Getting Schooled (Craving #9) Page 17

  After their little reception, he whisked her off to the French Riviera for the first part of their vacation. He chartered a boat for most of the first week, sailing the Mediterranean Sea, giving them plenty of alone time. He then surprised her, taking her to Italy for the second leg of their honeymoon. They stayed in a little villa in Tuscany, just enjoying the food and townspeople, but especially each other. It was the perfect way to start their lives together; her professor thought of everything.

  He sacrificed so much for her, she couldn’t let him give up anything else. So, when he asked her to take his name, when they got married, she whole-heartedly agreed. Besides making him incredibly happy, she wanted to have the same last name as her child. Now, their little girl was going to make a very public appearance into this world unless the ceremony started moving along. They called her name, and she couldn’t help her waddle across the stage to accept her diploma. She just about doubled in pain after shaking the dean’s hand, not missing the concern on his face. He helped her down the steps from the stage and delivered her into Callan’s arms.

  “I think your wife is in labor, Doctor McClure.” Callan wrapped his arms around her, helping her to the exit as Dr. Clarke made his way back up to the stage.

  “How long have you been having contractions, Jas?” He helped her to the car as she focused on her breathing. She was trying to buy herself a few more moments of peace before she admitted to her overly protective husband that she hid the fact she was in labor for hours.

  He pulled off her graduation robe, and she slid into the passenger side of his car and tried to buckle herself in. “Here, let me.” He pulled her seatbelt across her enormous belly, securing her in.

  “Baby, tell me that these contractions just started.” The look of concern on her husband’s face had her feeling much worse than the contractions felt, and they hurt like someone was trying to rip her in two. Another contraction started, almost as soon as the last one stopped, and Callan cursed. He ran around to his side of the car and slid in, taking off for the hospital.

  “You should have told me, Jas. We don’t know how fast she will be here now. What if we don’t make it?” Jasmin would have laughed at his worry had she not been in so much discomfort.

  “Our daughter is as impatient as you and as stubborn as me. I think our girl is going to do as she pleases, no matter where we are. Unless you want your nice leather seats messed up, I think you should consider speeding up a bit.” Jasmin blew out a few short puffs of air and tried to remain calm. She hated that he was right, but Callan did have a point. She didn’t want to give birth in his car. He screeched to a halt in front of the ER’s entrance. Callan found a wheelchair and helped her into it. She was afraid the baby wasn’t going to wait until she got into the building. Jasmin was feeling the need to push.

  “She’s coming!” she screamed, squeezing Callan’s hand. He yelled for some help, and they were whisked into a semi-private room where a team of nurses helped her onto a gurney. Within minutes, they had her pushing, Callan holding her leg and telling her what a good job she was doing. He whispered encouragements into her ear and kissed her face as she pushed their daughter into the world. All eight pounds, seven ounces of her came, screaming bloody murder, stealing both of their hearts.

  “She’s got a full head of dark hair, just like her mama,” the nurse commented.

  “You did so good, honey.” Callan kissed her forehead, and she laid back against his chest, exhausted.

  “Is she all right?” Jasmin tried to see what the nurses were doing with her.

  “She’s perfect,” a nurse said, handing her the squalling baby. Jasmin took her daughter into her arms, never thinking that she could love another person as much a she loved Callan, but she was wrong.

  “She is pretty perfect.” Callan wrapped his arms around both of his girls, and she knew that what started out as a forbidden affair had ended up being the best decision that she ever made. She couldn’t picture her life without her new baby girl or her sexy, over-protective, bossy professor.

  The End

  About the Author

  K. L. Ramsey was born and raised in Maryland. As a child she struggled in school, having to attend speech and reading therapy. Her teacher told her that she would never be a very good reader; that English was just not her thing. She continued to struggle until eleventh grade, when she signed up for a Creative Writing class. Her high school teacher saw her potential and submitted a short story, that K. L. had written for class, to a local literary publication. The story was not only published but won an award for best short story. Knowing that someday she wanted to become a writer, K. L. received her BA in English from Salisbury State University.

  K. L. Ramsey currently resides in West Virginia (Go Mountaineers!). She lives with hunky scientist, two now not so little people, and six fur babies. In her spare time, she likes to read romance novels, attend WVU football games and drink wine with girlfriends.

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  https://www.facebook.com/kl.ramsey.58

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  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17733274.K_L_Ramsey

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  https://www.amazon.com/K.L.-Ramsey/e/B0799P6JGJ/

  Schooling Sara

  By Rita Delude

  Chapter One

  Sara

  As I storm out of Hunter’s office, knowing I’ll never return again, I run into a perky blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl who must be a freshman. She is clutching a piece of paper to her heart and grinning with orthodontist-perfect white teeth.

  “Be careful,” I warn as I see her reach to knock on his heavy wooden office door. “He’s not exactly what he seems.”

  “And who are you?” she demands.

  I want to slap some sense into her. Instead, I pause for just a second. “Actually, sweetheart, I’m you five years ago. That’s exactly what I am. Good luck,” I say and saunter down the long corridor, not looking back.

