Chapter 4
Morgan
My head is throbbing as I make my way to the Harrelson Building. I overindulged last night. Thankfully, I don’t feel sick, I just have this annoying headache.
My first class is History of Modern China. I need it to fulfill one of my two history requirements. I took my first course, U.S. History 101, during my second semester here and I barely survived it. It’s too much reading and research.
I’ve been avoiding taking the second requirement, which must be in some culture other than the West. That basically leaves Africa and Asia. I’m afraid of both because, even though I took U.S. History in high school and had some foundational knowledge, I still struggled to pull off a B- at the college level.
I’m embarrassed to admit that I know very little about Africa or Asia. I should know more. So, while I’m glad Persimmon is a great source of enlightenment, I resent the toll it’s going to take on my GPA.
Speaking of GPAs, I see our class’s future valedictorian 20 feet in front of me. Nathaniel Stevenson—Nate to his friends. He’s a member of the Tau frat, and a brother that I usually try to avoid. Not because he’s an ass or anything. In fact, he’s very agreeable.
It’s because he’s not only the smartest student on campus, he’s also the most attractive male I’ve ever seen. The boy is batting a thousand in life. Fucker.
I get tongue-tied around him and embarrass myself—more so than usual. I know I’m nowhere near his level of intellect and that’s intimidating as hell. Add on the fact that he’s built like a super hero? It’s like I’m not even worthy to gaze upon him.
My sorority refers to him as Thor. Sometimes, to his face. He’s good-natured and takes it in stride. Totes agreeable. All the flippin’ time.
He’s cut off his long, dark blonde hair. It’s short on the back and sides and longer on top. And messy. It looks like Nate may have just rolled out of bed.
He’s not your typical nerd-type. Nate has tattoos in various locations. I like it when it’s hot and he’s out running. Shirtless. It usually draws a crowd to the windows of the Omega sorority house.
Today, he’s wearing a concert t-shirt. I forgot my contacts this morning, so I can’t tell which band. I guess it doesn’t matter, since my attention is now on his ass cheeks and how they move under his linen cargo pants.
It’s still summer and hot, so I’m not sure why he’s bothered with pants. I giggle because, of course, he’s wearing pants. It’s kind of a requirement in our culture. But shorts would be more appropriate in this heat.
I’m wearing a black and white striped cotton sundress. It’s a little short, but I knew I’d be sweating today walking around campus.
The breeze flowing up my legs feels good. It should prevent the case of swamp-ass I was trying to avoid. Nobody likes a sweaty butt-crack.
Nate reaches the top of the stairs by the side entrance and opens the door. He holds the door behind him as he turns to see if anyone is coming through.
He sees me at the bottom and smiles and, I swear to all that is holy, the sun’s rays have produced a bright light that is gleaming off his teeth.
It kind of pisses me off, but he’s so damned good-looking, I think I’ll ignore my resentment. Like a moth to Nate’s mouth-light, I keep heading towards him.
If I touch his teeth, will I get burned? I briefly wonder how far my finger would get before he smacks it away. Maybe that’s weird. Or, maybe he’d like it. Or, maybe something is wrong with my brain to think such thoughts.
I’m now only four steps from Nate. I instinctually smile back at him, noticing just how straight and perfect his teeth are up close. His blue eyes look almost translucent in the sun.
Damn, what a fine specimen of nature. And orthodontia. Does the man not have a flaw?
Nate moves so that he’s no longer holding the door behind him. He steps out of the entrance and holds the door so that I can walk in front of him. It might be the first time anyone has ever gone out of their way to hold the door for me, other than my father.
“Hey, Morgan. How are you?” he greets me as I pass.
“Good. Great. You?” Bleh. Can I not speak in complete sentences? Let’s try a verb next time, shall we?
“I am doing well, thank you. How was your summer?”
I decide to go with the polite response and say, “Good, thanks.”
It’s not like I can say that I spent the summer pretending to like my boyfriend, refusing to touch his man parts, and debating daily if I could order a vibrator online and sneak it past my parents once it landed on the front porch.
I step through the doorway and into the hall, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Should I wait for him to come through? Or ask him about his summer? Or, maybe I should I stop acting like Spazmaster Supreme and behave as a normal human would for once.
I turn to see if he’s through the doorway and catch him eying my ass. Well, that’s different. Is Nate checking me out? Because that would totally make my day. Morgan’s ego could use a little boost.
“Uh, Morgan?” his eyes are still down on my hemline, even though I’m now facing him.
“Yes?”
He points and I look down. I don’t notice anything. “What? Is there a spider or something on me?”
“The, uh, the back of your dress …”
I’ve never heard Nate use the filler ‘uh’ before. Why is he having trouble spitting out words? He’s acting like me, for shit’s sake. I turn my neck and try to look at the back of my dress, but my giant backpack is all I can see.
I take my hand to wipe at the back, thinking there must be an insect on it. I hit air. No dress. Then I hit skin, and then the edge of my underwear. Oh. My. God.
“Shit!” I whisper-yell, frantically pulling at the back of my dress to get it down over my ass.
My eyes are wide and trained on the floor. I cannot process what has just transpired. I may have very well walked all the way across campus with my ass and undies on full display.
No wonder my cheeks weren’t sweaty in this humidity. They were getting aired-out.
My brain does a mental checklist of which underwear I have on. Red bikini with the word ‘Monday’ written across the butt. They’re cute, but maybe a little immature. And definitely not for display. Kind of like me.
Nate and I are still frozen in our spots. The hall is quiet, but any moment more students will be exiting classrooms while others enter.
I don’t know what to say. I chance a look at Nate, afraid he’s going to laugh or make fun of me like Alex would.
