Read Online When It's Love by Emma Lauren - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emma Lauren
Tags: Contemporary
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thoughts start to take over my brain again (so much for cooling off), and one of them surprises me: Those shoes are exactly what I’ll need when I’m alone with my professor. How can I be thinking ‘when’ I’m alone with my professor instead of ‘if’ I’m alone with my professor? Am I becoming confident that something is really going to happen?
Confidence doesn’t come easily to someone who grew up never feeling loved or wanted. For some reason, though, these email exchanges with Professor Sparling – loaded as they are with uncertainty – make me feel stronger, more secure, and even powerful. Logically, they should make me feel nothing but anxious: What if he doesn’t get my message and thinks I didn’t reply to him? What if he doesn’t reply at all? What if this is all one big joke to him and he’s sitting around with his friends laughing at my messages? Has he done this with lots of his students? If he has, do I care? Do I care about feeling special, or is it enough to just get laid by the man of my dreams? That’s not exactly a fairytale ending, but it is some version of getting what I want.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that it’s been fewer than 24 hours since this whole thing began. Slow down, Syd , I tell myself. A call from Henry startles me.
“So what did you write to the old man?” he asks.
“Just the usual stuff students say to their professors: When are your office hours? Can I turn in my paper late? Do you want to see me naked?”
“Atta girl,” Henry says. “You get naked for him.”
“I don’t think we’re quite there yet,” I say. “It’s only been one day.”
“One day,” Henry snorts, “is the longest relationship I’ve ever had.”
“Some of us take it a tad bit slower, Henry,” I say.
“Well don’t take it too slow,” Henry says. “Who knows how long the old dude will be around.”
“Henry!” I shriek. “He’s not that old. He’s like 43.”
“Exactly,” Henry says. “Someone that age probably grew up playing pinball and watching the only three TV channels that existed.”
“Now are you also going to claim he only watched black-and-white TV?”
“Yes! Only black-and-white. Professor Sparling is so ancient he had a pet dinosaur growing up and if you told him you’re into anal, he’d think you were talking about a colonoscopy.”
“That’s too gross,” I squeal.
“That’s what you’re in for if you get involved with a granddaddy,” Henry teases.
“He’ll be going on and on about his prostate issues before you know it.”
“Hennnrrryy, stop! You’ve gotten carried away. I have to ask you something serious. Can we talk for real now without ridiculing my taste in old dudes?”
“Of course,” Henry says. I can tell he’s suppressing a chuckle.
“Is it weird that these email exchanges are really turning me on?” I ask bashfully.
“What’s weird about it? We live in the era of sexting. This is how it’s done, baby!”
“Yes, but this feels much bigger than that. I don’t know how to explain it, but something about Professor Sparling’s emails feels familiar. It’s almost like he knows me. How does he know exactly what to say to turn me on?”
“Maybe the same lines work on all chicks,” Henry says smugly.
“You would know,” I retort.
“Or you might be feeling something that’s really there.”
“But all Professor Sparling knows about me is what I wrote in my personal essay.”
“Speaking of that essay, as your best friend, don’t you think I find it insulting that you’ve shared your secrets with an elderly professor instead of with me? Are you ever going to let me read it?”
“Sure,” I say, though I have no intention of doing so. “I’ll send it later.”
“Don’t forget,” Henry says.
“Don’t be insulted,” I reply, and I quickly change the subject. “What should I bring to Christmas dinner? Flowers? Wine? Dessert?”
“Just your beautiful self,” Henry says. “Though my
Confidence doesn’t come easily to someone who grew up never feeling loved or wanted. For some reason, though, these email exchanges with Professor Sparling – loaded as they are with uncertainty – make me feel stronger, more secure, and even powerful. Logically, they should make me feel nothing but anxious: What if he doesn’t get my message and thinks I didn’t reply to him? What if he doesn’t reply at all? What if this is all one big joke to him and he’s sitting around with his friends laughing at my messages? Has he done this with lots of his students? If he has, do I care? Do I care about feeling special, or is it enough to just get laid by the man of my dreams? That’s not exactly a fairytale ending, but it is some version of getting what I want.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that it’s been fewer than 24 hours since this whole thing began. Slow down, Syd , I tell myself. A call from Henry startles me.
“So what did you write to the old man?” he asks.
“Just the usual stuff students say to their professors: When are your office hours? Can I turn in my paper late? Do you want to see me naked?”
“Atta girl,” Henry says. “You get naked for him.”
“I don’t think we’re quite there yet,” I say. “It’s only been one day.”
“One day,” Henry snorts, “is the longest relationship I’ve ever had.”
“Some of us take it a tad bit slower, Henry,” I say.
“Well don’t take it too slow,” Henry says. “Who knows how long the old dude will be around.”
“Henry!” I shriek. “He’s not that old. He’s like 43.”
“Exactly,” Henry says. “Someone that age probably grew up playing pinball and watching the only three TV channels that existed.”
“Now are you also going to claim he only watched black-and-white TV?”
“Yes! Only black-and-white. Professor Sparling is so ancient he had a pet dinosaur growing up and if you told him you’re into anal, he’d think you were talking about a colonoscopy.”
“That’s too gross,” I squeal.
“That’s what you’re in for if you get involved with a granddaddy,” Henry teases.
“He’ll be going on and on about his prostate issues before you know it.”
“Hennnrrryy, stop! You’ve gotten carried away. I have to ask you something serious. Can we talk for real now without ridiculing my taste in old dudes?”
“Of course,” Henry says. I can tell he’s suppressing a chuckle.
“Is it weird that these email exchanges are really turning me on?” I ask bashfully.
“What’s weird about it? We live in the era of sexting. This is how it’s done, baby!”
“Yes, but this feels much bigger than that. I don’t know how to explain it, but something about Professor Sparling’s emails feels familiar. It’s almost like he knows me. How does he know exactly what to say to turn me on?”
“Maybe the same lines work on all chicks,” Henry says smugly.
“You would know,” I retort.
“Or you might be feeling something that’s really there.”
“But all Professor Sparling knows about me is what I wrote in my personal essay.”
“Speaking of that essay, as your best friend, don’t you think I find it insulting that you’ve shared your secrets with an elderly professor instead of with me? Are you ever going to let me read it?”
“Sure,” I say, though I have no intention of doing so. “I’ll send it later.”
“Don’t forget,” Henry says.
“Don’t be insulted,” I reply, and I quickly change the subject. “What should I bring to Christmas dinner? Flowers? Wine? Dessert?”
“Just your beautiful self,” Henry says. “Though my
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