ROOMIES (Strangers-To-Lovers Romance Novel) Read online

  Her heart fluttered because of something else, though. Something about the way he smiled at her, a momentary lapse before he composed himself. Amelia felt as if in these moments, Professor Bell let his guard down for just a second, just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of something more exciting and less defined than their roles as student and professor.

  Professor Bell looked away, turning his eyes back to the chalkboard. “Amelia, we were just discussing themes in We Are Seven,” he proposed, returning his eyes to her, his expression more composed. He gave her a hopeful look. “Would you like to weigh in?”

  The guy next to her practiced twirling his pen around his thumb, and it clattered loudly on the table, making her jump a little. Professor Bell smiled steadily at her, waiting for her answer.

  Amelia hated speaking in public, but she also hated the bored looks clogging the room and her lazy classmates who never contributed to the class. She hated that Professor Bell had so many interesting things to say and that she was the only one who seemed to care.

  “Yes,” she replied, clearing her throat lightly, a nervous habit. “I thought the main theme was life and death, and the way the characters perceive these two states, one as a binary, the other as something more of a spectrum. It actually reminded me a lot of what Wordsworth went on to do in Lyrical Ballads.”

  After she finished her thought, Amelia’s voice felt shaky. She raised one cold hand to the searing heat that had settled across her face, soothing her skin with her cool fingertips. The room was silent a moment, and when she looked up again, she saw a puzzled look on Professor Bell’s face.

  He shook his head slightly, as if to clear the expression. “Well, yes, that’s exactly right,” he said. Amelia recognized from the tone in his voice that he was impressed with her response.

  “Wordsworth was laying out a lot of the initial patterns that we see develop later in his canon of work. Death, life, the role of the interloper, even his portrayal of the poor,” Professor Bell continued, building on Amelia’s comments.

  Amelia’s heart pounded in her chest. She had so many thoughts on the works they read, and she couldn’t quite understand why everyone else seemed so bored by them. The lectures were fascinating. Everything Professor Bell said was fascinating. And she meant that, too, because he was brilliant. Amelia considered him the most thoughtful and intelligent professor she had ever studied with. And it didn’t hurt that he was gorgeous.

  The class was mostly filled with girls in their early twenties, maybe a year or two younger than her. She was a twenty-three-year-old senior, turning twenty-four in December. She wasn’t older because she took a fifth-year victory lap, or diddled away her college years at parties, like the other twenty-three-year-olds she knew. Amelia had spent her teens working to save money for college. Unlike the students around her, who didn’t care what they were learning because they were riding mommy and daddy’s checkbook straight to graduation, Amelia had had to earn her own way.

  Growing up an orphan had taught her to be resourceful. Amelia had been a ward of the state for as long as she could remember, and it was a long-shot that she’d ever make it to college. But she was smart and determined, and those two personality traits had landed her the scholarship that made it possible for her to achieve the things the foster system denied her.

  Despite growing up in an environment where the institution disparaged her dreams, Amelia had managed to make her own way in life. She had achieved what the system told her she wasn’t capable of—a college education.

  The other girls who sat around her, twirling their hair and doodling in their notebooks, had no interest in the poetry of the Romantics. Amelia suspected they had only signed up for the Wordsworth seminar because Professor Bell was hot and young, and they had to take an English course regardless, so they’d rather do it with the one sexy professor in the department.

  Amelia was serious about her academics. She’d worked too hard to get where she was now to piss away the course daydreaming. Her mission was to continue school and get a Masters, maybe even a PhD, in literature. For that, she needed good grades and better recommendation letters.

  Amelia had the grades. She’d been maintaining a solid 4.0 GPA since she arrived. But she needed to build relationships with her professors to get the personal recommendations required for most programs. She told herself that’s why she took such pleasure in impressing Professor Bell with her dedication to the texts. It was part of getting her recommendations. But really, she had a crush on him, the same as all the other dumb girls in class. She couldn’t help it. He was handsome and smart, and she was only human, after all.

