Page 6 of Don't Be in Love

Windows covered the left wall of the class, looking into one of the courtyards. While a podium and chalkboard stood at the front. The room smelt of fresh wood and ink. About half of the class was already seated. I took the first seat I saw right as the professor walked in.

“Good morning, students,” she sang

“Good morning, Professor Emmerson,” everyone greeted.

Sylvie Emmerson. In real life. Not on my dingey computer screen.

The corporate mogul was in her late 50s sporting a tan pantsuit and passionate smile, with dark blond hair chopped short. Everyone who worked in marketing or wanted to, knew her. She worked for several luxury brands, building up their brand identity and loyalty for over three decades. After retiring, she began teaching at Townsen. I had dreamt of having her as a mentor ever since.

She spread out papers on the podium. “Welcome to—”

“Apologies, Sylvie!”

The entire class turned to the voice, some even gasping. At least all the women in the class had because it was—

“Dorian, it’sProfessor Emmerson,” she corrected.

Holy shit. I held onto my chin to keep my jaw in place.Please tell me my vision has taken a turn for the worst and that’s not actually him?

Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me … What were the chances of him not recognizing me?

I just needed to sit still and be quiet, just like they did with dinosaurs in the movies.

“Yes, Professor Emmerson,” he said smiling, nodding his head.

He brushed a hand through his hair, moving pieces out of his face like he was in a romance movie. Clad in black trousers and a rustled button-down (with a few buttons at the top undone). He didn’t look as clean-cut as he had Saturday night, but this time he lookedrich. It was in the lavish fabric of his clothes and how he carried himself in front of everyone in the class. Casual. Haughty.

The way every movement felt like a slow-motion moment.

Like when Hugh Grant enteredBridget Jones’s Diary.

I could still feel the softness of that hair when it had brushed my forehead on the train and at his flat.

I cleared my throat. It went unnoticed. I could stand on my desk and start reciting the four Ps of marketing and go undetected. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the notorious Dorian Blackwood who hadn’t been spotted in London since the start of the year, according toThe Scandal Sheet.

London Today, ModeSense, RBY, Celeb Chronicle, and every other news outlet I read from last night described Dorian Blackwood as the UK’s most coveted bachelor, despite the fact that he was only in his early twenties.

Rising to the limelight for his “physical attributes,” dating life, and oh—extremely famous parents: actress, Anna Blackwood, and film director, Finn Blackwood.

The parent part was buried under numerous headlines of who he was (allegedly) dating. Models, singers, daughters of iconic 90s actors, daughters of iconic 90s models.

Apparently, the men in England were as bad as the ones in America. Wonderful.

“Now take a seat so I can finally start class,” Professor Emmerson said.

Dorian finally moved away from the entryway. I turned my head down immediately.

His stare moved across the room deciding which empty seat to fill. Quickly scanning the desks, his gaze almost skipped me,almost.His eyebrows slightly rose, followed by the tilt of his head, walking toward the empty desk in front of me, and taking a seat.

There goes the dinosaur tactic.

“It’s you,” he whispered. His face bloomed with surprise. It made his lips look even fuller, making it difficult to remember that this wasn’t the person I met the other night, but the person I read about online.

My spine stiffened. I hadn’t planned for this.

“Sit down, Mr. Blackwood,” Professor Emmerson ordered.

I’d need a plan. Because apparently, I was going to have to fix this. No more hoping to go unnoticed when he was in the same class as me foran entire semester.