Chapter 9

“How’s that?” Naomi asked, straightening the tapestry that some of her students had painted to look exactly like the cover of Hainamor’s poetry magazine, The Crimson Iris. The three students who’d painted the fabric hadn’t been able to attend the activities fair, but they wanted to contribute somehow, so they’d put their artistic creativity to good use. Naomi and the staff of the poetry magazine had recently changed the name and cover design, and this gave them the chance to showcase it. She looked back over her shoulder to Rashaad and Caroline, two graduate students who’d been putting together the magazine since they were both sophomores.

“We definitely have the best table at the fair,” Caroline added, glancing around to the other tables that lined the quad. The tapestry was bright, colorful, and definitely eye-catching. Naomi was certain it would attract some students to their table.

And she was hoping that some of today’s student interest would result in more submissions, thus making the magazine more prolific. She’d always hoped to put it out more than biannually—quarterly would be fantastic—but had never received enough submissions to produce more than one issue per semester. At least without compromising quality—which she wasn’t willing to do, especially when there was an award at stake now.

She drew in a long, deep breath that she hoped would somewhat heal her frayed nerves. She let the crisp autumn air permeate her lungs as her veins carried the oxygen to the areas of her body that needed it most. She couldn’t have asked for a better day to be outside for four hours on a Saturday. In truth, though she wouldn’t have chosen to spend one of her weekend days on campus, she most likely would have sat outside anyway to write. The change in seasons always gave her a spark of creativity that she didn’t feel during other parts of the year, and she found she could write with ease. She’d been working on a collection for over a year now—one that clearly needed work—and she could definitely use the inspiration that the weather provided.

Unfortunately, she didn’t anticipate getting any free time during the fair. In addition to The Crimson Iris, Naomi ran a club called Speak, in which students concentrated on the verbal presentation of poetry, as well as an environmentally friendly group in which students transformed discarded items into something of value and then sold them, giving the money to charity. Both of her literary clubs had colorful pamphlets, and some members of Speak planned to draw students’ attention by performing some of their pieces aloud. Naomi could barely contain her excitement. It was like the literary version of Pitch Perfect.

She always enjoyed meeting new people who were passionate about literature, and she loved the electricity that an event like this brought. Students were already gathering at a few tables nearby, and Naomi couldn’t wait to see some fresh faces.

But there was one face Naomi absolutely was not excited to see, not even a little bit. And that face belonged to Sebastian Blake, who was currently heading her way with a black messenger bag slung over his shoulder and a jumbo coffee in hand.

His hand.

She’d almost forgotten all about her dream last night until she’d gotten a glimpse of the fingers that had been stroking her toward an orgasm she could never quite reach. Swallowing hard, she tried not to think about the reaction she had to Sebastian. Normally the only thing that his presence triggered was irritation and ire. But this one—this one that awakened places deep inside her—was foreign and unwelcome. She did her best to attribute it to the fact that she was human. She had needs. And she’d been left feeling bereft after an unsatisfying imaginary encounter. Anyone would feel the frustration she did, she told herself.

Sebastian paused at the end of the row to talk to a group of people who’d congregated there, and she eyed him with an annoyed curiosity. Why the hell would he even be here when he didn’t have anything to do with any clubs or organizations? A few moments later, he held his coffee up and pointed in her direction, indicating to the people around him that he was headed that way, and nodded a goodbye before continuing toward her.

She felt herself stiffen at his approach, but quickly busied herself by stacking the brochures and rearranging the few baskets filled with items they’d be giving away.

“Good morning, Professor Blake,” she said when he reached her table, though he hadn’t looked like he planned to stop walking until she’d spoken. Her voice was casual, as if the polite greeting was something she said every day. The last thing she wanted was for him to know how much his presence here made her uncomfortable. It would only make him stay longer. What the hell was he doing here anyway?

“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s good.” He glanced at his watch. “But it is still morning. So, morning,” he said, bringing his coffee to his lips and taking a small sip. “As much as I’ll probably regret having asked, it would be remiss of me not to. Why are you displaying a picture of female genitalia?”

“Excuse me?” Naomi asked, not bothering to hide her shock. Her body stiffened in defense of the work of art behind her. “It’s not a picture of female genitalia. It’s a crimson iris, which is a flower. It happens to be the cover of our poetry magazine. And students designed it.”

“But you approved it. Did you not?”

