after the longest twenty-four hours of his life? Tired, bored, bruised, and even when he did have a lucid moment all he could do was mentally undress her with his eyes because about four in the morning he’d started to wonder what might have happened after that kiss if they hadn’t been on a G-rated television show. Not that he was an exhibitionist, but being on camera hadn’t seemed like such a big obstacle when he was back in bed, remembering her in that little tank and shorts she slept in, wielding her book like a battle-axe. All she’d been missing were the glasses . . .
Trip sat up a little straighter in his chair and put that image out of his head. Not difficult since the class had ended and there was a mad rush. About two thirds of the audience made a beeline for the exit, more than one of the coeds giving him a smile on her way by. The rest dashed to the front of the room, surrounding Norah in a clamoring mass of insecure human flesh that made him understand why it was called a crush of people.
Trip had put himself between her and a couple tons of Japanese engineering without a second thought. No way was he taking on a bunch of college-aged girls with romantic troubles. They’d probably take one look at him and go into a homicidal frenzy. Hell, the lone male was smart enough to stand back and wait for the others to disperse.
Norah had taken refuge behind the lectern, which didn’t provide much cover but seemed to represent an unassailable wall to the students, since none of them tried to cross that invisible barrier. “I’m not giving any relationship advice,” she began.
About half the crowd of young women slouched off in various states of disappointment.
“And if you want to know how to get published, sit down and write something.”
All but a couple of the other girls slouched off. Norah answered a couple of questions that actually seemed germane to her lecture, then turned to look at the kid who’d been lurking behind the female hoard. He just stood there, stringy hair hanging in his face, looking more like a gamer than a psych major, tall and gawky and soft around the middle. Then again, looks could be deceiving. Who knew that better than Trip, with his job, or Norah, with her father?
About the time Trip decided he’d been creeping the crowd of young women, he plucked up the courage to step forward and actually speak.
“I know my grades aren’t great, Professor MacArthur,” he mumbled from behind his curtain of hair, “but all I need is some tutoring. I want to be a psychologist, just like you.”
Want and psychologist were the operative words there, but judging by the way the kid was invading Norah’s personal space he wasn’t making a career path so much as trying to make time.
“I could come to your house,” the kid said, clinching Trip’s opinion of his ulterior motives. “You wouldn’t even have to talk that much, just help me when I have a question about the reading.”
“You are . . .”
“Uh, having a hard time with, like, the big words, and—”
“I was asking your name,” Norah said with a perfectly straight face.
“Oh, right, my name. Bobby,” he said, nodding the entire time. Or maybe he was just bobbing his head out of habit, which gave his name a whole new meaning and made Trip laugh.
Norah shot him a look. Bobby didn’t notice.
“Bobby,” Norah repeated. “I don’t tutor. If you’re having this much trouble with a one hundred level course, perhaps you should be rethinking your educational path.”
“Man, you’re, like, cold, Professor MacArthur.”
“I find it saves time.”
“Yeah, but, like, a little sympathy wouldn’t hurt, y’know?”
“Sympathy is highly overrated,” she said, patting him on the arm. “Directness is often the best course when I feel someone can handle the truth.”
“Okay then.” Bobby turned around and shambled up the aisle, mumbling to himself and shaking his head.
She had that effect on him, too, Trip
Trip sat up a little straighter in his chair and put that image out of his head. Not difficult since the class had ended and there was a mad rush. About two thirds of the audience made a beeline for the exit, more than one of the coeds giving him a smile on her way by. The rest dashed to the front of the room, surrounding Norah in a clamoring mass of insecure human flesh that made him understand why it was called a crush of people.
Trip had put himself between her and a couple tons of Japanese engineering without a second thought. No way was he taking on a bunch of college-aged girls with romantic troubles. They’d probably take one look at him and go into a homicidal frenzy. Hell, the lone male was smart enough to stand back and wait for the others to disperse.
Norah had taken refuge behind the lectern, which didn’t provide much cover but seemed to represent an unassailable wall to the students, since none of them tried to cross that invisible barrier. “I’m not giving any relationship advice,” she began.
About half the crowd of young women slouched off in various states of disappointment.
“And if you want to know how to get published, sit down and write something.”
All but a couple of the other girls slouched off. Norah answered a couple of questions that actually seemed germane to her lecture, then turned to look at the kid who’d been lurking behind the female hoard. He just stood there, stringy hair hanging in his face, looking more like a gamer than a psych major, tall and gawky and soft around the middle. Then again, looks could be deceiving. Who knew that better than Trip, with his job, or Norah, with her father?
About the time Trip decided he’d been creeping the crowd of young women, he plucked up the courage to step forward and actually speak.
“I know my grades aren’t great, Professor MacArthur,” he mumbled from behind his curtain of hair, “but all I need is some tutoring. I want to be a psychologist, just like you.”
Want and psychologist were the operative words there, but judging by the way the kid was invading Norah’s personal space he wasn’t making a career path so much as trying to make time.
“I could come to your house,” the kid said, clinching Trip’s opinion of his ulterior motives. “You wouldn’t even have to talk that much, just help me when I have a question about the reading.”
“You are . . .”
“Uh, having a hard time with, like, the big words, and—”
“I was asking your name,” Norah said with a perfectly straight face.
“Oh, right, my name. Bobby,” he said, nodding the entire time. Or maybe he was just bobbing his head out of habit, which gave his name a whole new meaning and made Trip laugh.
Norah shot him a look. Bobby didn’t notice.
“Bobby,” Norah repeated. “I don’t tutor. If you’re having this much trouble with a one hundred level course, perhaps you should be rethinking your educational path.”
“Man, you’re, like, cold, Professor MacArthur.”
“I find it saves time.”
“Yeah, but, like, a little sympathy wouldn’t hurt, y’know?”
“Sympathy is highly overrated,” she said, patting him on the arm. “Directness is often the best course when I feel someone can handle the truth.”
“Okay then.” Bobby turned around and shambled up the aisle, mumbling to himself and shaking his head.
She had that effect on him, too, Trip
Similar Books
