Crazy in Love (Lovestruck Series) (3 page)

Reagan

Holy guacamole. This is the strangest day ever.

It’s times like this that I wish I had a cell phone just to pretend I have something to do on it for the distraction after the yummy EMT had to make a comment about my father, at the same time insulting my professor. I can actually see my already tanking grade steadily declining with every passing second of this clusterfuck of an afternoon.

Thankfully the rest of the ride to the hospital is silent. Oh, great, and now I’m thinking about how much this ambulance ride and emergency room visit is gonna cost Professor Daughton. I should probably offer to pay for it too, even though my funds are rather limited with my scholarship, and my mom is footing my rent. I guess I may have to tap into the savings account where I put half of my father’s life insurance policy after my mom insisted I take it. Over the years I’ve only touched it once, my freshman year of college when my ancient Nissan gave out and I needed a way to get back and forth to visit my mom in the suburbs where buses don’t go.

When the ambulance comes to a stop, the tech jumps up to open the back; and with a sigh of exasperation, Professor Daughter follows him to the pavement. He then turns around to offer me his hand to help me down.

“Thanks,” I say to him. And as soon as my palm touches his, there’s a zap of awareness that travels up the length of my arm and swirls around inside my chest before settling into my lower belly. Just as quickly, it disappears when my feet hit the ground and Professor Daughton lets me go, making me think I imagined it.

Holy cheese ravioli! What if
he’s
my soulmate? Could my professor be the one? How the heck am I supposed to know for sure? I need to call Josie, and once again I’m regretting the fact that I don’t have a cell phone. Maybe it’s time I give in to the technology.

“So, Reagan, right? Are you busy later?” the hottie EMT asks, and it takes a few moments of me staring blankly at him before his words sink in. Wait, he’s asking me out? Me? Okay, so maybe he’s the man who will take my virginity, and I didn’t notice because I’m too hung up on crushing after my professor. I’m such an idiot.

Squinting my eyes, I look at the tech again, staring at his closely shaved hair, like a military cut, and down his blue uniform. He’s definitely sexy in the hero to the rescue kind of way, but I’m just not getting any soulmate vibes. I desperately need to talk to Josie to see how she felt when she first met Lawson. Were there butterflies in her tummy? Did she and Lawson attack each other like feral animals? These are things I need to know!

Until she can give me more intel, I don’t want to stupidly walk away from anyone who could potentially be the man of my dreams. Not only would that be disappointing, but Josie would kill me since her continued happiness depends on me finding my own and extending the love potion.

“Ah, I don’t have any plans, but I can’t stay out late since I have an early class tomorrow,” I finally respond while nervously pushing a lock of my long hair behind one ear. Being asked out by a hot guy is totally new to me since I attend a mostly all-girl university and, well, I’m a little…unusual.

“How about I get your number and, if you’re gonna be hanging around with the old man, I can call you when my shift ends?” he suggests with a grin that starts a slow burn in my nether regions. Ooh. There might be a spark there after all.

“Um, well, I don’t have a cell phone,” I tell him. In response, his eyes narrow and his smile slips like he thinks I’m lying because I’m not interested. That’s it! Tomorrow I’m getting a freaking cell phone! “Seriously,” I assure him, opening my frumpy purse and holding it out in front of him to inspect.

“Huh,” the EMT mutters after eyeing the contents of my hobo bag. “What about you, old man? I can reach her through your cell phone, right?” he asks.

“Well…” Professor Daughton starts before lowering his eyes to his brown dress shoes.

“That would be great,” I say, not wanting to pass up the chance to meet up later if this is him, my soulmate who will finally take my virginity and hopefully soon. I mean, I have been waiting a long time. And if we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, then what’s the harm?

Grumbling something under his breath, my professor tugs on the collar of his stained dress shirt before he says, “Sure, what the hell,” and rattles off his phone number. I don’t intentionally try to remember the seven digits. They just seem to go on repeat in my brain.

“See you soon,” the EMT says with a grin after he successfully enters the digits into his phone.

“Can’t wait,” I reply.

“Come on, sir,” the older tech says to my professor when he tugs on his elbow. “Or should I go get you a wheelchair?”

“I don’t need a damn wheelchair,” Professor Daughton says when I start to follow them. But then I realize Hottie McHero never told me his name.

“Wait, I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name,” I turn around and shout at the EMT, who is walking around the driver side of the ambulance.

“Bailey,” he answers with a wink. 

Bailey.

Our neighbors once had a dog named Bailey, who bit me every single time I walked through the yard. After he had taken a chomp out of a neighborhood kid’s face, animal control made them put him down. I’m sure this Bailey is much sweeter. He has to be, right?

Shaking off those negative thoughts, I hustle to catch up with the professor and older tech as they step through the automatic doors of the emergency room. Professor Daughton must have finally realized this trip is gonna cost him an arm and a leg because his posture is now tense. At the check-in desk, he answers the insurance lady in short, terse words. Finally, they take him to one of the cubicles with a privacy curtain and a bed, and the nurse tells him to strip down and put on the cotton gown.

“I’ll just wait, um, out here,” I say before stepping back out to give him time to change. Watching the nurses scurry around the center workstation, I don’t really know why I’m still here since anything more I say or do will only hurt my failing grade even more. I guess it’s because I need to at least offer to pay for this whole visit. Oh, and apologize again for almost killing him.

“All clear,” Professor Daughton says loud enough for me to hear through the curtain. And I definitely didn’t try to imagine what he would look like stripping out of his dress shirt and slacks. Or whether or not he wears boxers or briefs. Nope, definitely not imagining his package that I’ve spent more time watching than the man’s face this semester. I can’t help it. It’s not like I usually look at men’s junk or anything, but the professor is so…prominent in khakis stretched across his groin that I don’t have to even imagine his length or girth, except to wonder if he’s a grower or a shower.

