Professor Love

C
opyright
© 2016 by Nicola Simpson Khullar

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

“
I
wish for a wife
.”

Lady Clarissa Templeton shrank from the booming voice over her head. “My lord, I implore you—”

“Let me clarify, Miss Templeton. I have no wish for you as a wife. I do, however, wish you to make a list of suitable candidates for me, as you did so successfully for your brother. I’m certain your effort had little to do with his wife’s ultimate digressions.”

She gasped. Not only was he insulting, but obnoxiously arrogant. “But my lord, what on earth makes you think that I could—”

He held up a hand to interrupt her. “She must be accomplished, charming, well-mannered, of noble birth of course—”

“Of course,” Clarissa murmured. This is ridiculous, she thought, but her quill scratched along the paper as she noted the requirements.

“Furthermore, she should complement my looks.”

Clarissa frowned. Whatever did he mean?

“Her hair, eyes, and figure should look well set against mine own. It is an aesthetic choice that I wish to make for my future, as much as a rational one. I will leave it up to your judgment which ladies of your acquaintance would be a good match,” he finished magnanimously.

The quill between her fingers fell silent as she peered up at the man in front of her and inhaled sharply.

The man had no face.

No hair, no skin, nothing. He was an empty suit of well-starched and meticulously groomed clothes standing in her father’s library. Where his mocking smile should be was an empty space through which she could read the titles off the books in the shelves behind him. His tight burgundy coat, but just his coat, swelled slightly as he breathed in and out in the quiet room.

She stood up slowly and leaned across the desk to look the ghostly figure up and down, hoping she wasn’t being too bold. His Hessian boots gleamed in the late afternoon light streaming in from the windows, but she knew that were she to stomp on them, there would be nothing but air inside.

Without a word, she reached across the desk and grabbed the cravat bobbing in mid-air, yanking it and the invisible man towards her.

With abrupt stabbing motions, Clarissa punctured the burgundy coat and tore the silk cravat with the quill.

“Aaaarrrrgh!” she screamed as she raised her arm again and again, until the fine clothes were shredded and lifeless.jklolfclxnaufd;oie

S
ophy Hadden pushed
her chair back and slammed her head against the edge of the table. Damn writer’s block. This wasn’t just a block, it was a concrete bunker. Poor Clarissa wasn’t going to get anywhere if Sophy couldn’t come up with a decent hero. Her poor trusting beta was convinced that Sophy knew what she was doing. Ha! If only she knew...

Sophy’s luck was finally changing. After five years of writing shippy fan fiction, she had decided to try self-publishing, and published three more original romances since. The first time she uploaded a “real” book, she wanted to throw up. She was making her way up the ranks, slowly.
Very slowly
.

Sales had heated up on the third book, when she figured out that a half-naked guy on the cover was a good marketing strategy. Who cared if Regency gentlemen didn’t go to parties shirtless?

In order to take this author thing seriously, she took a two-month leave from her job at the library and cashed in a savings bond to live on to fulfil her dream of “writing full-time”, but so far her muse had apparently decided to take time off as well.

Her self-imposed deadline was looming before her like the invisible earl, mocking, demanding, and with very high expectations. She had three months, tops, before her savings ran out. Then it was back to the admin job that she did
not
want to label as her “career.”

Her sigh echoed in the small den she called a home office and she looked up at the big red X marked on the giant calendar above her desk. The crimson mark was as insulting as a giant zit on prom night. But it was dry erase, maybe if she just accidentally brushed against it, not on purpose at all…

She pushed back further until her chair hit something soft and solid. Sophy’s cat hissed at her and ran out of the room at the same time her phone started vibrating its way across the table. Phone first, beast later.

“Sophy, where are you?”

Her frown deepened to a puzzled scowl as her thumb and third finger reflexively saved her manuscript over and over again, as though it would refresh itself with new material. When artificial intelligence got to that point, she would be first in line to adopt.

“Hi Tom. I’m home, obviously.”

“We had a date this afternoon, remember?”