  Between the two of them, Amelia and Professor Bell expanded the discussion to questioning whether Hellen Vendler’s academic critique of “Tintern Abbey” was valid or overblown, a conversation that mostly took place over the heads of the others. Amelia stopped blushing, and together, they bounced thoughtful considerations of the text back and forth in the kind of intellectual ping-pong that made her love school.

  Amelia was surprised when the clock tower chimed again, signaling the end of class. Professor Bell also seemed to have lost track of time, and he scrambled to make his last-minute announcements as the class stirred, shoving their books into their bags and shuffling towards the door.

  “Midterms are coming up, folks,” Professor Bell reminded his students. “And a few of you could use some extra credit to boost your grade. If you’re interested in doing some volunteer work to make up for some of those essay assignments, I’m putting together a student panel for the Writing Center. Come see me if you want to take advantage. Looks great on resumes, too,” he added, smiling at Amelia and giving her a pointed look.

  Amelia’s ears perked up. She was interested, and she definitely wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to earn a solid recommendation letter and add something like this on her CV.

  Still, Amelia hesitated. She felt a little weird about spending more time with Professor Bell. She was too distracted by him. He was brilliant and she loved the class, but it was a fine line to walk between being focused on the coursework and being enraptured with him.

  No, Amelia told herself. If she couldn’t stay focused on the work, she wouldn’t be able to help him with the project. She had standards of academic excellence to maintain, and she couldn’t afford to let anyone see her becoming another moony-eyed co-ed like the other silly girls in the course—two of whom were hovering by Professor Bell to talk about the project.

  Watching the other two girls signing up changed her mind. If I won’t be alone with him, Amelia thought, perhaps there is no harm in participating. She really did need some volunteer work to boost her service components. Her academics were fantastic, but that wasn’t enough for a full-ride through a grad program these days. A panel for the Writing Center would be a huge boost towards getting a Teaching Assistantship in her first year, which was hard to come by at most schools. Having made up her mind, she waited patiently at the table for the other girls to clear out.

  “Amelia,” Professor Bell greeted her when she finally approached him. “Interested in volunteering? I think you’d be a great fit for this panel,” he said encouragingly.

  “Yes, actually,” Amelia said, feeling less shy speaking to him directly than she did conversing with him across a silent room filled with her peers. “I need the volunteer work. And honestly, I was hoping you could write me a recommendation letter? Once the semester is over, I mean.”

  “Of course,” Professor Bell nodded. “I’d be happy to. Let me know where you’re applying.”

  “Wow, excellent!” Amelia thanked him. “That’s fantastic. I will. Oh, and… um, sorry for being late today. I lost track of time.”

  “It’s not a problem,” he said and chuckled. “I’m just glad you came in when you did. I was starting to feel like there was no hope for today.” Amelia smiled and turned to leave when Professor Bell asked self-consciously, “Is it me? Am I… um, boring?”

  “What?” sh
e replied, surprised by the intimacy of this question. “Boring? No. Your lectures are amazing. I don’t get it either. Maybe they’re just lazy and don’t do the readings.” She shrugged, not sure what to say. “Anyway, I… um, well, your class is my favorite,” she added with a little smile.

  She felt the warmth spread across her cheeks like freckles as she said this, turning her pale skin pink, and hoped it wasn’t too obvious. But Professor Bell looked pleased by her response.

  When Amelia glanced up at him, she thought she saw the same puzzled look she had seen earlier, as if he was studying her. She longed to know what thoughts were hidden inside his mind. She couldn’t tell what it meant, but she was starting to think she liked the way he looked at her.

  “So the panel will meet after our Friday seminar to go over topics and teaching techniques,” Professor Bell told her, returning his focus to the matter at hand. “I'm really glad you’re going to participate.”