“Well, yes. Of course. An iris is a symbol of creativity, and I’m sure even someone as simple as you knows what red is associated with. Passion, desire, love—”

“Blood,” he added with a tilt of his head as he studied the painting behind her. “I’m glad I decided to skip breakfast this morning.”

“Go away.”

Sebastian shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said before walking to the next table and circling around to the other side of it. He set his messenger bag down and removed a folder and an iPad.

“What are you doing?”

“Setting up.”

“Setting up for what?”

“The activities fair. God, you’re really off your game this morning, aren’t you?”

Christ, she couldn’t stand him. “But you aren’t in charge of any activities.”

“I am now.” He scribbled something on a small whiteboard he’d brought with him and propped it up with a bottle of water he’d taken out of his bag.

She wanted to know what he’d written, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of getting up to see. “Finally decided to spread your wealth of knowledge about how to be an arrogant ass with the Hainamor student body?”

“It’s more like a critique group for aspiring authors, but I’ll keep your idea in mind if I ever decide to start up something else.”

Naomi couldn’t help but smile. “Scared you’re going to lose, aren’t you?”

“Ha. Not quite.” The fact that he didn’t look over at her as he said it made her that much more confident that her hypothesis was correct. Sebastian Blake thought Naomi had a leg up on him because she was substantially more involved in extracurricular activities. And he wasn’t wrong to think that. Even if he began integrating himself into the school community now, his motivation was clear. He wasn’t starting a club to help the school and its students. He wanted to help himself.

Sebastian opened his folder and removed a small stack of papers, which he slid toward the front of the table and straightened with delicate preciseness. The papers looked nearly as crisp as the gray-and-black plaid shirt he wore under his black sweater vest and had the same chromatic appeal. After ensuring the papers were sufficiently stacked, he placed a glass paperweight on them. Then he messed with the iPad for a minute before setting it on the table next to his coffee.

“Wow, you really went all out,” Naomi said.

“Well, not all of us need to hang pictures of menstruating vaginas to attract potential members.”

She finished attaching the student interest forms to a few clipboards in an attempt to ignore him, but her effort failed. She found herself glaring at the side of his face as he sat relaxed and obviously pleased with himself. “It doesn’t look anything like a vagina,” she said, her voice dropping to just above an angry whisper. “Though with your winning personality, you probably haven’t seen one in a while, so I’m not surprised you’re having trouble remembering what one looks like.”

“If you say so.”

“Um, excuse me,” a timid voice said.

Naomi’s head jerked away from Sebastian and to the young lady in front of her. She silently prayed that the girl hadn’t heard her say “vagina,” but Sebastian’s muffled chuckle told her otherwise. “Yes, sorry. How can I help you? Are you interested in writing?”

“Yes. Very.”

“What kind of writing?” Naomi asked, excited at the prospect of a potential new contributor.

“Creative writing mostly. Is this the school’s literary magazine?”

“It is. Well, one of them. This is the poetry magazine. The Crimson Iris,” she said, pointing over her shoulder to the painting that would now forever be pornographic to her. Then she handed the girl a copy of the last issue and explained it still had the old cover design. “Feel free to flip through if you’d like. And if you think you might be interested, you can fill out a form with your information and someone will be in contact with you.”

“Oh, I actually don’t write any poetry.”

Naomi felt her shoulders sag. She hoped Sebastian hadn’t heard her sigh, because she didn’t want to give him any reason to think the girl’s comment had fazed her. Most writers preferred to write short stories or novels.

And because Sebastian knew that as well as she did, he wasted no time swooping in. “What is it you’re interested in?” When the student turned to Sebastian, who already had his hand extended in an effort to draw her closer, he added, “Sebastian Blake. I teach a lot of the fiction classes here.”

Naomi felt her jaw clench at the girl’s smile because she knew what Sebastian was trying to do, and she’d be damned if she’d lose this girl to him. Granted, Naomi knew she couldn’t make anyone write poetry, but the thought of Sebastian Blake attracting a student to his own table when she’d clearly stopped at Naomi’s made her suddenly possessive of something she never had to begin with.

Sebastian’s eyes caught hers narrowing at him as the girl introduced herself as Camryn, a freshman with aspirations of becoming a published novelist one day. “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place,” Sebastian said, withdrawing his hand from hers and welcoming her to his barren table with a smile so wide Naomi almost mistook it for genuine. “I’m a published novelist myself, and I’ve recently started up a critique group for students who would like some constructive criticism from peers.”

