The Muse Read online

  “Ms. Eliot,” says Beckett, still frowning slightly, “are you quite all right? Shouldn’t you be preparing for the first workshop tomorrow morning?”

  I straighten in my seat. “I’m fully prepared, Professor Beckett.”

  His eyes flicker downward before snapping back to my face. He frowns harder, and beneath the table, Claire’s fingers squeeze the blood from mine.

  Into the awkward silence, Monty asks, “Would you care to join us, professor?”

  Beckett’s gaze stays fixed on me. “Maybe next time,” he says curtly, and spins on his heel to stalk toward the exit.

  Claire releases a noisy breath. “Holy shit he’s hot.”

  “Hey!” admonishes Monty.

  Claire gives him a quick kiss on the cheek, then faces me, eyes widened hugely. “Did you see what I saw? He totally checked out the girls.”

  I glance down at my cleavage, relieved to see minimal exposure. “No, he didn’t. He must have been looking at my necklace.”

  Claire snorts. The words sound thin to me as well, and after a moment, I accept that my foreseeable future just became monumentally more challenging.

  Groaning, I push my empty pint glass away and gather my notebook and purse.

  Claire wears a knowing smirk. “You’re going home to review for tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  I nod, sliding out of the booth and standing to put on my coat. “After this winning second impression, he now thinks I’m a drunken idiot who tripped and fell into the MFA program.”

  Claire giggles, scooting closer to Monty and dropping her chin onto his shoulder. He absentmindedly pats her dark hair, gaze unwavering from his textbook.

  “Walk safe. See you in a bit.”

  “Will do.”

  With a final wave, I weave through the scattered crowd—a mostly mellow mix of graduate students, laypersons, and the occasional faculty member. Being far removed from Greek Row and the more modern, raucous bars closer to the university, the White Harp has been a favorite of Claire’s and mine since our undergrad years.

  As I step into the brisk night air, I say a silent prayer that James Beckett never returns.

  “Ms. Eliot.”

  I shriek at his voice behind me. As I spin around, the heel of my boot slips on damp concrete. No, please no… My arms cartwheel for balance, my purse flying from my wrist. As my fight for balance is officially lost, I close my eyes tightly in preparation for a bruised ass and ego.

  Hands seize my coat in opposition of gravity. For a second I’m airborne, then I crash into a wall. A leather-clad, human wall.

  “Good Lord, woman,” he bites out, “you’re a disaster.”

  I open one eye at a time, just in case the universe decides to save me from myself in the interim. It doesn’t, and I stare up at Beckett’s face from an alarming three-inch distance. Under the pub’s exterior lights, I can see the stubble on his jaw. I’m just buzzed—or stupid—enough to imagine what it would feel like on my cheek. And other places.

  His fingers clenching on my arms bring me back from the edge of insanity. I stiffen, and he abruptly loosens his hold. Dragging a hand through his hair, he mutters something under his breath.

  “What?” I ask.

  He glares at me. “I said, I asked for a man.”

  It takes me a few seconds, but then I understand. Hot anger burns through the vestiges of my embarrassment. “I don’t know what your TAs at Boston University were like, but here in Washington we don’t lift our skirts for our professors. Consider yourself safe from my lascivious intents.”

  His mouth opens, closes, and finally quirks. “I should think you don’t wear skirts very often, given the weather.” He glances at the misty sky. “In fact, it’s not too dissimilar from England.”

  I stare at him mutely, shaking my head, then turn to gather the contents of my purse from the sidewalk. He crouches beside me, offering me several pens. We work in silence for a few moments—in which I’m grateful no tampons spilled—before he clears his throat.

  “Lascivious intents? A bit of a mouthful, that.”

  I risk a glance at his face, and the sight of his merry eyes makes me crack a smile. “That was pretty bad, I’ll admit.”

  He grins, a flash of white teeth in the shadows. “You might have said instead, Sod off, you misogynistic prick.”

  Improbably, I laugh. And when he offers his hand to help me to my feet, I take it. He releases me quickly, but the echo of his warm skin stays on my palm.