  But I do look back in my mind. Just five years before, give or take a few months, I step into that very same corridor.

  I am a starry-eyed, virgin freshman at the Rhode Island Institute of Design. Since my first Family and Consumer Science class in middle school, where they taught us sewing, I wanted to spend my time manipulating fabrics, even though I didn’t know what exactly I will do. I don’t like making clothing, so I’m not going to be a fashion designer, but fabric is in my future, and I know it. For my thirteenth birthday, my parents give me a high tech sewing machine, something I’ve been begging for. They, too, can see I’m serious about textiles.

  Rhode Island has a textile program. Admissions officers tell me I’ll be introduced to all sorts of possibilities for working with fabrics and can earn my degree in whatever area I decide to specialize in.

  “Don’t worry. We’ve got your back, and counselors are always available to help you track your program choices. Better yet, get to know the Textiles Chairperson, Professor Hunter Bray, as soon as possible, and he’ll have your back too.”

  Little do I know, as I leave the admissions interview with a gleeful smile and the promise of a bright future on a gorgeous campus, that Hunter Bray will become so important in my life.

  Classes start just two days after my roommate Shaylee and I settle in. My bed is covered in a memory quilt I made using T-shirts from all the field hockey and soccer teams I have ever been on, plus photos of my family—Nana and Grandpa Quinn, my dad’s parents; Grandpa and Mimi Jordan, my mom’s parents; my parents, Fred and Lois; and my sisters: Susie, Stephanie, and Sasha. Plus there are pictures of all the dogs I’ve had throughout the years—Wrangler, Mayzie, Daisy, Bella, Doodles, Tommy, Milo, Joey, and Ramsey. Our home is pretty much ne
ver without at least three dogs. They are family.

  Shaylee, a short redhead with a fiery vocabulary that would put a drunken sailor to shame, is an art major. Her bedspread is a white canvas for a detailed painting of her favorite subject—her three cats: Wendy, Whiskers, and Catnip.

  I know we’ll be great friends when I see that—she is talented, enthusiastic, and loves animals. What’s not to like?

  Our first class together is History of Art 205. We sit together in the front of the room, not wanting to miss a word of whatever gems of wisdom our professor will pontificate. We are so naïve. This class is to be taught by the man, Hunter Bray, himself. I am shocked to see his name on my schedule. Certainly, the department chair won’t demean himself by teaching a lowly freshman class.

  My instincts are right. He won’t. Hunter Douglas Bray arrives ten minutes late to class, just when some students are saying there’s a rule that if the professor doesn’t show up in fifteen minutes, we are free to leave. Well, that isn’t going to happen with me. I know my parents are sacrificing a lot to have me attend the university. I won’t be missing classes and won’t walk out on professors, even those who arrive late.

  Suddenly, the group quiets as a tall, dark man with chiseled features, black hair, and a solid body struts into the room and takes his place at the front desk. He is wearing jeans, polished, brown leather cowboy boots, and a blue and white pin-striped Oxford shirt. He turns and, in penmanship that would rival John Hancock in size and neatness, writes “Professor Hunter Bray” and “Office: TEX Room 365.”

  Then he turns, slips a pair of half glasses onto his perfect nose, and reads one name after another from the computer screen in front of him. By the time he gets to “Sara Quinn,” I am salivating just watching him. How old is he? Do they save the ugly teachers for high school? Is this what all my professors will look like?

  “I said, ‘Sara Quinn.’ Is Sara here?”

  His deep voice wakes me from my daydreaming. I sit up straighter in my chair and lift my right hand briefly. “Yes, I’m Sara Quinn. I’m here, sir.”

  “Sir,” several of the guys in the back of the room say in unison, and I hear chuckles from around the room. My first class in college and already my strict upbringing is making me a mark for those who will make fun of me.

  “At least someone knows how to show respect,” Professor Bray says. The class is silenced.

  He spends the next half hour going over the syllabus and explains the grading formula. He answers questions, cracks jokes, and talks about all the options that freshmen have to choose from after that first semester of required courses. I am thrilled to be in his presence. He keeps me transfixed to his every word, and I watch him move gracefully around the room speaking from all four corners of the space and commanding the room with the power of a king.

  With just ten minutes left of class, in walks a small man, maybe ten years younger than Professor Bray. He moves toward the front desk as if he owns it, and I feel like saying something against his move.

  From the back of the room comes Professor Bray’s voice. “Oh, David, there you are. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to my teaching assistant, David Channel. He’ll be leading my classes, grading your papers, and answering your questions. But this is my class. So if you have any concerns Mr. Channel can’t answer, please stop by to see me during my office hours.” Then he pauses as if he was a stage actor who knows his part and timing so well.

  “And where might you find my office hours listed?” he asks.

  My hand shoots up before I can stop myself. “In the syllabus, Professor Bray,” I say. This time, no one dares make fun of me.

  “Exactly. In the syllabus. Before any of you asks Mr. Channel or me any questions, be sure to check your syllabus. The answers are almost always there.”

