Chapter 5

I find a seat five rows from the front, sandwiched between a guy who is probably a linebacker and taking up half of my chair, and a girl who is discreetly reapplying lipstick. My heart is still racing from the embarrassment moments ago.

Squirming in my seat from the discomfort of the wet clothes sticking to my body, I peel off my sodden jacket and drape it over my equally disastrous messenger bag. The AC churns on in the background, the cold air burrowing deep inside my bones. I shiver, my hands rubbing my slick forearms, but it's no use. I'll have to wait until I get back home and take a scalding hot shower.

I blow out a calming breath and try to focus on my surroundings. Looking around, I frown, unable to find Jocelyn. Isn't she supposed to be in this class too?

"We've already covered the syllabus, important exam and project dates, and my grading scale. This class covers the fundamentals of business ethics. And before you think this is going to be an easy A, let me disabuse you of that notion. It. Won't. Be." Professor Anderson's voice vibrates in the room, his speech measured and direct, clearly someone who's used to getting the attention of everyone in the vicinity.

"I'm reminding you again, half of the material in papers and exams will be from class lectures and not from the textbooks. So, Godspeed if you think you can skip class and get by. Now, I want to discuss the theory we'll spend the next two weeks discussing …"

A flurry of sounds rustles through the classroom as students start typing on their laptops or frantically scribbling notes on their thick notepads. I hurriedly pull out my dinged-up laptop from my soaked messenger bag, grimacing at the new scuff marks on the silver surface, and flip open the lid. Swiping at the water droplets on the black screen, I press the power button to turn it on.

Black screen of death. Not even a blinking monitor or the familiar electrical buzzing.

I scrunch my nose and close my eyes, muttering a silent prayer.

Weather gods, have I wronged you somehow? What's up with me and electronics today?

Gritting my teeth, I poke at the power button again, trying the "imagine this is an ex" trick from this morning.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

Absolutely nothing.

"Arrrrrgh," I growl as I continue to inflict violence on my laptop. The rainwater probably started its demise and the impact on the hard floors most likely finished it off.

"This is such BS," I mutter and shake the uncooperative machine, a last-ditch effort to revive it.

Suddenly, the hairs on my forearms stand at attention and the air thins around me.

I feel him before I see him.

A whiff of woodsy cologne with hints of citrus hits my nose and I can't help but take a deep inhale, wanting to savor the scent.

"Is there anything you want to share with the class, Miss Callahan?" The smooth, lethal voice which will probably appear in my nightmare tonight questions from my right.

I close my eyes and grimace before slowly turning to look at a fuming Professor Anderson, whose countenance has only gotten darker and angrier with time.

Biting my bottom lip, I shake my head and whisper, "Nothing to share."

His nostrils flare and a muscle twitches in his forehead before he whirls around and strides back up to his throne in front of the classroom.

The thumping in my chest intensifies and suddenly, my skin is hot to the touch and I'm no longer feeling cold.

"We'll be going over ten business ethics theories with roots in philosophy. Now, one might ask, why go through all the fuss to dissect ethical decision-making in the business world?" Professor Anderson pauses, his torso hunched over the redwood podium, his hands gripping the sides.

There's an energy about him—intense and captivating—which beckons you to drop everything you're doing to listen to him. He surveys the class, lasering everyone in their chairs as the collective room suspends their breaths in anticipation.

His lips, pressed into a thin line, twitch, like he's satisfied with our response, and he leans forward even more as if to divulge a secret.

"Imagine a world where the main goal of small businesses is to grow into large corporations and because of the laws of capitalism, there's a mad race to capture market share, to increase the bottom line, where dollars and cents matter most above everything else. Where the pure definition of success is driven by how padded your pocketbooks are, how much return you can bring to your investors, and how high you can get your market valuation to be. A pay to play type of world."

Slowly, he steps away from the podium and paces back and forth on stage. Smirking, he gestures wildly in the air as he commands the room. "Don't have to imagine too hard, right? Because that's the world we live in. But without ethical guidelines, these businesses could run amok, shattering the very bones of our infrastructure. When money becomes the sole driver of success and decision-making, the edifice of society and the world is already on the verge of collapsing."

He shakes his head, as if knowing something we all don't know, and I find myself clutching my broken laptop, wanting to know what'll happen to this world we're living in.

"You might think, isn't this hypocritical of you, Professor? Your family owns one of the largest corporations in the world, one of the beasts reigning over the fray."

His lips tip up in a derisive half-sneer and he stops his pacing. "And that's precisely what makes me the best person to teach this class. To explain why companies need appropriate ethical frameworks in place. Capitalism is wonderful within defined regulations."

