Page 27 of Duplicitous
“What’s your favorite song?” I ask Amala instead of flirting with him.
“Oh, that’s hard! I have a whole playlist saved on my phone. Let me check?—”
“Phones down,” a new voice barks from the front of the room. “If you want to be on your phone during one of my lectures, take it outside, and don’t come back.”
Amala’s eyes instantly shine, and she immediately tucks her phone out of sight, pushing it deep into her bag to demonstrate compliance.
I whirl around to glare at our asshole professor. I don’t know Amala well, but she looks like she’s on the verge of mortified tears.
“Class hasn’t started yet,” I retort.
My gaze clashes with eyes so dark that they’re almost black, and my breath catches.
Professor Asshole is gorgeous—he must be nearly six and a half feet tall, and his tweed blazer seems to barely contain his broad shoulders. His round, gold wire-rimmed glasses don’t do anything to diminish his aura of raw power; if anything, they only enhance his air of authority. And that face…chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and a slightly blocky brow. All artfully framed by caramel hair that falls around his shoulders in thick waves. No academic has the right to look that much like a male model.
His glower clashes with mine, and I swallow hard. My fingers fist beneath my desk in a reflexive gesture of strength.
I don’t care how hot he is. I won’t let him be a dick to my new friend. Especially when he’s barely older than we are.
“We’ll start now, then,” he replies coolly. “With you. Why are you here?”
My brows lift. “Excuse me?”
“I want a name and a reason.” He gestures at the lecture hall. “Why did you choose University of York and this course? The administration mandated an insipid ice breaker before I can start teaching you anything.”
I bristle at his arrogant attitude.
The demand to know what his problem is teases at the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down. Provoking my new professor isn’t a good idea.
I keep him fixed in a steady, defiant stare when I say, “I’m Lena Williams.”
I give him the fake name that came along with my new identity. It used to be my nickname when I was little, so the transition wasn’t too difficult. After living asLenafor the last five years, I answer to it easily.
Only Bones knows my real name now. He’s an anonymous internet stranger, so it doesn’t matter if he calls meKarolina.
Professor Asshole is still looking at me expectantly.
“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” I dare to challenge him before complying with the rest of his command for the ice breaker.
His lips twitch, and I can’t tell if he’s smothering a smirk or a frown. The hint at actual human emotion is gone as quickly as it came.
“I’m Rand Hirst,” he replies smoothly. “Some of the faculty here will encourage familiarity. I am not one of them. You will address me as Professor Hirst.”
I barely manage to resist rolling my eyes. Is this guy serious?
I decide that he probably has some sort of inferiority complex. He’s so young that he must want to prove he’s our superior.
He might be an established academic, but that doesn’t mean he’s smarter than I am. Maybe more knowledgeable, but not more intelligent.
I straighten my shoulders, determined to prove that I’ve earned my place in this MA.
“I chose University of York because we’re surrounded by Medieval history in the city and because of the merits of the program.” I match his cool tone and demeanor. “Why did you choose to teach here?”
“This isn’t a conversation, and I’m not here for small talk, Miss Williams,” he rebuts. “This is a tedious requirement imposed by the university. If you’re finished, we’ll move on to someone else.”
My cheeks burn with indignation.
“I’m here because I want to be an author,” I assert. “I want to base my Fantasy novels in as much historical realism as possible. This MA will help me accomplish that.”
