Jane Air

as possible given the circumstances, and straighten my back, fixing him with my best professor face.
“What did you think of Heathcliff?”
“Who?” He grins, and I suspect he’s laughing at my posture, at the obvious discomfort on my face and my pathetic attempts at seriousness.
Fine, I’m tempted to say. You want me to just stretch out like you? Spread myself in front of you like an all-you-can-eat buffet?
Because I will. I totally will.
“The male protagonist of Wuthering Heights, your reading assignment.” I reach into my bag and pull out a copy, one of many that I have and place it on my lap. Were we at a desk, I would hand it to him, but seeing his sprawling form, and the fact we are on the floor, makes me doubt he will treat the text with the reverence it deserves.
“I didn’t get to that.”
My eyebrows go up. My professor face is on full display and this time I don’t have to force it.
“You didn’t do the reading?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve seen the film.”
My laugh is short and humorless.
“So, you don’t need the book?”
“Well, I know the story.”
He may be pretty, but what a fucking waste of my time.
Forget it. Jail will be easier.
“Ok, Mr. Jacobs,” I replace the text delicately inside my bag and hoist myself as gracefully as possible to a standing position. “Whatever this is, whatever little game you’re playing, it’s over.”
“What do you mean?” He sits up.
“You blackmail me into being your tutor, which I don’t appreciate, in case that wasn’t abundantly clear. You break into my office, sit at my desk, and steal my very limited Thin Mints supply,” I shake my head. That last one still stings. “And then you call me in the middle of the night, and text me before the sun is up, demanding that we set up a teaching schedule.”
I run my hands over my hips as if I were dusting myself off, but the truth is the house is spotless. I can feel the irate teacher in me now, rising to the surface. She usually only comes out during cases of plagiarism or bullying, but she’s in full force today.
“So,” I can feel my voice rising and my face flush, “I come up with a reading list. I message you back with an assignment. I schedule a time to meet.” Each sentence is punctuated by my pointer finger jabbing into the air. “I drive all the way to your home. I sit on your floor because you have no chairs. AND YOU HAVEN’T DONE THE READING?”
Perhaps I am a bit loud with that last sentence. Or perhaps the acoustics in this room are particularly effective because my admonishment reverberates off the walls, echoing around us. For a second I swear the chandelier moves and I worry my academic indignation will cause it to crash down and kill us both.
He is very still, sitting upright, and watching me. No sound, but I wonder if he is about to break out laughing and throw me out of his house.
Well, I can decide that for him.
With a disgusted shake of my head, I stride across the marble flooring, irritated at the size of his house. It’s hard to leave in a huff when you have to cross six thousand square feet.
Prick.
Before I can make my exit, as ungraceful as it may be, he moves past me, sleek and fast as a gazelle, and shuts the door. Stands in front of it even, blocking me.
I stop myself so I don’t run into him and immediately readjust my glasses.
“You’re wasting my time, Mr. Jacobs.”
“You can call me David,” he smiles.
“I could call you asshole,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He laughs at that. Louder than I would have expected and I feel a tiny flush at this beautiful man thinking I’m funny.
“I’m sorry I didn’t do the reading.” He holds up his hands in surrender, still flashing that devastating grin, still blocking me from leaving. “But there’s no need to get in such a huff.”
“I’m not in a huff,” I blurt.
“You literally just huffed that last sentence.”
I open and close my mouth. He raises a brow.
Damn. He’s right.
“Look,” he moves slowly away from the door, still holding his hands in surrender. I back up three steps.
“I didn’t do the reading, but I remember the book from high school.”
I roll my eyes and open my mouth.
“Wait.” He puts a hand up in front of me.
I shut my mouth.
“I ordered the book on Monday. It hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Why would you-”
“Wait.” The hand is up again.
I shut my mouth.
“For the last few years, I have lived in a big city. When you order something online, it is brought to your door in a matter of hours. Not days.” He puts his hand down.
“Are you saying you don’t know how mail works?”
“Where I lived, mail meant two hours or less. And if it took longer than that,” he shrugs, “you have assistants.”
“Wow.” I take another step back. “Seriously?”
He nods.
“God,” I can’t help but say out loud. “That is so dangerous.” My mind immediately flies to my own impulse shopping tendencies. I can’t imagine how much less restrained I would be if I knew I could have anything I wanted almost as soon as I ordered it.
“What about the bookstore?” I ask, not letting him off hook that easily. “Or online? Emily Bronte isn’t exactly a niche author. You can find her work on any publishing platform.”
“My experience in bookstores is very different from yours.”
This time I do roll my eyes. “Our local bookstore is staffed by Mr. Rogers. He’s over seventy. He won’t give a shit about some movie star coming in and buying Wuthering Heights which,” I lift my finger again, angry teacher pointing, “I happen to know he always keeps in stock.”
He smiles at me, but it’s sadder. Almost with pity at my lack of understanding.
“It’s not Mr. Rogers who is the problem. It’s,” he gestures again, but his arms move downwards. His shoulders slump.