an ounce of respect for me and doesn’t only look for what he can get is interested. In me.
“Okay.”
Shaun leans past me and grabs his phone from the table. I catch his subtle, clean scent, the one I associate with time alone with Shaun in this room and could associate with more. If more happens.
“I think Samantha must be an anarchist,” he says as we step out of the building into the bright autumn day.
“That’s a weird thing to say. I didn’t realise she was political.”
“No, the tea. Anarchists only drink herbal tea.” He smiles down at my confused look. “Because all proper tea is theft.”
I’m confused for a moment then catch onto his joke. Property. This man... Even his jokes are intelligent. “Very philosophical.”
The polar opposite of a man who says he wants to fuck me.
****
An hour at Sip with Shaun passes in the blink of an eye. Eyes. Searching, green eyes of a sexy Irish guy. As I drink and listen to his stories of his time at Oxford, I’m distracted and confused. I shouldn’t be attracted to this man. I am, but we’re semi-taboo. He’s not strictly speaking a professor, but he does teach and he is my supervisor.
I veer the direction of our conversation towards twentieth century European History, and my dissertation. This is his research area, the reason we’re partnered, and the respectful attention he gives my interpretations boosts my confidence. I can complete a Doctorate of my own and bury myself in history books. Anne is horrified at the thought, but I’m happy to stay in academia for life.
What a contrast to my last semi-date here.
We walk back to campus; the butterflies came with me on our coffee not-a-date and they continue their spiralling through my stomach on the way back to his office. Nate’s attempt to drag me back to the other night by confronting me earlier is all but forgotten, eclipsed by an afternoon with Shaun.
“I’m happy for you to use my library,” says Shaun as we reach the edge of campus.
“Your book collection is very impressive, but I can do most of my research online.”
“The youth of today!” He makes a tutting sound.
“Excuse me? You’re two years older than me!”
Shaun nudges me in the side with his elbow. “I prefer books. Nothing like curling up in bed with a nice, big history book.”
“Laptops are warmer on cold winters’ nights.”
“I share my bed; I don’t need warming up.” Shaun looks ahead, hands in pockets.
The butterflies squish under a large, heavy weight. “Oh.”
“Because I have a cat.” Shaun pushes open the door to the building housing his office.
“Do you?”
“Not a girlfriend, Fleur.”
Why are we talking about this? I can’t reply. And by not replying, I’m indicating I’m bothered. I need to speak.
“Or a boyfriend?” I ask, voice light as we head into his room.
Shaun halts and I almost bump into him. Slowly, he turns back. He rubs his long fingers along his lips and doesn’t step away. The energy is there again, pulling me towards him.
“Do you think I’m gay?”
“I don’t know. Makes no difference to me.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No.”
Following what I suspect is a well-practiced smoulder, he says, “If I was gay, I wouldn’t want to kiss you.”
Holy crapballs. Sometimes, we want something so much and suddenly it’s there for the taking. And at that point, what seemed like a really great idea is terrifying and a bad idea. Like bungee jumping. Or skydiving.
Or kissing your kind-of tutor.
To my relief, he doesn’t edge any closer. Possibly, because my expression has transformed into one of a horrified teen whose lust for her idol became a possibility.
I grapple behind me for the door handle. “I think I should go.”
“Shit. Sorry. I thought…” Shaun drags a hand through his wavy hair. “I’m poor at reading signals. You’re only interested in my brains and witty humour, aren’t you?”
“No. Yes. No. Thank you. Sorry.”
Silly, teen Fleur
“Okay.”
Shaun leans past me and grabs his phone from the table. I catch his subtle, clean scent, the one I associate with time alone with Shaun in this room and could associate with more. If more happens.
“I think Samantha must be an anarchist,” he says as we step out of the building into the bright autumn day.
“That’s a weird thing to say. I didn’t realise she was political.”
“No, the tea. Anarchists only drink herbal tea.” He smiles down at my confused look. “Because all proper tea is theft.”
I’m confused for a moment then catch onto his joke. Property. This man... Even his jokes are intelligent. “Very philosophical.”
The polar opposite of a man who says he wants to fuck me.
****
An hour at Sip with Shaun passes in the blink of an eye. Eyes. Searching, green eyes of a sexy Irish guy. As I drink and listen to his stories of his time at Oxford, I’m distracted and confused. I shouldn’t be attracted to this man. I am, but we’re semi-taboo. He’s not strictly speaking a professor, but he does teach and he is my supervisor.
I veer the direction of our conversation towards twentieth century European History, and my dissertation. This is his research area, the reason we’re partnered, and the respectful attention he gives my interpretations boosts my confidence. I can complete a Doctorate of my own and bury myself in history books. Anne is horrified at the thought, but I’m happy to stay in academia for life.
What a contrast to my last semi-date here.
We walk back to campus; the butterflies came with me on our coffee not-a-date and they continue their spiralling through my stomach on the way back to his office. Nate’s attempt to drag me back to the other night by confronting me earlier is all but forgotten, eclipsed by an afternoon with Shaun.
“I’m happy for you to use my library,” says Shaun as we reach the edge of campus.
“Your book collection is very impressive, but I can do most of my research online.”
“The youth of today!” He makes a tutting sound.
“Excuse me? You’re two years older than me!”
Shaun nudges me in the side with his elbow. “I prefer books. Nothing like curling up in bed with a nice, big history book.”
“Laptops are warmer on cold winters’ nights.”
“I share my bed; I don’t need warming up.” Shaun looks ahead, hands in pockets.
The butterflies squish under a large, heavy weight. “Oh.”
“Because I have a cat.” Shaun pushes open the door to the building housing his office.
“Do you?”
“Not a girlfriend, Fleur.”
Why are we talking about this? I can’t reply. And by not replying, I’m indicating I’m bothered. I need to speak.
“Or a boyfriend?” I ask, voice light as we head into his room.
Shaun halts and I almost bump into him. Slowly, he turns back. He rubs his long fingers along his lips and doesn’t step away. The energy is there again, pulling me towards him.
“Do you think I’m gay?”
“I don’t know. Makes no difference to me.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No.”
Following what I suspect is a well-practiced smoulder, he says, “If I was gay, I wouldn’t want to kiss you.”
Holy crapballs. Sometimes, we want something so much and suddenly it’s there for the taking. And at that point, what seemed like a really great idea is terrifying and a bad idea. Like bungee jumping. Or skydiving.
Or kissing your kind-of tutor.
To my relief, he doesn’t edge any closer. Possibly, because my expression has transformed into one of a horrified teen whose lust for her idol became a possibility.
I grapple behind me for the door handle. “I think I should go.”
“Shit. Sorry. I thought…” Shaun drags a hand through his wavy hair. “I’m poor at reading signals. You’re only interested in my brains and witty humour, aren’t you?”
“No. Yes. No. Thank you. Sorry.”
Silly, teen Fleur
Similar Books