  He moves from the back of the room and places a small piece of paper on my desk as he passes by. David Channel is saying something about the first assignment due in time for our next class, but I will have to ask Shaylee what he’s saying, because I am reading the note:

  Miss Quinn,

  Please meet me in my office after class.

  Professor Bray

  Chapter Two

  Sara

  I pull on Shaylee’s arm to warn her to hang back in the room after class.

  “Look at this,” I insist.

  Shaylee looks at it, up at me, and down at the note again.

  “Holy shit! What does that mean?” she demands as if I will know.

  “That’s why I’m showing you. I have no idea. Did I do something wrong, ya think?” I ask.

  She is bouncing on her tiptoes and still isn’t as tall as I am.

  “Something wrong? Are you kidding me? You’re the one who ‘showed some respect,’ or so the famous Lord Bray himself said. Maybe he just wants to meet the biggest kiss ass ever, up close and personal.”

  Putting my hands on my hips, I glare at Shaylee.

  “I am not a kiss ass. That’s the way my parents raised me. Be polite. That’s just me. It’s not just going to disappear because I landed on a college campus. You like it or leave it,” I say, feeling a bit hurt by her words. Kiss ass. Not. Back home I stuck up for kids who teachers picked on. I was just being polite. And excited. And nervous. College. I’m really, finally in college.

  “Earth to Sara,” Shaylee says, and her voice draws me away from my thoughts. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but in New Jersey, at least at the school I come from, kids aren’t polite to teachers no matter what. Still friends?” she asks.

  “Still friends,” I promise and mean it. “I’ve got two hours before my next class. I think I’ll follow directions and find out where Professor Bray’s office is now. Catch you back at our room just before dinner.”

  “Be careful,” Shaylee warns.

  “About what?”

  “We had an old geezer teacher in high school who kept hitting on the shy girls. There were rumors, but until one got pregnant, nothing happened to stop him. With his baby on the way, they canned him.”

  Stunned as I am about the warning, I need to fight back. “First of all, this is not high school. People here aren’t kids. Consenting adults can do whatever they want. Your high school teacher was a perv. This is not that. Maybe he wants to mentor me or something…” I say, trailing off because I don’t really know how else to explain it.

  “It’s the ‘or something’ you need to watch out for. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Okay. You warned me. Thanks. Catch you later,” I say and head off to the stairwell to the third floor.

  On the way upstairs, I run into David Channel.

  “Hi,” I say, “I’m in your History of Art 205 class, or should I say Professor Bray’s class?”

  “Hi, you can call me David. I’m just a teaching assistant. Where you headed?” he asks.

  “Um, Room 365.”

  David’s smiling face changes to a frown.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  Silence fills the stairwell.

  “Oh, yes. Just got a headache, I guess. Do want to warn you not to get too close to any of the professors here. If you do, rumors spread. There’ve been rumors about some…”

  “Certainly not about Professor Bray. He’s known around the world for his artwork. He’s got things hanging in museums all over the world. I saw his fabric design of the 9/11 landscape at the New York Metropolitan last year. Professor Bray, well, he’s Professor Bray…”

  David’s smile returns. He looks me up and down like he’s admiring a fine painting.

  “Yes, that’s right. Professor Bray is Professor Bray. That’s who he is. I’ve got to run. Have a great day,” he says as he hurries down the stairwell and opens the door to the warm outside.

  The textiles classes are all held in the oldest building on campus. I love the feel of the marble floors and walls. The walls are cold against my hands, the floors so smooth I think I can ice skate across them. The polish of the old bannisters, doo
r frames, and decorative wood carvings make the place feel like a palace. The two-seater benches along the walls have elaborate, carved claw feet, and the seats are worn smooth from 140 years of what I imagine are waiting students, study conversations, and lovers’ spats. The whole place smells like furniture polish. I find Room 365 with no trouble and knock on the huge wooden door.

  When I make three timid knocks, I hear the professor’s voice, “Come in. Come in.”

  I do. His office is huge, bigger than the family room at my parents’ home, which we fill with aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents for every imaginable holiday. We Quinns like to party. The office has three huge windows with the same wooden panes as those in the lounge on the first floor of the building. They are arched at the top and have thick drapery of a peacock blue. The floor is made of wide wooden planks, stained and shined in a dark mahogany finish. Everything about the place spells of old money and raspberry.

  “Hello,” I say. “I’m sorry to bother you, but your note said…” I wave the slip of paper like a surrender flag.

  He smiles and chuckles. The sound is warm and rich. The office smells of raspberry-flavored pipe tobacco, the kind my grandfather Jordan likes to sneak around to our backyard to smoke, so he won’t get nagged by my mimi, who wants him to quit his “filthy habit.”

  “Can you keep a secret?” Professor Bray asks as he rises from his leather desk chair to greet me.

  “Sure,” I say.

  He extracts the pipe he’d been holding between his teeth and puts it in a container that looks like the bottom of an antique metal sewing box.