Can't Have Him: A Student Teacher Romance Read online

  Can’t Have Him

  Kate Hunt

  Copyright © 2019 by Kate Hunt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. Olivia

  2. James

  3. Olivia

  4. James

  5. Olivia

  6. James

  7. Olivia

  8. James

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  Chapter One

  Olivia

  I stare at my boyfriend in utter disbelief.

  Well, I guess that isn’t totally accurate. I should say that I stare at my ex-boyfriend in utter disbelief. Two seconds ago, we were together. And now, just like that, we’re not.

  “What do you mean, it’s over?” I say. My voice is as full of anger as it is of hurt. Liam and I have been together for three years, since our freshman year. I thought we were going to be together forever. Not that we’d explicitly talked about getting married, but it sure seemed like that was the direction we were headed in.

  But now, all of a sudden, the day before our senior year of college, he’s decided that he’s done with me.

  “I’m really sorry, Olivia,” he says. “Believe me, the last three years have been amazing. But I think it will be best for both of us if we see what else is out there. Because what if we have even stronger connections with other people?”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it,” I say. “You just want to sleep with other girls.”

  Liam scoffs, as if that’s the absolute last thing on his mind. “Come on. It’s not like that.”

  “Whatever, Liam,” I say. I can’t believe he’s doing this to me. Did our relationship mean nothing to him?

  “I’m sorry, Olivia.”

  “Yeah, you said that already,” I growl.

  I grab my bag and get the hell out of his apartment.

  I’m a mess walking back home, but I refuse to let myself break down in the middle of the street. I keep swallowing down the lump that keeps rising in my throat and blink back my tears. It’s an eight-block walk to my apartment and I’m close to losing it by the time I get there. Furiously, I unlock the front door of the building and run up the stairs to the apartment I share with my roommate, Emma.

  Usually when I get home, Emma calls out a cheerful hello within seconds of my arrival. But there’s no greeting when I walk in the door, and when I peer into her bedroom, she’s not there.

  At first, I’m relieved to have the place to myself. It frees me up to start sobbing with abandon. But once that huge initial wave of pain passes over me, I realize that what I really need right now is a friend.

  I try calling Emma, but she doesn’t answer. A few seconds later, she sends me a text: Sorry can’t talk. Can I call you later?

  I’m disappointed, but I type back, Yep. I don’t want to tell her about Liam over text, so that’s all I write.

  I try to think of another friend I could call, but it hits me that I don’t feel close enough to any of them to go to them when I’m a mess like this. I guess I could call my mom, but…well, she’s never been the biggest Liam fan. I have a feeling that she’ll tell me it’s better off this way, and that’s not the kind of comfort I need right now.

  Oh, screw it. I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to let alcohol cleanse away this awful day. Throwing my coat back on, I leave my apartment and head to a nearby bar. It’s pretty divey, but that’s exactly what I need right now. A cheap way to get drunk. And it’s the kind of place where people usually leave you alone.

  Sliding onto a bar stool, I ask the bartender for a rum and coke and practically down half the drink as soon as he sets it in front of me.

  Nearby, I hear someone say, “Bad day?”

  I turn to my left and see a guy sitting a couple stools away from me. He’s looking at me with arched eyebrows and an expression that’s half amused and half concerned. And even though I’m in a bad place right now, that doesn’t stop me from feeling a pang in my chest—the dude is hot.

  Not that it matters. As far as I’m concerned, I’m staying away from guys for the foreseeable future. Or I’m at least going to stay away from them until I can be a better judge of their character. I thought I was good at separating the jerks from the good guys, but today has shown me that I was dead wrong about that.

  I realize I haven’t replied to the stranger who asked me if I was having a bad day. I don’t want to strike up a conversation right now. But I don’t want to be blatantly rude, either.

  I look over at him and shrug. “Well, it wasn’t a good day.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” he says.

  God, I’m so sick of hearing the word sorry. I turn away from him, shaking my head. “Yeah. Everybody’s sorry today.”

  “Well…if you need a stranger’s ear, I’d be happy to volunteer.”

  I glance over at him again. Is this guy hitting on me? Because I’m not a girl he should hit on right now. When my eyes lock onto his, though, I immediately feel my guard go down. He’s not looking at me with even the slightest trace of lust. His eyes are genuine, kind, and sincere.

  “Um, thanks,” I mumble.

  “No pressure, though,” he says, smiling. “Just putting the offer out there.”

  I nod. I take another sip of my rum and coke. And then before I realize it, I’m telling this stranger what just happened. I’m telling him about how good things were between me and Liam, and how him dumping me came out of nowhere, and how I feel like I wasted the last three years of my life.

  “I know the feeling,” he says. “I’ve been there, too. It’s fucking irritating, isn’t it?”

