Christmas with the Professor by Sue Lyndon Read Online (FREE)
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“You’re late, Ms. Monroe.” Dr. Taylor’s mouth twisted in a brief smile as he handed me a test.
“Car trouble,” I muttered, feeling the burn of my much younger classmates’ eyes on my back.
He glanced at my feet, and I shifted uncomfortably. My jeans were soaked from the knees down and my fashionable black boots were a watery mess. Damn snow. When my car wouldn’t start this morning, I’d had no choice but to walk all the way from my apartment building to class. Even bad weather and car trouble couldn’t keep me away from my Behavioral Psychology final exam. After four and a half years in college, I was finally going to graduate. This test was the last final of my last semester. Nope. Not even ten feet of snow could keep me away. Bring it on, Mother Nature.
“Good luck on your test.” Dr. Taylor’s gaze swept over me and caused my tummy to flutter.
I clutched my shoulder bag and found a seat before he witnessed my face flushing. The man was magnetic and had a pull on me all semester. One look at his muscular body that filled out his dress shirt and the faded jeans he usually wore was enough to set my pulse racing. It wasn’t just his good looks that turned me weak with need, but the confident way he carried himself and the commanding tone of his deep, gravelly voice. When his attention was focused on me, for however brief a time, I turned into a puddle of nerves and often found it difficult to breathe—let alone speak a coherent sentence.
I breezed through the multiple-choice portion of the test, but by the time I came to the last essay question I was alone in the room with Dr. Taylor. Crap. Nervous as hell, I inhaled deeply and glanced up. Eyes fixed on me, he sat behind his desk with his fingers steepled. The embodiment of authority, I thought.
“Relax, Angela,” he said. “There’s no time limit.”
Flustered, I nodded and leaned over my essay, trying to concentrate. The words ran together and I clutched my pencil, struggling to remember the meaning behind a particular John B. Watson quote. My mind traveled back to the day Dr. Taylor mentioned the quote. He’d been wearing khakis instead of his trademark faded jeans. Holy shit, I had it bad. Well, at least if I could remember the pants my professor wore on that particular day, I could answer the damn question. Careful to keep my handwriting neat, I filled up a page with my response, all the while feeling Dr. Taylor’s intense blue eyes focused on me like a force field closing in.
Confident I’d aced my last final, I collected my things and crossed the room to place my test on the pile on his desk. A surreal moment. The kind of moment that lasts forever. One chapter of my life had ended. I stood before Dr. Taylor in my wet boots, my lips parted slightly as I searched for a memorable way to say goodbye. My chest tightened knowing I wouldn’t see him again. God, what the fuck was my problem? Why couldn’t I just throw my test on the pile and hurry from the room without a backward glance, like every one of my classmates?