“Oops. I’m sorry, Tom, really I am. I was just working and the time got away from me and…” she trailed off, not really sure what to say. Truth was, if she had really wanted to see him today, she would have remembered about the date.

They had been dating casually for a month, and not once had he surprised her with a candlelight dinner, flowers, or anything remotely romantic. Granted, he was a tax accountant, but that was no excuse. Sophy was starting to despair that real life really
was
this boring. She wanted that zing that she wrote about, the shortening of breath and the sound of violins humming in her head. Then again, that sounded like a stroke about to happen.

Instead, what she got was a heavy sigh.

“Sophy, I don’t think this is working out.”

Her hand stilled on the mouse. “What?”

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” he said. “Look, you’re a great person and everything, but uh, maybe we should just be friends. Or acquaintances. I’m actually pretty busy.”

“You’re
friend zoning me
?”

“I think you’re looking for something that I can’t give you.”

For a moment, she was surprised. But only for a moment. Then, wedging the phone between her shoulder and her ear, she started typing frantically.

“What was that middle part?” she asked.

“The part about being a great person? You are, Sophy. But I’m not the guy—I can’t give you what you’re looking for.”

“Looking for something I can’t give you...” she mumbled to herself.

There was a slight pause and static crackled in her ear. “Uh, Sophy? What are you doing?”

“Um, writing?”

He exploded. “This is exactly what I was talking about! You’re obsessed with romance, Sophy. Real life isn’t like one of those trashy books. It’s not all hearts and flowers and sappy love songs. It’s mortgage payments and sticky dogs and crappy jobs that you have to take in order to pay the bills.”

“That’s a little harsh.” It looked like she had gotten all the beautiful words she was going to get out of Tom.

“I can’t do this, Sophy. I’m sorry.” He sounded as though he was trying to be sorry but she detected a note of relief in his voice, as though he’d wanted to break it off with her for a while. Her fingers froze on the keyboard.

“Me too, Tom. I hope you learn someday how wrong you are. I am an amazing person.” Did she have some more attributes in order to make him feel bad, or at least to make herself feel better? “I know how to cook, my legs look fantastic in heels, and I will watch anything on Netflix. And I mean
anything
. Your loss.”

When she ended the call, she was surprised to realize how she felt. Other than a smidgeon of self-satisfaction, she didn’t feel much at all. She didn’t feel sad or angry, or even particularly upset. The lack of emotion terrified her.

How was she going to write a book about emotions if she wasn’t experiencing any? Was she that detached from life right now? If only she could get her head wrapped around this hero, she’d have a goal, something to focus on. It was easier for her to live in a book than in the real world sometimes, which her mother always criticized her for.

She was tempted to slam her head one more time for good measure when someone knocked at the door. Sophy flicked her wrist over to check her watch. It was after five, so it couldn’t be the mailman bringing her more stuff she had impulsively one-clicked. Who else came to the door anymore?

Sophy glared at her laptop, as though it alone was responsible for her writer’s block. And her one-clicking, which it kind of was. The door rattled again.

“Alright, alright,” she grumbled under her breath. “Keep your shirt on, I’m coming.”

When she yanked open the door, the only thing she could say was “My lord.”

“
V
iolet Honeypot
?”

Sophy closed her mouth and opened it again, blinking rapidly. She’d seen a lot of good-looking men in her time, but this one made her mouth water. And she was on a diet. Her heroines should be so lucky to have this man on their doorsteps. Or other parts of the house. Did she say “keep your shirt on” just now? What a mistake!

“Excuse me, are you Violet Honeypot?”

She nodded mutely, then his words slammed into her brain. A fan? He was a
fan
? “That’s my pen name, yes. It’s kind of a joke.” She stuck out her hand automatically. “My real name is Sophy Hadden.”

“Yeah, I knew that. Sophy Hadden,” he repeated and shook her hand.

Sophy couldn’t help staring at his mouth as her name rolled off his lips—his sinfully lush mouth with a slight crack in the full bottom lip, as though he had been chewing on it. The only other blemish she could see on his face was a slightly bent nose, as though it had been broken once in a game of high school football. His dark hair looked a little dishevelled, as though he either needed a trim or had a bad habit of running his hand through it.