“That sounds amazing. I have some story ideas, but I’m not sure if they’re any good.” She told him how even though her friends were aspiring writers as well, she didn’t trust them to give her any feedback that wasn’t positive. “I’m just not sure where to start.”

“You can start by filling out this questionnaire,” he said, handing her the iPad with a smile. The man had smiled more in the past five minutes than in the entire time she’d known him. It made Naomi wonder if he’d surreptitiously been doing whippets since he’d gotten here.

When Camryn finished with the iPad, she said goodbye and thanked Sebastian for his time, promising to bring her friends over soon.

“Don’t be so proud of yourself,” Naomi said when Camryn was out of earshot. “The only reason you got her was because she’s interested in novel writing. It has nothing to do with your ‘club,’ ” she said, using air quotes to emphasize the fact that it wasn’t one.

“Jealous, are we?”

“Hardly.” Naomi scoffed. “You have one person interested in your little group. And something tells me it currently has no members. It’s hard to critique someone’s work if there’s no work to critique.”

“I’ve only been here ten minutes. I have the whole afternoon to get this club up and running. And when I do, I’m fairly certain it’ll exceed the handful of people you have contributing to your ‘Vagina Monologues.’ ”

“Can you please stop saying that?”

“What?”

“Vagina,” she gritted out again as quietly as she could.

“Why do I have to stop saying it if you don’t?”

Pressing her lips together in frustration, Naomi felt her nostrils flare with every inhale. It crossed her mind to spend the majority of her afternoon at her other club’s table stationed across the quad so she didn’t have to spend her time with Sebastian, but boosting student involvement in the literary clubs superseded her need to physically distance herself from Professor Blake. “You’re acting like this is a joke. I’m serious about getting people involved, Sebastian.”

“So am I.”

“I doubt that,” she said, her eyes blazing into his now with an intensity that he easily matched with his own. “Anyone can make whatever you have there.” She reached over to grab one of his handouts off the table, but his hand on her wrist stopped her.

“Uh, uh, uh,” he scolded. “I have trade secrets here.”

Naomi rolled her eyes. “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.” As she picked up a brochure from her table, she mentally berated herself for her poor choice in words. To her relief, Sebastian said nothing, though she could only imagine what he was thinking.

“Huh,” he said, skimming through it.

“What does that mean?” she asked, though she didn’t actually want to know. She was certain the small grunt of judgment was only another way to get under her skin.

“Nothing really. It’s just…festive.”

“Festive?”

“Yeah, the oranges, reds, yellows. It’s all very ‘Autumn in New England.’ ” Naomi gritted her teeth as he pointed to the brochure’s background and text before closing it to look at the back. “You even included a picture of a leaf,” he said dryly. “I’m sure some of the interest you’ll garner today will directly correlate to the amount of clip-art foliage you have on your brochures.” He set it down and then handed her one of his, which she practically snatched from him.

“This is just a list of your credentials and accomplishments. It looks like a résumé.”

Sebastian shrugged. “The students need to know that the person running the club they’re joining has the background to do so. The club itself requires little explanation.” He let her look at the paper for a few seconds longer before saying, “Now that you know your competition, maybe we should make a friendly bet.”

“Nothing about the two of us can be considered friendly.”

“Semantics,” he replied. “You in? Person with the most interest forms filled out by the end of the fair wins.”

“Wins what?”

He thought for a minute. “I don’t know. Dinner or something.”

“How is dinner with you a reward? It sounds more like a punishment,” she said, though the words didn’t sound as true as she wanted them to when they left her mouth.

He crossed his arms and squared his shoulders so he was facing her completely, which made her do the same. She was aware of how close she was to touching him again now that their knees were only a few inches apart. He’d already grabbed her wrist a few seconds ago, reminding her of how strong his hands had felt when they’d been on her skin in the dream. “Then what would you suggest?”

Swallowing hard, she said, “How about the loser buys the winner a gift card to their favorite restaurant. The winner can take whomever they’d like.”

“Fair enough,” Sebastian said. “Though you should know I have expensive taste.”

“Well, you won’t win, so your taste doesn’t matter.”

“Then I guess it’s a bet.” His voice was quiet as he reached his hand out toward hers, and for a moment she didn’t know whether to take it.

She’d already been trying like hell to ignore his proximity to her, which was nearly impossible since she could smell whatever light aftershave or cologne he was wearing. With every rush of oxygen into her lungs, it was like Sebastian himself was permeating her body. Finally she reached out and let her skin make contact with his once again. “It’s a bet.”