  “Thanks for, uh, catching me.”

  “Since the impending accident was my fault, it was the least I could do.” His smile slowly fades, eyebrows pinching. “I apologize for my comment, Ms. Eliot. I did ask for a man, but not for the reason you assumed. I merely wanted to avoid the rumor mill. Given your reference to Boston University, I’m assuming you know why I left?”

  My stomach drops as I realize there’s no way around the truth. “You had an affair with a student.”

  He nods. “I did,” he says without shame. “I was twenty-eight, high off my rising success, and criminally self-centered. I very nearly ruined a young woman’s academic career.”

  I frown. “Why are you telling me this?”

  He doesn’t move, but I suddenly feel like he’s looming over me. I shiver in my coat and clutch my purse tighter to my chest.

  “You know exactly why. Because this,” a finger jerks between our chests, “is what they call chemistry. So I’m going to say this once and one time only: do not tempt me.”

  Heat frissons through me even as I stiffen in affront. “Are you kidding? Tempt you? I should report you!”

  He chuckles. “To whom? Your Director?”

  “The Head of the Graduate Department,” I snap.

  Beckett shakes his head chidingly. “Joseph and I were undergrads together at Stanford.”

  “My God,” I breathe, “you’re an absolute—”

  “Prick,” he finishes with another sharp smile. “Yes, I know. It’s a defect I have yet to remedy.”

  The door of the pub opens and closes.

  “Iris, is that you?” asks Claire. “I thought you were going home.”

  Beckett gives me a final, searing glance before striding down the sidewalk. Claire moves up beside me, and we stare at his diminishing figure.

  “Was that—”

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Why do you look so flustered?”

  Because this is what they call chemistry.

  “I’m fine,” I lie. “He just lectured me again about his expectations for the quarter.”

  “Lame. Do you think he’s going to monitor you tomorrow?”

  I finally look at her. “I really hope not.”

  3. anachronism

  “Well, is anyone going to comment on Terrance’s piece?”

  I look over the classroom, noting the students who meet my eyes and those who stare at their desks. When no one says anything, I wring my mental hands. Despite Beckett’s warning, I can already tell they’re not taking me seriously.

  Chin up, buttercup, whispers my brother’s voice. You’ll always be underestimated, so you might as well come out of the gate swinging.

  I sigh loudly, complete with groan. “Okay, people. In case your brains malfunctioned, we just listened to an extended metaphor about an infected nose ring. Did you like it? Did it make sense? Greg, talk!”

  Greg jerks in his seat, then clears his throat. “Yes, it made sense. It was gross, but that kind of made it more appealing.”

  My gaze scans the room. “Janice? You look like you’re sucking on a lemon. Why didn’t you like it?”

  She shrugs. “It was well written, and I like that he used something not clichéd to represent a broken heart. But like Greg said, it was gross. Gross in a distracting way, like by the end I wasn’t thinking about heartbreak but getting the poor guy a tissue and some peroxide.”

  The class laughs, even Terrance. “Tone down gross-factor, check.”

  The nicest feature of senior writ
ing students is that by now, they’re used to critiques. There’s nothing quite as irritating as crying freshman. I should know—I used to be one.

  I glance at the clock. “Okay. Fifteen minutes to work on Beckett’s assignment due Monday. And don’t forget to pair up with a proofreader. Even if you think you’re Hemingway, you need a reader.”

  I veer around the desk and sit, pulling out my notebook and grabbing a pen. After a quick review of Thursday’s lesson plan, I retrieve my thesis proposal and read it for the billionth time. My meeting with Beckett is right after class. At least his office is in the same building, so I can avoid a repeat of yesterday’s sweaty-mess performance.

  In fact, my attire today screams demure professional. White blouse, grey slacks, black cardigan, my long hair drawn back into a sleek ponytail. My only concession to personality are my bright red flats; after last night’s slippage, heels and I are on a hiatus.

  The closer the minute hand moves toward 10:50, the higher my anxiety ratchets. So does the noise from the hallway as other classes let out.