  I nod. And it makes me feel good that he’s being empathetic instead of trying to convince me that everything will be fine. Because I already know everything will be fine—what I need right now is just to be heard.

  “Thanks for listening,” I say.

  “You’re welcome,” he says.

  “Can I…repay the favor?”

  He laughs. He has a great laugh. “No. That’s okay. Thanks for the offer, though.”

  Suddenly, the bartender accidentally knocks over a pint that he just poured, and beer splashes all over the bar. Instinctively, I move from my seat to the empty one next to me, just barely avoiding the beer spilling over the edge.

  “Shit,” the bartender says, grabbing a handful of rags. “Really sorry about that. I didn’t get you, did I?”

  “Nope, I’m good,” I say.

  “Your drink’s on the house,” he says, looking embarrassed.

  “Oh, it’s fine,” I say, feeling bad for the guy—even though it’s kind of his job to not spill drinks.

  “Nice reflexes,” says the stranger. And it occurs to me that I’m sitting right next to him now. In fact, I can suddenly feel the heat of his body next to mine.

  “Thanks,” I say, glancing at him. And when I look at him, my heart does a little flip. The guy isn’t just hot. He’s steaming hot. Those sexy eyes…that strong jaw…those kissable lips…

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Oh,” I stammer. “Yeah. I’m—yes.”

  Our eyes hold for a little longer than they should. Something vibrates deep in my chest. I’ve never felt like this around a guy before—not with Liam, not with anyone—and it’s an overwhelming sensation.

  “I can’t believe anyone wouldn’t want to be with you,” the stranger says.
>
  I feel my cheeks heat up. I don’t even know what to say. Is he saying that he wants to be with me? I mean, I’m not going to hook up with a guy the same day I got dumped, and I’m also not going to hook up with a guy whose name I don’t even know, but…

  “I think I should get going,” I say. I need to get myself home before I do something I regret. “It was really nice talking to you, though.”

  “It was really nice talking to you, too.” He smiles, and a sexy little dimple shows up that I didn’t notice before. “Actually…I’d like to talk to you more sometime. I know you just got out of a relationship, but could I give you my number? You don’t have to call me. Ever. But in the future, if you’re interested…”

  “I’d like that,” I say.

  I hand him my phone so he can type his number in. James From The Bar, he types into the contact info, and I grin at him and tell him I’m Olivia From The Bar. He laughs, and says, “Well, it was lovely to meet you, Olivia,” and holds out my phone for me. And when he hands it back, our fingers brush, and some serious sparks burst inside of me.

  Maybe it isn’t such a bad day after all.

  Emma calls me back on my way home that night, and we meet up halfway between where we are to catch up. She can’t get over what a crazy day I’ve had—and what an asshole Liam is.

  “Well, at least you have a rebound already lined up,” she says. “He sounds super hot.”

  “He was,” I say. “I don’t know if I’d want him to be a rebound, though. Rebounds never last.”

  “Why does it have to last? Girl, you just need to have some fun.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say, then change the subject, asking her how her day was. Soon, we’re back at the apartment, lamenting the fact that classes start tomorrow. In truth, though, I enjoy school. I’m passionate about my major—Art History—and am especially looking forward to my courses this semester.

  I actually get a decent night’s sleep—something I would have never expected to say after getting dumped—and wake up bright and early the next morning. My first class is at eight o’clock on the east side of campus, so I get out of the door with plenty of time to spare.

  It’s a bit of a walk, and by the time I reach the building and find the classroom, I’m a little overheated. Wanting to make a good impression on the professor, I take a moment to catch my breath before heading in.

  But when I walk in, I quickly realize that making a good impression is going to be the least of my worries. That, in fact, I’ve already made an impression.

  Because my new professor is James from last night.

  Chapter Two

  James

  The moment I look up and see Olivia walk into my classroom, I mistakenly think she’s somehow tracked me down and is here to surprise me. A ridiculous thought, I know. Then common sense kicks in and I realize that this isn’t some cute thing she’s doing.

  She’s walking into my classroom because she’s a student enrolled in my class.

  “Good morning,” I say to her, trying to speak the words exactly the same way that I’ve said them to every other student who’s walked in. In reality, though, my heart’s racing at the sight of her. I thought she was pretty last night in the bar, but in the soberness of day? She’s drop-dead gorgeous. I know I shouldn’t think that—I really, really shouldn’t think that—but it’s impossible not to.

  “Morning,” she replies, stunned.

  And we don’t say anything more than that.

  As the last of the students trickle in—there are three minutes left until class starts—I replay the previous night in my head. I left the bar last night feeling great, but now, suddenly, she’s not just some sweet girl I met in a bar. How the hell didn’t the fact that she’s a student come up?

  Well…I guess we weren’t talking for that long. And she didn’t look like a student. Especially not when sitting in a bar.