  “I’ll see you then,” she said, hesitating momentarily at the door. She looked up at him through her long lashes, flashing him a shy smile. She saw his mouth open slightly before returning a smile of his own, as if he was going to say something but chose not to. She ducked her head and scurried away before her embarrassment caught up with her.

  Class was over for the day, but Amelia’s work piled up. She had made tentative plans to hang out with Frankie, her best friend, but after she mentally tallied the number of pages she needed to read for class tomorrow, she thought briefly about canceling. As she walked home across the campus in the October, post-dusk afterglow, watching the streetlights flicker on one after another, her phone rang. “Hey, Frankie,” she greeted him cheerfully. “What’s up?”

  “I’m in love, and it’s killing me,” Frankie moaned, never one for subtleties.

  “Oh yeah?” she asked. “So, I guess that means you’ll be at my place in twenty minutes with a bottle of wine?” The thought of canceling on him had fled her mind.

  “Fifteen,” he corrected her. “I already bought the wine.”

  “Alright. I’ll be there soon.” Amelia laughed. So much for extra reading, she thought after hanging up. Still, she could easily fake it through her other lectures, and Frankie, although he was sometimes prone to hyperbole, didn’t fall in love easily. Frankie falling in love with a straight boy was serious business. Like two-bottles-of-wine kind of serious. She found him resting his chin on his knees, his arms wrapped around them, sitting on her steps.

  “Push over,” she told him, finding a step of her own to sit on. “Oh, good, screw cap.” Frankie had already opened one bottle and handed her a second.

  “Why did I have to fall for a straight boy? A freaking jock, no less.” Frankie sighed. “I’m a terrible gay man. I only fall for people who can’t love me back. What’s wrong with me?”

  “Welcome to my world,” Amelia mumbled, taking a swig from the bottle. “And the jury’s still out on that,” she said, winking at him.

  “Whoa, what’s that?” Frankie asked, turning to her. “Are you raining on my pity party, or has someone finally cracked the elusive Miss Amelia’s heart?”

  “It’s not like that.” Amelia shrugged, swatting Frankie’s arm. “It can’t be like that. He’s… um, my professor.”

  “Who, Professor Sexy Pants? What’s the big deal? Isn’t everyone in love with him? I know I am. I almost switched from Chemical Engineering to Poetry after seeing his photo on RateMyProfessor.com. Too bad I used all my electives already.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s my professor. But, I don’t know… Am I crazy if I say I feel like there’s… something? Chemistry or something?” Hearing the words come out of her mouth, Amelia sighed and answered her own question. “Yeah. Yes, I am. I’m fucking crazy. There is no chemistry between me and my gorgeous professor.”

  “You never know,” Frankie persisted. “Stranger things have happened. You’re smart, and you’re funny, and you’re freaking beautiful. It’s not unheard of—”

  “Anyway, tell me what’s going on with you,” Amelia said, interrupting and ignoring him. “Is it, um, what’s-his-face? The jock from the fraternity?”

  “Yeah, it’s what’s-his-face, the jock from the fraternity,” Frankie lamented, once again lowering his head to his knees. “Why do I do this to myself? I’m hopeless.”

  “Come on,” Amelia beckoned, standing and pulling at his shirt collar. “Let’s take this inside. We’ve got too much to talk about for the steps.”

  She picked up the bottles and ushered him inside the little apartment, locking the door behind them.

  2

  Theodore Bell leaned back in his wooden desk chair and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. He was surrounded by stacks of papers and towering shelves of books that were dog-eared and bookmarked and annotated with passages for his lectures. The pile of ungraded papers seemed to be growing, and the graded ones to pass back to his classes were almost non-existent.

  Lately, his calendar was filled with committee meetings and student conferences. On top of all that, the manuscript that he needed to publish to earn tenure was woefully abandoned in the bottom drawer of his desk.

  He stretched his legs and thought about getting a coffee before his afternoon seminar when the phone rang. After shuffling a few piles of papers, searching for it, he found it and answered just before the last ring.

