Page 13 of Gray Area

The moment is interrupted by the sound of my backpack falling off my chair with a loud bang to the floor. And now everyone is staring at me. I ignore the stares and bend down, busying myself with getting the bag on the back of the chair and taking my seat.

“Wonderful!” Professor Edwards says happily as he enters the already configured room. “Thank you all for getting everything in place. Now we can get right into it.”

Immediately, the jolly professor starts talking about ethical decision-making and how the many dilemmas in business can weigh heavy on this issue. The discussion starts to flow, and I get caught up in it, but not enough to keep from noticing that Declan continues to stare at me. Again. He even takes part in the discussion, impassively offering his opinion or perspective, but all while his eyes remain on me.

And it’s impossible for our fellow classmates not to notice him blatantly staring at me. That fact embarrasses and annoys me so much. I hate attention on me, and suddenly any comfort I felt in his stare is gone. I am desperate for class to end. I keep glancing at the clock, hoping for time to move quicker and for this class to be over.

When there are just twenty minutes to go, Professor Edwards stops the discussion, and I’m instantly hopeful we are getting out of class early. “Okay, everybody, please break up into your project groups so you can go over your research findings. Maybe things have changed or your approach has evolved based on the discussion from tonight?”

My feathers don’t normally get ruffled, but this professor’s kindness at sacrificing class time to allow us to work on a required project has me wanting to pluck my feathers out. Ireluctantly rise from my desk and make my way over to where Declan is stationed, deciding as I do that I am going to call him out. It is my experience that most guys are full of themselves. Maybe he thinks I liked being ogled by him, or that he is suave. And while I had felt the weird comfort in his eyes previously, him staring at me in class and drawing everyone’s attention to me is not comforting at all. Maybe once I tell him it isn’t my idea of cute, he will back off.

I pull a desk over and in front of Declan’s so that I am facing him, just as he did the class prior for our first group meetup.

“Hello, Vivian,” Declan greets me in his deep, raspy tone, and I ignore the goose bumps that spread over me at the sound, as well as the flutter in my chest. It’s all just from nerves because I hate confrontation, I tell myself, and has nothing to do with how sexy his voice sounds.

“Hello,” I mutter, dropping my backpack to the floor, another loud noise making its way across the room as it lands. I sit down and open my mouth to speak, but Declan beats me to it.

“Why is your backpack so heavy?” he asks.

I let my mask fall and glare at him, annoyed by his question. I quickly school my features back to one of disinterest. “Lots of books,” I tell him.

Declan studies me for a second, as if I’ll crack and tell him something else, and then just starts talking. “So I reviewed the literature in—”

“Why do you stare at me?” I suddenly blurt out, cutting him off. I did not intend for it to come out rushed and strung together as one word, but that is what happens. In my mind, my words were going to flow confidently, maybe chastising him for his immaturity. But he threw my game off when he asked about my backpack.

Declan says nothing for a minute. He studies me, his expression impassive, and then he just shrugs.

I wait for a few seconds; I assume he will say something more, anything. But when nothing comes out of his mouth, my annoyance just grows. “Is that an answer?” I demand.

He tilts his head and analyzes me a few seconds more, like I fascinate him. “Does it bother you, me looking at you?”

Yes, you fucking weirdo. I don’t want to be stared at by you in front of the whole classis what I want to say. “You don’t look, you stare,” I say instead, “and yes, it does.” I say it as politely as I can, considering the chaos of words my brain wants me to throw at him.

“Then I won’t do it anymore,” he says solemnly.

I’m stunned. That’s it? That is all I have to do? “Thank you,” I am finally able to get out, and he gives me a curt nod, seemingly sealing our deal.

“I reviewed several articles about nepotism from Business Today,” Declan says and launches into his research finding, not a piece of paper in sight. Now I’m the one staring at him as he speaks, studying his face, every inch of skin, every eyelash, the incredible color of his gray-blue irises. I slip my gaze down to his full lips as he speaks, reviewing some very pertinent points from his mouth.

“And so that’s what I got for cons to nepotism. Your turn.”

I nod, more to bring myself back to focus than to agree with him. I feel like whatever he says has a delay as I process it through my mind. “Oh, uh, yes,” I say, reaching down and opening my backpack, taking the folder for class out. Unlike him, I have to look at my notes. I clear my throat. “So nepotism can be a positive, I think, if the things you just listed can be controlled.” I rattle off my notes, basically reading them word for word, not at all using them as a guideline as I had intended. When I finish, I notice that Declan is looking down examining his finger nails and picking at the skin around them. Now itseems Declan is completely ignoring me, and I wonder if he heard anything I said at all just now.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

He flicks a gaze to me, but immediately goes back to his fingers. “What do you mean?”

“Are you distracted?”

He pins me with a hard stare. “You asked me not to stare at you,” he reminds me with an arch of his eyebrows.

“Yes, I do recall that, but looking at someone when they are speaking is a polite thing to do,” I inform him, “and different from staring at them like you are trying to intimidate them.”

“Oh?” Declan asks, then leans forward. “And is that what you were just doing while I was speaking? Politely looking?”

He has totally just called me out. I am both completely mortified and infuriated, which I honestly have no right to be since I was totally doing what he just accused me of, and what I just asked him not to do. I keep my features in check and go to stand. I refuse to stay here and be taunted by this pompous ass, even if he is right. I push on my desk to stand but freeze in my seat when Declan covers my hand with his own, and something electric passes between us.

I stare at his hand on mine as heat rises up my arm, and I wonder if he feels it too. Somehow I tear my eyes away from our connection and look at him. He moves his hand away from my hand as our eyes meet. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That was a dick thing to say.”

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