Page 2 of Wild Skies

Just then, the professor’s gaze scans along our row, passing over student after student… then stops on me, like it always does.

My breath goes still in my lungs. Out of the corner of my eye, the eBay bidder shoots me a weird look, but I don’t care. I only care about one thing right now. One man.

Professor Carter is looking straight at me, his gaze intense and probing. And when he speaks, it’s like he’s talking just to me—brushing my hair aside to murmur in my ear. Beneath my clothes, my skin flushes hot, and it takes everything in me not to squirm.

It’salwayslike this when Professor Carter looks at me, seeking me out in the middle of his lectures.

Why does he do it? Does he feel this–thisenergycrackling between us too? Or am I imagining it, blowing things out of proportion in my head?

“Despite all that,” the professor says, holding my gaze, “I hope you will all still consider applying for the field trip. A meteor shower is a wonderful thing to experience firsthand. Life-changing, even.”

No fear. As soon as this lecture ends, I’m gonna snatch up my backpack and vault over these desks. In my head, I’m already parkouring the whole way down the lecture hall, flipping and somersaulting like a badass in order to be the first to put my name on the list.

Hey, a girl can dream. Especially when a handsome older man looks at her likethat—like she’s a vanilla frosted cupcake in a bakery window, and he hasn’t tasted sugar in a long, long time.

I give a shy smile.

The professor clears his throat and looks away, addressing another row. “Alright, let’s get started with today’s class.”

Is that a faint blush on his handsome cheekbones? It’s hard to tell from all the way up here.

But one thing is for sure: if I don’t get a place on this field trip, I’ll explode.

* * *

Fifty minutes later, the lecture hall buzzes with loud conversation as we file out of our rows in a steady shuffle. Despite my parkour daydreams, I’m stuck inching my way out behind gym bro, clutching my backpack straps with clammy hands. My laptop and notebooks for the rest of the day’s classes weigh heavily on my shoulders, making my bra strap dig into my collarbone.

The trip won’t be first come, first served, right? That wouldn’t be fair on the students at the back, and Professor Carter is famously firm but fair. Even so, tension knots my belly tighter and tighter as we all trudge slowly down the steps, and by the time I reach the front of the lecture hall and join the long line to put my name down for the trip, my shoulders are bunched up around my ears.

It’s noisy and hot, and I desperately need to dig out my water bottle, but my body is too tense to move beyond shuffling forward with the line.

Because… what if the professor doesn’t pick me?

Or what if hedoes, but then he barely looks at me for the whole trip? What if this insane fixation of mine has been one-sided this whole time? What then?

Gah.

Maybe I should walk away. Maybe I should march myself over to the student wellness center and ask for therapy instead. That would be smarter.

“Here you go.”

That familiar low voice makes my pulse spike and my chin jerk up. I’m at the front of the line already? But I’m still freaking out!

“Do you need this?” Professor Carter wiggles the pen he’s holding out, and like a dumbass, I finally take it. No word of thanks. No acting normal. I’m too starstruck, being this close to my crush.

And lord, he looks good close up.

Professor Gregory Carter is in his late thirties, with dark hair, navy blue eyes, and the kind of jaw line you could use in place of a ruler. Standing with only one desk between us, I can see a few details that were lost farther away—stuff like the very fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and the slight bump in the bridge of his nose, and the dark chest hairs just barely peeking out of his open collar.

Another thing I realize for the first time, staring at this man like a weirdo: Professor Carter has a butt chin. You know, one of those manly chin dimples that looks like a butt? How did I not see it all those times I stared moon-eyed at his staff page on the college website?

For a wild moment, all I want to do is reach out and press my thumb into that divot. My hand balls into a fist around the borrowed pen.

“You just need to put your name and college email for now,” the professor says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I’ll send out a group message by Friday letting the lucky few know.”

My lips press together as I write my name and email. Even though I take all my class notes by hand, suddenly myhandwriting is all wobbly and childlike. The back of my neck itches as I feel the professor’s gaze on me once again.

“Maren,” he says quietly, tilting his head to read my name. The faint smile he gives me is here and gone in a flash, so quick that maybe I dreamed it. “Now there’s a beautiful name.”

---