Read Online Triple Love Score by Brandi Megan Granett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brandi Megan Granett
Ads: Link
didn’t help. He kept pouring until she finally said, “Okay, I get it, you are Irish. I am not. The room is beginning to spin.”
“That was the answer I was looking for.” And he picked her up and carried her into her bedroom.
Whenever a scene like this played in her mind, she imagined a room in a bed and breakfast with a brass headboard and coordinating linens, gauzy curtains on the windows, a fire going.
She never imagined a man carrying her to her three-week-old sheets, rumpled and unmade, on the same mattress she has had she since was nineteen with no headboard at all, just a squeaky metal frame that came free with the purchase of a box spring.
In her fantasy, though, after being carried to the well-made bed, the man settled in, too, pressing himself against her, brushing aside her hair, kissing her gently as he unbuttoned her shirt or skirt or jeans. Her imagination always featured a lot of buttons and slow kissing. Kissing everywhere.
However, reality didn’t match the vision here, either. Instead, Ronan set her down, then stood upright, slipping both his hands into his pockets.
“Well, Prof,” he said. “Happy Thanksgiving. See you in class on Tuesday.” He placed a fist over his heart, thumped it twice with a bowed head and left her there.
She listened to the click of the lock and the door thudding shut. He locked it from the inside before leaving. Courteous. Gentlemanly. Gone.
In the morning, only the headache and the bottle of Baileys in her recycling bin reminded her about the night before. She shrugged it off. A one-off. Something that could have been a mistake but wasn’t. She sighed heavily and looked through her medicine cabinet for aspirin. Maybe most of all she wanted a mistake, something to shake things up, make them different.
C H A P T E R
I N THE LONG DAYS BETWEEN their night at the bar and her Tuesday class, Miranda found herself replaying the evening in her mind. She laughed again at his admiration of Shel Silverstein and winced at memory of her hangover. Sometimes, well, maybe even more than sometimes, she reimagined the end of the evening, letting it come much closer to her fantasy with the buttons. But modesty and good sense prevailed, making her cheeks burn if her thoughts went a little too far. Still, she kept returning to the image of him standing over her next to the bed and to the question of what if.
On Tuesday, she finally stood before the door to her classroom, and Miranda feared her body would similarly betray her. She didn’t want to think about Ronan that way. He was a student. Her student. But she couldn’t erase the images from her mind. And part of her didn’t want to—but she didn’t need anyone else to guess at that—most of all, Ronan.
The full group sat arrayed around the table. Everyone back to their usual, pre-holiday places, eyes glued down to their phones. Ronan caught her eye, nodded slightly, and then returned to whatever flickering image passed over his tiny cell phone screen. She sighed inside. It was indeed no big deal. She ran through class breezily, letting them spend too much time harping on Clementine’s latest poem, a villanelle about Justin Bieber. They were riffing about other words that could rhyme with Usher.
“What do you think?” Clementine wailed.
Miranda refused to join in, waving her hands in front of her. “This is a student-led space. Listen to your peers, listen to your heart.”
Clementine shrugged her shoulders and returned to taking notes of her classmates’ whimsical selections. The two hours chugged by, and Miranda barely needed to speak a word. Any awkwardness she feared between her and Ronan failed to materialize. Relief flooded Miranda. She smiled brightly at them as they gathered their things and left. She even waved, chorusing in a singsong voice, “See you all next week.”
A few turned back and looked at her with slight scowls on their faces.
Her fears were unfounded. It’s not like anything could come
“That was the answer I was looking for.” And he picked her up and carried her into her bedroom.
Whenever a scene like this played in her mind, she imagined a room in a bed and breakfast with a brass headboard and coordinating linens, gauzy curtains on the windows, a fire going.
She never imagined a man carrying her to her three-week-old sheets, rumpled and unmade, on the same mattress she has had she since was nineteen with no headboard at all, just a squeaky metal frame that came free with the purchase of a box spring.
In her fantasy, though, after being carried to the well-made bed, the man settled in, too, pressing himself against her, brushing aside her hair, kissing her gently as he unbuttoned her shirt or skirt or jeans. Her imagination always featured a lot of buttons and slow kissing. Kissing everywhere.
However, reality didn’t match the vision here, either. Instead, Ronan set her down, then stood upright, slipping both his hands into his pockets.
“Well, Prof,” he said. “Happy Thanksgiving. See you in class on Tuesday.” He placed a fist over his heart, thumped it twice with a bowed head and left her there.
She listened to the click of the lock and the door thudding shut. He locked it from the inside before leaving. Courteous. Gentlemanly. Gone.
In the morning, only the headache and the bottle of Baileys in her recycling bin reminded her about the night before. She shrugged it off. A one-off. Something that could have been a mistake but wasn’t. She sighed heavily and looked through her medicine cabinet for aspirin. Maybe most of all she wanted a mistake, something to shake things up, make them different.
C H A P T E R
I N THE LONG DAYS BETWEEN their night at the bar and her Tuesday class, Miranda found herself replaying the evening in her mind. She laughed again at his admiration of Shel Silverstein and winced at memory of her hangover. Sometimes, well, maybe even more than sometimes, she reimagined the end of the evening, letting it come much closer to her fantasy with the buttons. But modesty and good sense prevailed, making her cheeks burn if her thoughts went a little too far. Still, she kept returning to the image of him standing over her next to the bed and to the question of what if.
On Tuesday, she finally stood before the door to her classroom, and Miranda feared her body would similarly betray her. She didn’t want to think about Ronan that way. He was a student. Her student. But she couldn’t erase the images from her mind. And part of her didn’t want to—but she didn’t need anyone else to guess at that—most of all, Ronan.
The full group sat arrayed around the table. Everyone back to their usual, pre-holiday places, eyes glued down to their phones. Ronan caught her eye, nodded slightly, and then returned to whatever flickering image passed over his tiny cell phone screen. She sighed inside. It was indeed no big deal. She ran through class breezily, letting them spend too much time harping on Clementine’s latest poem, a villanelle about Justin Bieber. They were riffing about other words that could rhyme with Usher.
“What do you think?” Clementine wailed.
Miranda refused to join in, waving her hands in front of her. “This is a student-led space. Listen to your peers, listen to your heart.”
Clementine shrugged her shoulders and returned to taking notes of her classmates’ whimsical selections. The two hours chugged by, and Miranda barely needed to speak a word. Any awkwardness she feared between her and Ronan failed to materialize. Relief flooded Miranda. She smiled brightly at them as they gathered their things and left. She even waved, chorusing in a singsong voice, “See you all next week.”
A few turned back and looked at her with slight scowls on their faces.
Her fears were unfounded. It’s not like anything could come
Similar Books