I’m shocked at his expression. He’s most definitely not laughing. He’s not even smiling. Nate’s giving me the most heated stare I’ve ever had the pleasure of receiving. My face was already red from the dress incident. Now it feels like it’s on fire under his perusal.
What I wouldn’t give to be on the receiving end of that look for an extended period of time. His girlfriend is so lucky. The bitch.
I try to smother my laugh at my brain’s catty ability to focus on insulting Nate’s girlfriend instead of the mortification I’m currently experiencing, but the snicker comes out anyway.
Nate’s face relaxes and the corner of his mouth turns up. He must think I’m laughing about the indecent exposure. Good. Run with it, Morgan. It’s not like I don’t know I’m a walking calamity. At least I didn’t fall on my face in front of him.
“Well, I guess I should thank you for saying something. So, thank you. Much obliged for your assistance.”
I bow slightly as I thank him and accidentally dip a little too low. I look down and can clearly see my cleavage. Which means he can, as well. I straighten quickly and find his eyes on my chest. I’m a goddamned train wreck today.
“I should probably run away now. Far, far away, before a mighty wind blows off everything I’m wearing and I’m left in the hallway completely naked. Or a giant bird of prey swoops down and rips off my dress. Because that seems to be today’s trajectory. Sooo, yeah, I guess I’ll see ya around, Nate.”
Wow. That was a mouthful of eighty-miles-an-hour nonsense. I hate that I ramble when I’m embarrassed, which means most days I’m prattling on and on about something.
I raise my hand and wave, even though he’s five feet from me. Alex was right. I am so smooth.
I kind of feel like punching myself in the face. Unfortunately, I can’t hit hard enough to land a blow that would render me comatose.
Nate laughs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “You’re funny, Morgan. I like that.”
“Oh, let’s not forget awkward,” I deadpan as I turn to walk to my classroom, trying not to focus on his complement. I’m not trying to be funny. Awkward shit is just part of my daily life.
Nate starts walking, too. “At least you got the right day of the week.”
“Yes, I’m good at calendars.”
Good job hiding the morning’s humiliation, Morgan. Keep babbling. It’s always a useful strategy. Dumbass.
Nate laughs again and falls in step with me. “You know, it’s your backpack’s fault. As you walk the friction between your back and lining create a …”
Blah blah blah is all I hear after that. I don’t know anything about physics. But bless his little heart for trying to explain that science is at fault for my morning flash’o’ass. He stops talking when we reach room 113.
“Well, thank you, again. My ass—my class,” I annunciate loudly, “is in here.” It would be great if something fell from the sky right now and knocked me unconscious.
Nate doesn’t act like he caught my Freudian slip, but I’m sure he did. I’m practically walking around wearing a neon sign that says Welcome to the Freak Show, Y’all!
“You’re taking Dr. Wang’s History of Modern China?” he asks, like he’s surprised.
Why would he be surprised? I don’t like his tone. I’m not valedictorian material here at Persimmon, but I’m a decent student.
“Yes. Is that okay?” I snap.
“Of course, it is. After you,” he gestures for me to enter.
This is so weird. He must be taking the class, too. Wait, that could be a good thing for me. For a moment, I forget my embarrassment and wonder if he’ll let me copy his notes. It’s not like he needs them.
Nate
Morgan enters the room and walks to one of the tables on the far side. Instead of desks, there are small tables and chairs set in a u-shape. I know Dr. Wang likes to set up his classes like this so that all students are visible to each other during class conversations.
I quickly put both of my hands back in my pockets to hide my erection. I’m fascinated that seeing Morgan’s red Mondays gave me such a visceral reaction. It’s not something I’m used to, being aroused in a humorous situation.
Or, maybe it was her long, tan legs leading up to her firm backside. She’s built like a runner, long and lean. She’s beautiful.
I’ve always thought Morgan Pottinger was hot. But I might be more attracted to the fact that she’s wearing a pair of underwear with the day of the week printed on them. And to the fact that she was totally oblivious that anyone behind her could see them.
I’m surprised she brushed it off with a joke. She always seems so timid and quiet. Maybe that’s more of an assumption I’ve made based on her soft voice and slight Southern accent. Both of which I find insanely attractive.
I especially like how she says my name. I think I’m going to try to get her to call me Nathaniel.
I sit in one of the chairs at the front, waiting for Dr. Wang. I’m directly across the u-shape from Morgan. There are two other students already seated in the back, but Morgan doesn’t acknowledge either of them.
I know I’m blatantly staring at her, but I could give a shit if anyone notices. Morgan doesn’t pay me any attention. She’s getting out supplies from her backpack, which she’s put in the chair next to her. I bet it’s to prevent anyone from taking the seat.
Morgan glides a hand through her long hair and lays it over one shoulder. It’s a shade somewhere between blonde and brunette, depending on how the light catches. Shiny strands of gold reflect as she tilts her head down. It’s captivating, much like Morgan.
She’s always struck me as somewhat conservative. I appreciate that she’s not the type to slut it up on Saturday nights. Too many girls dress like they’re going out clubbing, even if it’s a charity event or volunteer work.
But that dress she’s wearing today? I really like it. It’s loose-fitting, but short. Hence the issue with it riding up her back.
It covers her chest, but not when she leans forward. I smile at the memory. She’s wearing a simple white bra. I wonder if anyone else—besides Morgan and I—know the color of her under things today? I like sharing this secret with her.
Morgan slides off one sandal and rubs her toes up the back of her calf. She unscrews the lid of her water bottle and takes a drink. It might be the single most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. She’s a walking wet dream.
One of the guys in the back of the room notices, too, and stares. My jaw tightens. I don’t like him looking at her. Huh.