I can't see his eyes clearly from here, but I can see the brightness in his gaze, the muscles in his chest and arms rippling with energy like he's bursting at the seams, his hands swiveling in the air as if he's presenting a theory that'll change our lives and the future of mankind.

The way he comes alive.

Living. Breathing. Breathtaking.

My pulse beats a heavy drum in my ears and I release a breathy exhale, every inch of me mesmerized by the rising and falling of his voice, the fiery passion emanating from his entire being, the myriad of expressions fluttering across his face, like they're desperate to escape the cold facade he usually has them buried under.

"God, he's so hot," the blonde next to me whispers. "Imagine all that energy and passion focused on you."

I nod, completely entranced by my professor, wanting to absorb every ounce of knowledge from him. I don't even want to pay her any attention.

She continues, clearly undeterred by my lack of response, "My dad is a member at The Orchid and there are rumors he's a beast in bed and gets off from chasing willing women in their sex club. I totally wouldn't mind him hunting me down."

Chasing? Hunting? Her words unwittingly bury themselves in my brain. Lewd images loom in my vision. A brimming masculine power hovering above me, a deep, raspy voice whispering in my ear, taking the control away from me. I gulp, my thighs clenching at the sudden ache appearing low in my belly.

This is ridiculous, Millie. You're nineteen, not a friggin' thirteen-year-old who just discovered her hormones and is experiencing her first crush. Snap out of it.

Shaking my head to wake me up from this strange haze I'm in, I focus my attention back on the powerful man on stage, determined to learn the recipe to his secret sauce. If I'm going to become a good educator one day, I want to captivate the room like he does.

Strange bodily reactions? That's basic biology toward novelty. Fleeting and will fade in time.

Giving myself a quick mental pat on my back for listening to logic, I turn on the recording function on my cell phone. I'll just have to transcribe this lecture to notes later when I get back home.

The next hour blows right by as Professor Anderson paints a startling realistic picture of the current business climate, where inflation is at an all-time high and corporations are struggling to survive while the public is weary of the future of the economy. He claims this is the perfect environment ripened for bad corporate decisions.

I can't tear my eyes away for one minute.

Our gazes meet twice during his lecture, and each time, I see his eyes narrow before darting away.

A trickle of unease pools in my chest as I think back to the disapproval radiating from his glare. I'm unused to this blatant distrust coming from a professor. I'm a hard worker, a straight-A student, because my brother has taught me the way to climb out of poverty is through education. I'm determined to make something of myself without depending on Adrian, and it's unsettling to see Professor Anderson's apparent dislike of me.

It feels wrong and I need to correct whatever this is. It's a necessity, like how my lungs need their next breath of air.

"Read chapters one through three before class on Thursday. Be prepared for your first debate. Don't be late."

His words are as effective as an alarm clock, waking up everyone from the spell he has placed us under. Excited whispers and hushed conversations fill the room as students quickly filter out the door.

I slowly pack up my things as my breathing quickens. I have to apologize to him. To tell him my tardiness and everything afterward were unintentional. I need him to understand I mean no disrespect, so I can begin this class on a good footing. I want him to like me, so he'll write me a recommendation letter later on.

This urgency drives me to hastily climb out of my seat and make my way to the front of the room, where he's adjusting his cuff links before putting on his suit jacket in one smooth, sweeping motion, clearly someone who's very familiar with these formal threads. His long fingers grip his papers as he stuffs them into his black folio.

Wetting my lips, I carefully approach him, my fingers twitching at my sides. My clothes are much drier now, but my hair is still wet, and this level of dishevelment makes me uncomfortable, like I'm standing naked before him.

Vulnerable. Heated. Jittery.

He freezes, his muscles tensing the closer I approach him. Then he resumes packing his belongings and decidedly not look at me.

"P-Professor?" My voice comes out shaky. I curse myself for sounding like a little girl cowering in front of some deity.

He's only a man, not a god.Somehow, that's not reassuring at all.

He doesn't look up, his fingers clutching his phone on the desk. "Yes?" A low grunt.

"I want to apologize again. My tardiness earlier today was very much unlike me. I take your class very seriously and want to assure you this won't happen again. Please forgive me."

My fingers tangle with each other, trying to generate the power to remain standing before him, this man with tethered energy rolling off him.

Professor Anderson's attention snags on my fingers, his frame stiffening before he slowly meets my gaze.

Chilly gray eyes remind me of the swirling clouds at the eye of the storm and pin me in place. They're penetrating, seeing through my defenses.