  “Hello?” he said distractedly.

  “Hello, Theodore,” chimed the voice on the other end. “It’s Catherine, from Humanities. I’m calling because I’m hoping you might be able to do me a small favor.”

  “Certainly,” Theodore replied, trying to mask the reluctance in his voice. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, as you know, the faculty senate is next week, and we’re looking for a new representative from the English Department,” Catherine continued. “And since you’re new to us, the Department Chair thought this might be a terrific way for you to get to know our university better and build your service record.”

  Theodore was silent for a moment as he scanned the avalanche of papers covering his desk.

  “This sort of thing looks very good when you come up for tenure review,” Catherine prompted pointedly.

  “Of course,” Theodore said, swallowing the overwhelming frustration that he was beginning to feel for his new life in academia. “I appreciate being thought of. I’d be happy to.” At least he was getting better at the polite lies.

  “Marvelous!” clipped Catherine in her nasally New England voice. “The meetings are every Thursday, from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m. I’ve already checked with the department admin, and it looks like you’re free. We’ll see you there next week. If you have any questions, just let the admin know.”

  Theodore hung up the phone, feeling defeated. He glanced at his watch and jumped up. “Oh, shit!” he muttered. He was late to his seminar class. So much for coffee or even a bathroom break, he thought unhappily. He cast a regretful look at the ungraded papers he knew his students would ask about, grabbed his books and lecture pad, and hurried out the door.

  Earlier that week in class, he had offered his students what he thought was a great opportunity for extra credit, and he was slightly disappointed that only three had taken advantage of it. Still, he’d gotten the one he had hoped for—Amelia, the sharpest student in the class.

  The others were doing it because they needed the points, but she was doing it because she saw the real value in it, which was experience. Most of his students coasted, but Amelia was a fighter—like himself, Theodore thought. She knew she had to play the game if she wanted to rise through the ranks of academia.

  Theodore noticed recently that he paid a lot of attention to Amelia in class, but he rationalized it was because she was the only warm body in the room. The rest of the students stared out the window like zombies until the clock tower chimed their release and they made bee-lines for the door.

  Amelia, on the other hand, did all the readings. She wrote excellent papers. She seemed to know almost as
much about the topic as he did. He suspected she spent her free time browsing the scholarly essays in academic journals. And while this impressed him, he also found it a little sad.

  It hadn’t escaped Theodore’s notice that she was gorgeous, either. Her dark eyes were so lively and intelligent, and one particularly listless afternoon a few weeks ago, when even she had started to tune out, he found himself mesmerized by the many shades of brown in her hair as she wound it absently between her fingers.

  Theodore had been alarmed when he realized he had been staring at her. When she looked up and caught him watching her, her pale cheeks had flushed a delightful shade of pink and she quickly averted her eyes.

  Theodore blinked rapidly and cleared the haze from his brain, returning his attention quickly to the syntax diagram on the blackboard. He spent the rest of the lecture trying to ignore the tingle in his hands and was embarrassed when his words caught in his throat.

  Since then, he had spent more energy trying to pull the other students into the discussion. If he wasn’t depending entirely on her to keep his classes afloat, he wouldn’t be so absorbed by her. But despite his best efforts, his attention to the other students was met with a complete lack of willingness to engage. Looking for intelligent students aside from Amelia wasn’t working, and today was no exception.

  “Dan,” he asked the only boy in the class, hoping to break the afternoon monotony. “Any thoughts on the relationship between the beautiful and the sublime in the work of the Romantics we’ve read so far?” It was an open-ended question, and Theodore was hopeful for a response. To this question, an answer—almost any answer—would work.

  “Uh...” Dan stumbled, dropping the pen he had tried in vain to twirl around his thumb and index finger. Theodore knew it was pointless as Dan stalled for time, his eyes scanning his poorly scribbled notes frantically. “Um, they, uh…”