  After several questioning glances, I relent. “See you Thursday.” Everyone gathers their things, waving or saying goodbye as they hurry from the room.

  When the last student is gone, I slide my notebook into my bag and prepare to face down Beckett.

  The door opens suddenly, revealing the man in question. My heart leaps alarmingly. He’s wearing faded jeans that cling to all the right places and a black dress shirt sans tie. Messy hair, scruffy face, ink-stained left hand.

  God help me.

  “Ms. Eliot, we’re taking our meeting to the HUB. I’m starved.”

  “W-what?” I stammer.

  He frowns. “I spoke English, didn’t I? Hustle. I’m yours for thirty minutes.”

  Then he disappears into the hallway, final words thrumming in my head and body. Damnit, why does he have to be so good looking? The universe doesn’t answer. Or the silence is answer enough.

  Beckett is fiddling with his phone at the top of the stairs. His hair looks even more chaotic than it did a minute ago. Bracing myself for the impact of his eyes, I walk up to him.

  “Professor, I really don’t feel comfortable—”

  “Oh, stop,” he says lightly, not looking up. “Did you bring your manuscript? I’ve already reviewed your proposal and want you to read me an excerpt.” He finally deigns to meet my gaze; after a moment, his brows lift. “Hello?”

  Unstoppable heat floods my face. “I have it on my laptop, yes, but—”

  “Then quit dallying.”

  He tucks his phone into his back pocket and heads down the stairs. Students file past. I don’t want to notice, but of course I do—every female devours him head to toe. Just like I’m doing my damnedest not to.

  Do not tempt me.

  Clearly that should have been my line.

  When I catch up to him at the bottom of the stairs, he barely pauses before we head outside into the cool air. The sky is a vapid blue, the sun hiding behind trees.

  “You should be wearing a coat,” he mumbles.

  My gaze snaps to him. “I’m not cold.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  With dawning embarrassment, I look down, then yank my cardigan over my chest. He chuckles, dark and low, the sound lifting goosebumps and tightening my nipples even further.

  “Congratulations, by the way, Ms. Eliot. You look at least twenty-four today.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m twenty-seven.”

  He nods, flashing me a tight grin. “I read your file.”

  “Great,” I droll.

  Laughing, he opens the door to the student union and gestures me before him. Still gripping my sweater closed, I duck inside. As I pass him, my nose fills with his subtle cologne. I might be imagining things, but I think I hear his swift, indrawn breath.

  Did we just smell each other?

  Nerves exploding in my stomach, I step outside the flow of traffic and try to catch my breath. The mere thought of reading an excerpt of my novel to him makes my fingers and toes tingly.

  “What do you feel like?” he asks, glancing around the various cafes. “Burger? Salad? Soup?”

  “Soup’s fine,” I force out.

  Somehow, I survive the ordering process with Beckett standing behind me, close enough that I feel his shirt whispering along my back. It’s not his fault—it’s packed in here. When someone bumps him, and he draws flush to my body, arousal plummets through me and every muscle in my body locks.

  “Sorry,” he murmurs, stepping quickly back.

  By the time we have our food and find a table, I can’t think straight much less look him in the face. Nor can I taste my soup, which by some miracle doesn’t end up on my blouse. To make matters even worse, every few minutes a faculty member stops by the table—every one of them women wearing too much perfume and breathing too heavily.

  When the most recent applicant for Beckett’s bed leaves, I check my watch. “We’ll have to reschedule. That last conversation was six minutes of mind numbing innuendo too many.”

  To my surprised glee, a flush blooms on his cheekbones. “I’m sorry, Ms. Eliot.”

  “Oh, please,” I say with a dismissive wave. “You obviously love it. I’ve never seen so many faculty eating lunch at the HUB. Let me guess, you come here every day.”

  Still looking chagrined, he nods. “I like the atmosphere. The faculty lounges are stuffy and boring.”

  I bend for my bag. “Okay, well—”

  “You don’t have class until one,” he says abruptly. “Let’s get coffee.”

  I still, my eyes narrowing. “You said you had thirty minutes.”

  He shrugs. “I lied.”