"Your future is not my responsibility, but your own. Make the right choice for yourself. It doesn't matter to me." His voice is barely above a whisper and yet echoes in the quiet room, much louder than the rain pattering against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He straightens to his full height, and I let out a small gasp when I realize how tall he is, how big his presence is, and how small I feel standing before him. He frowns, a crease forming between his brows, and I have an irrational urge to smooth out the lines, to ask him what's wrong.

Without another word, he strides out of the classroom, turning off the lights along the way. The door slamming shut echoes in the dark, and I suddenly find myself bereft without his heated presence.

Nothing makes sense. After all, I've only met the man a little over an hour ago.

I stand there in silence, listening to my heavy breathing. My hand travels to my chest and rubs the tenderness forming behind my rib cage.

I must be delirious from the lack of sleep and food. Or maybe Mercury is in retrograde.

Lightning flashes across the sky, singeing the room in a burst of light. The hairs on my forearm stand up straight and I don't know why, but I feel compelled to look outside. My feet carry me to the windows, where I witness nature's tantrum in full force.

The rain is falling down so hard, it almost appears invisible unless you're looking at the light from the streetlamps. The university must have turned them on early because of the dark skies. The thick thunderclouds, gray and heavy, sink low in the sky, smothering everyone underneath its wrath.

And a man. A lonely silhouette of a man. Tall. Defiant. Unrelenting.

Professor Anderson stands in the middle of the gravel path a few feet away from the windows, his body seemingly frozen.

I place my hand on the glass pane, my breath fogging up the surface as I stare at him.

He slowly tilts his head up toward the sky, letting the rain wash over him, like it's cleansing him. His eyes are shut, his lips tilting up in something resembling a smile.

A heartbreaking smile.

My chest spasms in pain, my muscles coiling in tension, and every atom of my body pulls me toward this man, who looks so hauntingly alone while he stands out there in the pouring rain. He looks cold, like he hasn't felt warmth in ages.

Nonsensical. Madness.

After a moment, he shakes his head as if mad at himself, and clenches his fists.

Then, for some unknown reason, he suddenly straightens up, his posture defiant once more, and he slowly turns around.

Our eyes meet in the distance, through thick glass and drowning rain, and I let out a shaky exhale. I want to withdraw, to step away from the window, but I can't seem to make myself move.

I'm held immobile by the intensity in those dark eyes.

Lightning streaks across the sky, followed by a loud rumble of thunder, the flash of electricity illuminating every masculine angle of his face, how the rain has rendered his hair into dishevelment, the raindrops clinging to his skin like a lover's caress, soaking through his shirt and suit, but he doesn't seem to notice.

The muscles in his jaw twitch and he takes a few steps forward, as if compelled to do so. I press my palms harder against the glass, my body wanting something I can't name. My heart kicks against my rib cage, wanting to escape, to hurl itself toward the man below.

Logic ceases to matter. Inexplicable insanity.

Our connected gaze is a sizzling live wire and neither of us can look away. I wonder if I'm seeing a side of him he doesn't show anyone else, and I have no idea what I did to deserve this intimacy, this honor.

After a few seconds, he jolts, like he has been dragged out of a trance. His nostrils flare and those beautiful gray eyes take on a harsh glint before he tears his gaze away from me. He turns around, his hands fisted tightly by his sides, and promptly strides away, carrying with him more tension and charged intensity than the storm raging around him.

I watch him until he becomes a tiny dot in the distance, my fingers clutching my chest.

Later that night, I sit at my desk in the bedroom and take out a piece of stationery from the drawer. Floral stationery, in honor of Mom's green thumb. I scribble another letter to her.

Dear Mom,

The skies are crying today and perhaps because I'm near you again, I feel its tears most intently. I don't think there's a timeline for grief or a way to fill the hole in my chest.

Seeing how Dad still misses you so much, even after all these years, should warn me away from love. But my heart is conflicted because I still want what you and Dad had. Star-crossed lovers who went against the world and married each other, in love until the very end…and even beyond.

Do you know I've never seen Dad go on a date after you? We still celebrate your birthday and I still make hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, the way you used to make them for me. I remember how you described your romance with Dad. You called it a whirlwind. I didn't understand it back then. I just remembered thinking this was a funny word, like the wind was dancing, twirling, and whirling.

But now…I want to experience it. The whirlwind.

I miss you.

Love, Millie

As I set my pen down, a startling image forms in my mind. A lonely man standing alone in the rain, a soul feeling colder than the wind, more broken than the fallen branches from the storm. A gaze so electrifying it's like two kindred souls are set alight because of each other for the first time.

Professor Ryland Anderson.