He was her perfect counterpoint, she realized with the Honeypot part of her brain—dark to her light, tall to her small. Even the smattering of freckles around his eyes was perfectly... heroic. Sophy never considered freckles to be attractive on a man. Until now.

And now this god was standing in her hallway. His dark blue eyes blinked at her questioningly and she resisted the urge to touch his mouth as his lips started moving again. Clearly she had gone too long without inspiration.

“Can I come in?”

Sophy frowned. “Do I know you?” She kicked herself mentally for opening the door to a total stranger. For all she knew, the freckles on the bridge of his nose was blood spattered from his last victim. She knew she had been too honest in her bio, damn it. Too trusting, too naïve—that’s what her mother always said.

“No,” he replied simply. “I’m Maximilian Wright. I teach at the college. I wanted to ask your professional opinion about something.”

God, even his voice was amazing. It reminded her of caramel apples—sticky and decadent but crisp and fresh underneath.

She shook her head again. She really must be lonely if she was considering jumping total strangers in the hallway of her apartment building. But this was her perfect hero, in the flesh. It was uncanny. Unfortunately, the flesh was mostly covered, but Sophy had a good imagination. Too good.

“Can I come in?” he repeated. He was starting to stare at her warily, as though considering whether or not to bolt down the hallway to the main door. Sophy hoped she wasn’t drooling.

She let out a short ragged breath. “Sorry, of course. Come in.”

He strode past her into the small apartment, and after a moment’s consideration, she left the door open. Drop dead gorgeous or not, at least her neighbors would hear her scream if he suddenly pulled a bloody knife—or anything else for that matter—out of his pants.

The living room had never seemed that small to Sophy until now. His presence seemed to suck all the air out of the room, and out of her lungs. She could smell his shampoo? Aftershave, deodorant? Whatever it was, she liked it. It was the smell of intelligence, the smell of confidence. It was
his
smell.
Focus, Sophy. The god is talking to you.

“Uh, my professional opinion?” she finally squeaked. “About what?”

He thrust his hands in the pockets of his tan chinos and shrugged. The movement pulled the starched chambray shirt across his broad shoulders and her mouth went dry again. “You’re the only romance writer in town. And Dr. Fenton in the English department told me about you.”

A crooked grin flashed over his face, and Sophy willed her knees not to buckle. Did the man
know
he was this attractive? She made a mental note to send a thank you e-card to her former professor. And then she wanted to squeal with glee at someone calling her a “professional” writer.

“And you need, uh, help with what, exactly?”

“Romance. Love. Fantasy. Desire.” He dragged the last word out and Sophy felt the heat climb up her cheeks.

“I’m a little confused, Mr. Right—”
Oops
.

“Dr. Wright.”

“Dr. Wright.” She frowned. What had she been thinking? “Do you need, um, tips in the romance department or something?” Sophy glanced quickly at his left hand; it was bare, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything these days. “Uh, are you and your wife having problems with intimacy?”

The god threw back his head and laughed.

Sophy’s face continued to burn.

“No thanks,” Max managed after a moment or two. “I’m not having any problems in that area,” he assured her.

Sophy nodded.
Yeah, I bet you aren’t.

“I’m doing a study,” he explained.

“On romance?”

“Kind of. I’m a psychologist, and I want to study the effects of romance novels on women and their everyday lives.”

Sophy deflated slightly. “Oh, I see.”

“I want to see how romance novels affect women’s expectations about relationships, stuff like that. I was hoping you could help me with my research. You’re the only romance writer in town,” he repeated.

“Well, it’s a fairly small town.” And there were probably more hiding online than even she knew about. She cocked her head at him. “What’s your working hypothesis, Dr. Wright?”

Max blinked. “Well, it’s not really fair to develop a hypothesis until the research has been completed, but I think that romance novels provide unhealthy role models for women, and give women unfair expectations of love and marriage. And sex.”