TWENTY-SIX: King Of Mixed Signals

The elevator door opens. Harlan, still towering over me and holding my gaze, adjusts the bag at his side. "Hmm," is his only response, and he steps off the elevator and stalks down the hall to his office.

Ever the king of mixed signals.

I'm on his heels, shoving a strand of hair behind my ear. A tell-tale sign that I'm nervous, though hopefully no one will pick up on it. Suddenly, I feel my stomach roiling as I watch professors and students mill about. As I follow Harlan to his office, I feel like the walls are closing in on me – claustrophobic and practically unable to breathe.

Once I'm in Harlan's office with the door shut behind me, I'm able to exhale, breath stuttering on the way out of my lungs. Harlan, rounding his desk, sets his bag down and lifts his gaze to watch me, expression nearly concerned.

Concerned isn't it. Interested? Not quite. Attentive. He definitely notices that I'm struggling.

He doesn't say anything. He never does. No, he merely stalks towards the front of his desk and leans against it, crossing his arms and watching me, waiting for me to speak. As always.

"Do you think anyone suspects us?" I ask, eyes flickering up to meet his, any notion of confidence and sexiness and allure having been thrown out the window in a heap of fire.

"Why should they?" he mutters lowly, shrugging his shoulders and slowly tilting his head. I watch him as he drinks me in with his eyes.

Jesus fuck, he is perfect, and I'm generally concerned about getting caught, so why do I want him even now?

"We've been discreet."

"Have we?" I scoff.

"If you're going to be working for me, then it's completely normal that we should be spending an increased amount of time together. It's completely normal for you to come see me. Here." Pushing himself off the desk, Harlan stands and begins slowly crossing the room. Towards me.

I hold my breath.

"If we don't give them a reason to suspect a thing, then they won't," he says, words biting through my skin and making me tingle. He stands directly in front of me now, dwarfing me against his towering frame. "If we don't act like we're doing anything wrong," he says deliberately, eyes narrowing at me, "then they won't have any reason to believe we are." His voice is so low, so sexy, and I know he is warning me against my own behaviour, but the severity in his tone, in his eyes, makes me buckle at the knees.

He quirks his brow. "If merely being in the same room as me proves to be enough to make you come undone like it just did now, perhaps I should reconsider this arrangement."

Briskly, I turn around, trying to maintain any false shred of confidence left over from my earlier high.

My hand on the doorknob, I turn back to look at him, but am ready to bolt from the pressure of it all. "It won't be a problem, sir," is all I can muster.

Fuck, I wish I could have done better – like telling him not to flatter himself, or making some quip about how maybe he'd be in the same position for having such a sexy-as-hell TA.

But my wit is hardly razor-sharp when he has me like putty in his hands, which is most of the time, so it is just a challenge overall.

"Can you just send me whatever preliminary information I'll need for the seminar?"

"I'll get that to you before the beginning of next week," he says, sitting down and starting up his computer. "And your final next week." His voice is a sheer warning as his eyes dart towards me, dark and foreboding.

You'd think we were talking about life and death rather than a fucking English test.

"You know what my expectations of you are.”

Jesus, how is he so sexy talking about how he wants me to study?

"Yeah," I scoff. "Hopefully my grade won't make you rethink hiring me."

He doesn't find that amusing.

"I'll see you this week for prep," I assure him.

He nods sharply and turns back to his computer.

I nod, and leave. He doesn't give me so much as a glance for a goodbye, but I can't fault him for that. Not during office hours.