Page 67 of Baby Girl
Professor Benedict Brown, the head of the business department, shoots me a flat look. “I’m only a few years older than you.”
“Data is data,” I reply as he passes by me out into the hall.
He might only be a few years older than me, but he is the stereotypical professor, with his patched elbows, black-rimmed glasses, and slight pudge that one develops when they spend the majority of their time sitting behind a desk, completely devoted to their work.
Brown started at NU as a student and never left. I know for a fact that he has a wife and children, that are almost college age themselves, but I’ve never known him to not be at work. I’m fairly confident that if they started offering staff housing on campus, he would be the first to take up residence.
I follow him out into the hallway and pull my office door shut before we start to make our way toward my—his—classroom. “Thank you for accepting the swap and taking it on yourself.”
Brown nods. “I can’t begin to understand the situation you’ve found yourself in, but I admire the fact that you are at least handling it correctly.”
While Brown does not have all the details, he knows that there is more than a student-professor relationship between myself and Emery. The academic rumor mill has been running wild over the last week about Derek and me. One popular theory is that Derek is dating Emery, and because I have a relationship with him outside of NU, I’m stepping aside so there won’t be any accusations of favoritism.
Just this morning, I interrupted a watercooler moment in the staff kitchenette that definitely had us in a salacious and wild threesome. The conversation died the moment I entered the room, the two older professors and one of the female administrators going pink in the cheeks when I merely smiled while putting my lunch in the fridge.
If only they knew that their rumor was closer to the truth than anything else I’d heard so far.
“Yes, and it is only for this semester. An easy thing to put in place so that everything stays aboveboard,” I reply as I check the time on my phone.
If we don’t pick up the pace, we are going to be late, which isn’t a look I particularly like to have in front of students. Subtly, I slowly move us up from a stroll to a walk, distracting Brown with more conversation.
“Did you have a chance to review the handover packet this morning?”
Brown nods, holding a leather portfolio, which I really hope has a laptop in it and not a printout of the document I sent him. “Yes, thank you. The syllabus and class lessons all look well in hand. Thank you for those. Truth be told, I’m looking forward to teaching freshmen again. It’s been a few years since I’ve had the opportunity.”
“They are a good class, interactive. There are several students who are standouts.” I don’t bother mentioning names; he’ll see who they are when he grades the assignment that is due today.
“I’ll look forward to identifying them. Do you have any questions for me? You haven’t overseen a PhD cohort before, correct?”
“No, I haven’t, but I can draw on my own experience. I just wanted to confirm if you were working with them on a weekly basis? The rest of the paperwork was as I expected, but I couldn’t find a frequency for appointments so that I could get them scheduled.” Mentoring the PhD students through their thesis was a responsibility I’d been interested in taking on for a couple of years now, but with Brown preferring to handle that on his own, an opportunity had never come up.
Brown chuckles. “They are grown adults, Hudson. Let them set their schedule with you. And this generation all prefer to interact via email or on video calls, so expect your inbox to fill rapidly.”
Thankfully, I’m forcibly interrupted from saying exactly what I think of that very relaxed method by colliding with someone who steps directly into my path after exiting the female bathroom.
I grunt as what I think is an elbow digs into my stomach, not quite winding me as the door they came barreling through swings shut behind them. Instinctively, I grab their arms, so no one goes tumbling. But then I see the hair.
The long, brown, flowing hair that I’ve had my hand fisted in as I’ve fucked that pretty little throat. Just the memory has heat pooling in my balls.
“Oh, I’m so sor—” She cuts herself off when our eyes connect, and it’s a test of my restraint that I don’t reach out and grab her with both hands and crash my lips into that pout she is throwing my way.
Fuck, she is adorable, even when she is mad.
Instead, I use my grip to guide her back a few steps, separating us enough that I can’t smell the floral-scented shampoo. I can feel Brown staring a hole in my cheek, but I keep my face completely neutral. “Ms. Nicholas, how is your wrist?”
She narrows her eyes at me, then hitches her bag farther up her shoulder. “It’s fine.”
Emery mashes her lips together, like she didn’t mean to say anything, clearly wishing to keep us all in the dark about how she is healing. Derek mentioned as much via text earlier.
I nod, tension burning down my arms, and then actively step around her to resume my walk to class, definitely late now. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Brown takes my lead and catches up to me within a few steps. This time, I don’t make my pace easy for him. I need distance.
It would be so much easier if she read the fucking letter.
Giving her the space she craves so desperately right now would be easier to tolerate if sheknew.
The speed we are walking at doesn’t invite conversation by Brown, if the heavy breathing is any indication about his current fitness level. By the time we are at the classroom, he is red in the face with a little perspiration above his brow.
