The Professor’s Holiday Surprise (Cam Show Crush #1)

Prologue

Paisley

Last week of August

I’m so excited for my first day of school in a decade, I don’t even care my only choice for a radio station is inexplicably playing Christmas music on my drive from little whistle-and-you-miss-it Wildflower Hollow to the community college in the next town over from my aunt’s house.

With “Under the Mistletoe” by Brett Eldredge and Kelly Clarkson echoing in my ears, I park right behind the horticulture building and get out of my beat-up little hatchback. A wave of relief and joy rolls over me, and I do a zero-chill happy dance. A little celebratory two-step, complete with hip swings and fist pumps.

I can’t believe today is actually here. I saved for so long to be able to afford this. I moved to the middle of nowhere in Wyoming to live with my conspiracy-theory obsessed aunt to be able to do this. But most of all, I had to learn how to give up fear and self-doubt to be able to do this.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

I glance at my watch and laugh.

I’m an hour early for the beginning of my fabulous future. But at twenty-eight, I have enough frustrating life experience to never count luck on my side. Better early than late! And this way, I have time to scout out my classroom.

But again, it doesn’t take me long.

Definitely not in Chicago anymore, Paisley , I tell myself as I glance down the empty hallway outside the equally empty classroom two minutes later.

A sign on the wall points to a cafe in the next building over, so I go in that direction in search of something cold to drink, because a sunny day in Wyoming sneaks up on you, and the water bottle I packed doesn’t sound quite thirst-quenching enough.

Over-prepared and still missing something delicious in my life.

When I step through the door on the next building, I almost run straight into a tall, broad cowboy who has to catch me by the upper arms to stop me from bowling him over.

“Watch out,” he says, his warm, rich voice even nicer than the Everything I Know About Sexual Plant Reproduction I Learned at Climax Springs Community College t-shirt stretched tight across his chest.

I jerk my head up.

A pair of pale grey eyes flare in awareness from behind horn-rimmed glasses. “It’s the happy dancer.”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw you out my office window.” He stares at me intently, his gaze so sharp, it feels like he knows me already. “You got out of your car and…” He catches my hand, twirling me easily under his curved arm.

I gasp as I spin around, coming to a stop against his other hand in the small of my back.

“Yeah.” He steps back and smiles. “Something just like that.”

“You saw that?”

“It was hard not to. You’re like a ray of sunshine.”

I’m speechless.

Is this cowboy with glasses—and a nerdy plant shirt—flirting with me? Be still my heart. He’s even more delicious looking than lemonade.

“Sorry,” I manage to stammer.

“For what? Being joyful?” He tips his cowboy hat. “Thanks for brightening my day.”

As he moves past me, I turn, because I don’t want to stop looking at him even as he strides away from me.

He’s older than me, maybe by a decade or more. Old enough to be the dad of a freshman, easily.

But I could convince myself that he’s starting over, too. Maybe I'm not the only one who screwed up the last decade of their life in dead-end jobs and fruitless, frustrating attempts at relationships.

And he’s beautiful. Tall and solid. He strides with purpose into the building I just came from, and too quickly, he disappears from sight.

What was that?

Cowboys really are built different.

I shake off my stunned reaction, then find the cafe.

“What can I get you?” says the person behind the counter.

“Do you have lemonade?”

“Sure do.” As she gets it, my thoughts zoom back to what just happened.

It’s not like I thought I would come home to Wyoming and find a beautiful man to fall in love and make babies with—I know better than that. But I’ve never in my life had an instantaneous connection like that.

That was…wild.

I put the bottle of lemonade into my backpack and slowly head back to my classroom. Maybe it’ll still be empty and I can feel sorry for myself for a bit. Plus, I’d rather be early and get a good seat than arrive with the rush and awkwardly have to hunt for a free spot.

Of course, I’m not lucky, and when I pull open the classroom door, the room isn’t empty.

There’s a person crouched at the podium, in a sport coat and jeans. From the flickering on the screen above them, it looks like they’re connecting a computer to the projector, so probably the professor.

“Hi,” I call out. “Is it okay if I come in now, or should I?—”

He stands up, and my heart sinks as recognition flares on his face—again.

In the last few minutes, my hot mystery cowboy swapped his hat for a jacket, although he’s still wearing the irreverent plant t-shirt.

Which makes sense.

I was too distracted by the compelling grey eyes that took my breath away to even consider that this guy might be teaching Plant Propagation, but of course he is.

“Definitely, come on in.” He circles around the desk beside the projector and extends his hand. “Noah Lowry.”

“Paisley Stevenson,” I respond automatically. And I shake his hand, because that seems polite, but it’s probably a mistake because now I know how strong his grip is, how warm his palm is, and how weak I am for wishing I could feel this hand on my body in any other way when he’s just being a nice teacher.

“Paisley.” He says my name carefully, deliberately. Like he’s memorizing it. “Are you new here?”

“First day.” The words rush out of me, my mouth suddenly dry. “First year horticulture. I’m, uh, returning to college as a mature student. The dance you saw was…kind of celebratory for actually making it here.”

Ruddy color streaks across his cheekbones. “Ah.” He clears his throat and steps back, taking a seat on the edge of the desk that his computer bag is sitting on. “Make it here from where, then?”

“Today? Wildflower Hollow.”

“I know it well.” His head tilts to the side. “But I meant metaphorically. What was the journey that deserved a dance when you finally got here? Because I make the drive from Wildflower Hollow every day and it never inspires a two-step.”

I groan. “Okay, fair. But I wasn’t expecting to be grilled on imagery or whatever by my plant professor.”

He grins. “I’m all full of teaching surprises.”

I stare for a second, then shrug. “I dropped out of college in my first term ten years ago, and since then, I bounced around a lot. It’s a long story.”

His attention doesn’t waver. “This is a fresh start, then.”

“Something like that.”

A funny look crosses his face. “I know all about second chances, Paisley. If you run into any difficulties this term, please let me know.”

My heart squeezes at the bittersweet miss of my fantasy guy turning out to be this nice—but also an off-limits professor. “Thank you.”

“And what made you pick horticulture?”

“I love working outside. The longest job I ever held was at a greenhouse. When I looked at the courses CSCC offered, this one jumped out at me.”

“It’s a hard class.”

“That’s okay. I’m up for the challenge.”

“Good girl. That’s what I like to hear.”

The way I warm at his praise that is embarrassing.

He clutches the edge of the desk that he’s sitting on, his knuckles turning white, and he clears his throat. “So, what, uh, were you listening to when you were dancing?”

And now I’m just deeply embarrassed.

“Christmas music,” I admit.

He grins. “Really? In August?”

“In my defence, I couldn’t find another radio station.”

His eyes twinkle. “Sure. Were you singing along?”

Damn it. Busted. I smile despite myself. “Maybe.”

The door swings open and a couple of young men come in.

As Dr. Lowry introduces himself to them, I steal a final sweeping glance over him. I take in his well-used boots and his worn leather belt. The big belt buckle like a shining beacon to the stretched denim right below it, curving tightly over his…his…

I can’t even think the word.

The other students find seats in the third row. I sit down in the front row and try to pretend I’m not going to go home and think of that taut bulge, touching myself to the way he called me a good girl.