so because he was my student. Things were going well for me for a change, and the last thing I needed was to risk my reputation by getting involved with a student.

I had a doctorate in Creative Writing, was published across half a dozen different platforms, and an agent was pitching my latest novel to several publishers. Peter believed it had potential, and I was crossing my fingers, hoping he was right. Not that a publishing deal would make me rich overnight and solve my financial problems, but being a published author would give me a much-needed confidence boost and maybe a full-time teaching job, so I wouldn't have to run all over town.

I pushed through the right-side door of the Arts and Sciences building and hustled down the hall until I reached my classroom. Tucked at the end of the corridor on the left-hand side, it wasn't easy to find, and new students always got lost at the start of the semester. I suspected that was intentional and that the administration believed my wannabe writers had a dirty secret that they needed to hide from their colleagues who pursued science-oriented studies.

The door was open, and I darted inside just as my phone chimed the hour.

"Hi," I said breathlessly as I strode to the desk at the front of the small room and set my things down.

Quickly surveying the class, I noted that all thirteen students were there, and as usual, Vas was sitting in the front row, his head turned as if he'd just finished chatting with the older man to his left.

He glanced at me, caught me staring, and smiled.

My pulse quickened, and I forced a polite smile in return that hopefully wasn't accompanied by a blush. How could a man be so damn handsome?

Instead of writing scripts for movies, Vas should star in them. I was sure he would become the next Bollywood sensation.

Ironically, I'd never watched even one Bollywood production before he joined my class, but now they had become my guilty pleasure. It'd started as a way to understand his culture better, but I soon discovered that they were like mini vacations, providing pure escapism on a grand scale.

At the start of the semester, when all the students had introduced themselves, Vas had told the class that he was born in Gujarat but had spent most of his early years in England with his mother and older brother.

His upper-class British accent and elegant European attire hinted that he came from money, but Vas never boasted about it. I suspected that he was embarrassed about his wealth and was trying to hide how affluent his family was.

Not that he was doing such a great job of it. If he wanted to look like an average guy, he should have replaced his custom-tailored wardrobe with ready-made items from a department store. I wasn't a big fashionista, but even I could see that everything he wore had been tailor-made to fit him perfectly. The breezy, brightly colored shirts he favored were made from linen or hemp and were far too luxurious for the average middle-class student enrolled in Reddington Community College.

Still, even cheap clothing wouldn't have made him less noticeable or striking. With those chiseled cheekbones, full lips, and eyes that reflected how wickedly smart he was, he was hard to miss.

At times, Vas seemed bored or indifferent, but then he would smile at something someone said, and the charm would ooze out of him.

He was always polite, spoke eloquently, and listened intently.

In short, he was my ideal man, but regrettably, he was also my student and therefore off-limits.

Damn it.

"Miss Carter?"

"Hmm?" I whirled around to look at Luis, one of my younger students. "Yes?"

"What's the free-writing topic for today?"

That's how I have always begun my class, but I had been too busy daydreaming about Vas to remember to write it on the blackboard.

"Oh, yes. Thank you for reminding me. The topic for today is flight." I scribbled it on the board in big, bold letters. "Take a moment to think about what the word means to you and use it to inspire your writing for the next ten minutes. It can be a story, a fake news report, or a dialogue. When we're done, whoever wants to share can read their piece before we move on to our next section." I picked up my phone, watched a minute go by to let the students gather their thoughts, and then set the timer. "Go."

Once everyone was focused on their computers or notebooks, I unpacked my bag while sneaking a discreet peek at Vas.

As usual, he was giving his full attention to the task, brow furrowed and pen darting furiously over the page. I found it endearing that the most computer-savvy person in the room preferred to write the old-fashioned way instead of typing on a keyboard.

Heck, was there anything I didn't like about the guy?

Well, there was one thing, but it was trivial. He wore an excessive amount of jewelry, and it was all made from gold. Given that many of the Bollywood male stars were similarly adorned in the movies I watched, I figured that it might be part of his culture. I should research the topic.

Or not.

I shouldn't feed my unhealthy obsession.

When the timer went off, I was surprised that ten minutes had passed so quickly.

Time seemed to warp around Vas Singh.

"All right." I scanned my students. "Who'd like to go first?"

Luis raised his hand.

I beamed at him. "Go ahead."

In my peripheral vision, I noticed Vas shift in his seat. Was he uncomfortable for some reason?

"Thanks, Ms. Jenna," Luis said. "The story is about Azul, my parrot."