  I glance up into the tiered rows of seating in front of me. Olivia is up in the back row of seats, sitting on the outside of the row, not too far from the exit at the back of the classroom. There could be no clearer sign that she doesn’t want to be here. And I don’t blame her. This is embarrassing for both of us.

  It could be worse, though. We could have…well, we could have slept together. Imagine how mortified we’d both be right now if we’d done that.

  The fleeting thought of having sex with Olivia stirs something in me, and I immediately force it away. Fuck. This is not good. This is really, really not good.

  “This is Art History 313, right?”

  I look over and see a shaggy-haired guy lingering in the doorway.

  “Yep,” I say, then check the clock. “Come on in. We’re just about to get started.”

  I walk over to shut the classroom door, clear my throat, and smile out at my room of new students. The only place I avoid looking is the upper corner where Olivia is sitting. If I look at her, it’s going to screw with my head. I’ve got to stay focused.

  “Good morning, class,” I say, projecting my voice. “And welcome back to the school year. I hope everyone had a nice summer break. As you may have heard, this is Art History 313, Ancient Egyptian Art and Archaeology. I’m Professor Davis, but you’re all welcome to call me James. Is everyone in the right place?”

  A girl in the second row curses and gets up to rush out of the room. Some scattered laughter follows.

  “All right,” I say. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  Over the next hour, I try my fucking hardest to ignore Olivia’s presence. But as I go over the course goals and objectives, the required texts, the schedule for the semester, my grading policies and office hours—all the necessary stuff that needs to be covered on the first day of class—her presence in my classroom gets harder and harder to ignore. And I finally have to look at her. It’s a quick glance, but it’s still a glance.

  When I look at her, I know without a doubt that this semester is going to be hell.

  Because I want her.

  But I can’t have her.

  And it’s going to be torture, her sitting there for the next fifteen weeks.

  When I finish up with my first-day-of-class spiel, there’s still a few minutes left. I dismiss the students early. And as it always happens on the first day of class, a few students immediately come up to my desk, syllabus in hand, with questions for me.

  I answer their questions, all the meanwhile keeping an eye out for Olivia. As she walks by my desk on her way out, I clear my throat and say, “Excuse me, Miss Williams? Can I speak with you for a minute?”

  Wordlessly, she nods, and slowly walks over to my desk.

  There’s still a few people leaving the classroom, and I wait until they’re gone before I speak.

  “Please don’t take offense to this,” I say, carefully looking at her. “But I think that maybe—”

  “I’m dropping the class,” she quickly says.

  I’m relieved to hear her say it. I hate that we’re in this situation right now. But I know it’s the most sensible thing for her to do.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “That’s what you were going to suggest, right?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  She nods, then readjusts the strap of her backpack on her shoulder. “Well…I would say that it was good to see you…but I wish I hadn’t.”

  “I wish the same,” I say.

  She presses her lips together, then looks over at the door. “I have to get to my next class.”

  “Of course,” I say. “Good luck with everything, Olivia.”

  And as she walks out of my classroom, I have to fight off my desire to go after her. There’s no point, I tell myself. There’s no point.

  But that doesn’t make me long for her any less.

  Last night, when I told Olivia that I understood what it was like to feel as if you’d wasted years on a relationship, I wasn’t just saying that—in my case, it was almost a solid decade that felt wasted. Now that some time has passed, I no longer feel tha
t way, but when the breakup was fresh, I definitely did.

  My ex’s name is Isabella. On the whole, we had a good relationship. In the end, though, she refused to make the kind of commitment that I was looking for, and we broke up the night I proposed. I went into the proposal knowing that might happen—we’d talked multiple times about marriage, and I knew how hesitant she was about it—but still, I’d hoped that after nine and a half years together, she’d say yes.

  These days, I can say with complete certainty that I’m over Isabella. And I’ll go for long periods of time when she never crosses my mind. But every so often I have this recurring dream she’s in, where Isabella is just staring at me, saying, “She’s out there, James. She’s out there.”

  Tonight is one of those nights when I have the dream.

  It’s the same as always—an ill-defined, shifting background, Isabella dressed in wispy gray, her face both tired and imploring. She says the usual lines to me, and then looks away, out into the distance, and says it again.

  But then, abruptly, I’m in another dream. Now I’m sitting in a cabana, in the middle of somewhere tropical, and Olivia is by my side. When I look over at her, she smiles at me. Somehow, without using my hands, I take a sip of a drink.

  “Told you you’d like it,” Olivia says.

  And then, slowly, keeping her eyes on mine, she comes over and straddles me.

  I wake from the dream with the morning autumn sun slanting into my eyes and my hard-on straining against the bed sheets. Groaning, I clench my hands into fists. I try to think of all the things I used to think about when I needed to get rid of a hard-on.

  But my efforts are useless. It’s not going to go away.