Jane Air

He thinks this is hilarious.
After all, it’s not his life he’s ruining.
Of course, a small voice in my mind says, you could go along with it.
This time my eyes flicker down, across the sinew of his neck. I swear I see an outline of muscle on his chest.
It’s hardly the worst punishment.
And I did trespass…
“I never coerce anyone,” he smiles down at me. “Least of all women.”
Please try to coerce me, I can’t help thinking. Just a little bit.
“Then what-”
“I need a tutor,” he stands back. The smile wider.
“A tutor?”
“For a role,” he clears his throat. “I need to research classical heroes. And I hear you’re the best in the business.”
I stare. Mouth open.
And then I almost laugh.
It’s too pathetic.
Here I am, ready to throw myself at a man.
He’s already seen me naked.
He’s already had his hands over…quite a bit of me.
He even has the power to throw me in jail, possibly.
And what does he want?
A teacher.
Of literature.
For work.
If I could disappear, if I could wave a wand and trade my soul for the power to be anywhere but right in front of him, I would.
The mortification rolls through me, as if I thought he wanted me for anything other than…work. And books. And textual analysis.
The things I’m actually good at.
I remember his hands on me in the woods, the feel of his fingers on my breast is burned on my skin even now, days later.
But that was probably typical for him. Fun flirtation. Touching a willing woman.
Just another day in the office.
“I don’t…tutor.” I can barely get the words out. Between the horniness, humiliation, and copy of Pride and Prejudice stabbing me in my back, I don’t think I have ever been more uncomfortable.
“I’ll pay you.”
“I thought you were blackmailing me?”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. But I do need your help.”
He’s moved back now, deftly dodging my stacks of books with a grace I have never managed, in my office or anywhere else.
“What help?” I can’t help but gawk. This is more surprising than when I thought he wanted sex.
Disappointing too, but that’s neither here nor there.
He shrugs again. “I need to understand heroes.”
“But,” I pause, not sure I understand what he’s asking. “Don’t you play heroes? In your movies?”
He shakes his head. “Not those kinds of heroes. I mean literary characters.”
“But you don’t make literary movies.”
He backs up again, lips thinning and I realize how rude my comment was.
“I just mean-”
“Either you help me, or I call the cops.”
My jaw must be practically on the floor because he laughs again, gently punching the side of my arm like an older brother.
“Come on. It’ll be fun.” He smiles and I have to admit, all threats and blackmail aside, that smile could make a woman do anything. “You don’t have any classes this summer, right?”
“Well, no, but-”
“And your research trip was canceled, so you’re not going anywhere, right?
“How did you know-”
Cynthia.
“I need to learn and you love to teach.”
“You-”
“Plus,” he opens his eyes wider and pushes his lower lip ever so slightly out in a delectable, but still surprisingly masculine pout. “You’re my only friend in this town.”
“I am not your friend,” I say, finally, managing a sentence.
“That’s right,” He grins and turns towards the door. “You’re my teacher.”
“Can’t you-” I’m so flustered I can barely speak. I’ve never gone from bewildered to horny to mad to bewildered again in such a short space of time. “Can’t you hire someone?”
“I just did,” he grins, opening the door and waving a small piece of paper, which I realize is my business card, complete with cellphone number and email address.
The door shuts behind him and I’m still standing against my shelves, books digging into my back and blocking my path to my desk.
As his footsteps fade down the hallway, I hear Cynthia’s enthusiastic greeting and his low response.
I close my eyes and inhale the soft smell of him, a mix of cognac, leather, and something deep, earthy, and male.
God.
There goes the neighborhood.

6
Jane
“You’re what?” Kate is staring at me, wine glass in hand, eyes narrowed.
I know this face.
This is her she’s nuts face.
It is usually reserved for Penelope, when she serves salad and tells us the tomatoes were grown in her “homemade” fertilizer, or Jessica, when we post her bail after another protest.
I’ve never actually seen it directed towards me.
“I’m tutoring him.”
Her head tilts further to one side. Wine remains in the glass. Eyes narrow until she is staring at me through slits.
“What’s he like?” Christine asks from her perch on one of Jessica’s barstools.
Gorgeous.
So much much better in person than on film.
“Really irritating,” I press my lips together.
“Is he handsome?” Jessica asks from behind the counter where she is laying out bowls for our Taco Tuesday.
God, yes.
I shrug. It’s an overly practiced movement, stiff and unnatural. Anyone else would be flagged as an instant liar, but I shrug so often when people ask me whether or not someone is attractive, they probably think it’s genuine.
“I told you he wasn’t that good looking,” Kate takes a sip of her Cabernet.
You’re an idiot.
“Yeah.” Another stiff, liar’s shrug.
You’re right.
He isn’t good looking.
He’s stunning. And smells like earth and woods and sex. And tastes like…
Well, I don’t know. I mean, it’s not like I’ve thought about that.
Ok, who are we kidding? Of course I’ve thought about that.
Dory smiles. “Is he nice?”
I hope not.
I hope he’s very, very bad.
“Nope.” This time, I don’t have to lie. “He is pushy and rude.”
“Hollywood,” Jessica shakes her head.
“Why are you doing this again?” Kate leans forward, sliding her empty glass towards the bowl of sliced lettuce. Penelope, who is busy dicing tomatoes and sending me death glares, slides it back towards her.
“To help him.”
She peers closer.
Damn. She might be on to me.
“But you just said he was pushy and rude and not hot.”
“So?”
“SO?” Kate throws her hands in the air. “What is this? You’re not some 14 year old fan girl obsessed with those stupid movies-”
Penelope makes a low sound in her throat and for a minute I think