When I step back through the curtain, Professor Daughton is sitting sideways on the bed in the blue and white pattern gown with the thin white sheet pulled over his lap. The same lap I was just thinking naughty thoughts about. My cheeks blaze with heat at the reminder of my sex deprived brain taking a detour where it should never go. He’s my professor. And I’m his student. So what if he’s achingly beautiful with sparkling sapphire eyes that seem to scorch into mine, taking my breath away. I nearly made him take
his
very last breath because of my super clumsiness. He could’ve actually died if that woman hadn’t been there with the needle that saved him.

My dad’s the only person I’ve ever lost, and his death was devastating. I didn’t handle it well because I was still a naïve little girl who didn’t understand that bad things can happen to good people. My dad was the best, and he died way too young. He was taken from my mother and me, leaving us completely devastated. She still is after all these years.

To think of never seeing the man before me again standing in front of a classroom of students and holding them captivated by his every word, not just because he’s gorgeous but because he’s so passionate about journalism, is almost too overwhelming. I’ve sat in the library and read or watched most of Professor Daughton’s news reports. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to use his career to just make a name for himself. He wants to share the injustices of the world with the public to try and invoke change, to make it a better place. And in an instant I almost caused his demise, ending all the good deeds he’s capable of.

“Reagan,” he says, drawing my eyes, which are filling up with tears, to his with that one word. My name from his lips sounds sweeter than any other sound I’ve ever heard. Did I imagine the warmth behind it because I’m desperate for the comfort? Gah, I really need to pull myself together.

“I’m so sorry you ended up in here,” I tell him, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “And I’ll be glad to pay for any of the medical bills, the ambulance and all since it’s my fault for ruining your day, putting you in here…”

“Reagan, stop. This wasn’t your fault. It was just a freak accident that could’ve happened anywhere. I should know better than to put something in my mouth without knowing where it’s been first.”

I couldn’t help but smile, considering his words in a slightly different dirty way.

Professor Daughton clears his throat. “That didn’t come out the way I intended, but you get the point, right?” he asks, and I could almost swear he was blushing underneath his golden tan. “Hell, I didn’t even have my
EpiPen
with me, which was stupid.”

“The needle thing?” I ask for clarification.

“Yeah. So, if this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine for bumping into you, being unprepared and pretty much being an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” I tell him. “In fact, your lectures are the best I’ve ever had.”

Professor Daughton chuckles, and I realize that my words could also be taken as innuendo.

“If that’s so,” he asks, “why are you barely pulling a C?”

Shit.

“Well, technology and I don’t really get along.” It’s true. I’m excelling in every other course, except his.

“Which is why you don’t have a cell phone?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer. “But I think I’ll go buy one tomorrow.”

“From your previous research papers, I can tell you have a grasp on the subject matter. You’re just a little…behind on your execution for the assignments.”

“Behind is better than saying I’m completely incompetent on the Internet I guess,” I joke.

“The world is changing, and social media is the primary source from which most young adults and many adults get their news. If you plan to have a career in journalism, then you’re gonna have to get on board.”

“I know,” I say with a sigh, resting my back against the small supply cabinet.

“What is your plan after graduation?” he asks with a tilt of his head. Only he could manage to look hot, sexy and serious wearing only a hospital gown.

“Something with photojournalism is my ultimate goal.”

“A picture is worth a thousand words,” he says with a nod. “And during the semester have you noticed how a photo can quickly go viral on the Internet?”

“Yes, in fact, my research paper is about ten of the most viral photographs, how they are alike and different, to try and see if there’s some sort of connection of what grabs the public’s attention.”

“That sounds fascinating,” he says, sounding genuinely interested. “But don’t forget that you need to incorporate your own brand into the project. Maybe add in the most popular stories or photos you posted on social media. Which ones received the most views, shares, likes and why you feel some stood out more than others.”

“Right,” I say as I glance around the room to avoid eye contact. That is the part where I’m seriously behind. Putting myself out there in public is…scary. I have a fear of rejection and criticism. What if the photos I love most are the ones everyone says suck?

“I haven’t seen any updates on your pages in a few weeks,” Professor Daughton says.

Shoot. I had no idea he would actually check up on us throughout the semester.

“Don’t worry,” he adds. “You still have two weeks to get more active, grow your audience and get your name out there. Remember, this is about helping you in the future with creating your personal brand and practice increasing traffic. No matter where you go to work, they’re gonna expect you to be familiar with social media and drawing attention to your articles.”

“I know. And I’m gonna get on it.”

“Good,” he says. “And if you need any help or, say, extra credit to pull up your final grade, just stop by and see me during my office hours.”

And there it is. The famous “extra credit” of his that I’ve heard so much about from all the girls who have taken him up on his offer.

Wait, does that mean he’s hitting on me? The thought doesn’t make me as happy as I thought it would, especially since I wouldn’t be the first or last girl he’s given “extra credit” to.

Before I can answer, a tired looking older nurse and a tall redhead breeze through the curtain. When the woman sees Professor Daughton, she gasps so hard I’m not sure how she didn’t choke on the air.

“Oh my God, Gage! Are you okay?” she asks with an insincere flourish, reaching for him and pulling him into her full bosom that’s barely covered by her revealing, skimpy cream colored dress.

Gage? And the woman’s young but obviously not a student. More like a contestant on America’s Next Top Model, only she’s definitely had work done based on the shiny, plastic look of her face, especially her duck lips that are pressed against his cheek.