  As I stare at him, he stands and moves around the table to— “Are you seriously trying to pull my chair back for me?” I ask, arching my neck to see his face.

  His eyes fasten for an electric moment on my throat. “Merely doing the gentlemanly thing. Up you go.”

  Flustered, I jerk to standing and lurch away from the chair. My foot snags in the strap of my bag, but before I can fall on my face Beckett grabs my arm. His sudden grin knocks the air from my chest.

  “Have you always been such a klutz?”

  I pry my arm from his grip as subtly as I can. “Yes,” I lie.

  With a too-knowing smile lingering on his lips, he hands me my bag. I head for the onsite Starbucks, not looking to see if he follows.

  Ten minutes later, we’re back outside. Beckett takes the lead, guiding me around a few buildings and into a small garden. Several benches are occupied, but there’s one set in a cave of greenery that’s empty. Probably because it’s freezing in the shade.

  Beckett drops sinuously onto the bench, taking up altogether too much space. I stare warily at the remaining seat.

  He sighs. “Come on, I don’t bite. Let’s just forget about my crass words last night. I had a pint too many. You’re lovely—truly—but I’m not going to try to shag you. You’re perfectly safe from me.”

  Not feeling safe at all, I sit beside him. The warmth from his body radiates onto my side, igniting a dangerous need to curl into him. Instead, I bend forward to set down my coffee and pull my laptop from my bag. My movements are graceless, and as I straighten the side of my breast brushes his knee. Said knee jerks away.

  “Sorry,” I gasp, and yank upright.

  He clears his throat. “Alright, let’s have it. Your proposal sounded interesting. Read me the first three paragraphs.”

  Opening my laptop, I enter my password and retrieve my manuscript from the desktop. Familiar words fill the screen, yet in this moment—with this man beside me—they are utterly foreign. Doubt crawls through me, making my fingers shake on the trackpad. Unmoving, I wait for courage, wishing I was wearing my brother’s sweatshirt.

  With an aggravated sigh, Beckett unceremoniously snatches my laptop and plops it on his knees. Leaning forward, his eyes rapidly scan the text. He quickly reads the first page, a finger confidently scrolling down. In le
ss than two minutes, he’s finished the first chapter. He gently closes the laptop and stares across the garden.

  My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it. “You hate it,” I whisper, startled by the depth of my devastation.

  After another few moments, he blinks and looks at me. I can’t decipher his expression. “Not at all. It’s not bad. A little verbose, perhaps. The bit at the end, about her brother’s hand in hers, was quite arresting.” He glances away, then back, eyes narrowing. Assessing and dissecting. “Is your brother still alive?”

  Cold spirals in my chest and outward, turning my lips numb. How did he…

  “Is the accident in my file?”

  “I don’t know anything about an accident,” he replies gently, eyes steady on mine. “I merely wondered, given the autobiographical tone and foreshadowing.”

  Unable to maintain eye contact, I turn away. My movement has the unfortunate side effect of bringing my back against his arm. Ignoring the line of heat, I stare at the leaves on a nearby bush until the urge to cry passes.

  “How long ago was this accident?” he asks softly.

  Eleven years, six months, and four days.

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” I say, turning to meet his gaze. “Do you have any other suggestions besides monitoring verbosity?”

  He stares hard at me for another moment, then smiles. “There were a few instances of passive voice that could be active.”

  “It’s used for effect.”

  His smile grows at my defensiveness. “Is it finished?”

  “Yes.”

  “Word count?”

  “Ninety-thousand.”

  “Good,” he says, nodding shortly. “Email me the pdf. I’ll read it tonight. Let’s set up a meeting for early next week. At least three hours. I’ll walk you through any notes I have.”

  “Okay,” I say weakly, accepting my laptop from his hands.

  He retrieves his coffee from the ground and uses his free hand to send his hair into another orbit. “Right, then. Have a good day, Ms. Eliot. And for the love of God, buy a bloody coat.” He walks away without another glance.

  I look down, see the clear outlines of my nipples through my blouse, and drop my head into my hands.