Twice Bitten (Love, Lust & Magic #1)

Griff

Although an enthusiast for the arts, found himself unable to fully concentrate in his first class of the day. The tap-tapping of his pen against the notebook before him, his hand tracing the outline of the pendant that dangled over his shirt, and his distant gaze made this clear. He knew it was silly, but his mind kept wandering back to the night before. Not to Darcy, not to the whole being creeped out in a dark alley part—but to Pruitt and Uriah. And it wasn’t just because in his eyes they resembled Greek gods, either.

So caught up in his thoughts, it took nearly twenty minutes before ’s attention turned to the professor. Speaking of supernaturally handsome…

Very much a subscriber to the casual-cool attire rarely found in academia, the forty-something-year-old professor leading the class donned slim-fit black dress pants, a white button-up with its sleeves rolled and collar undone, and a jaw-defining five o’clock shadow to match his unkept head of gently graying dirty blonde hair. The entire class seemed enthralled by his casual dialect and demeanor—and possibly his muscular frame, which was outlined perfectly through his tailored wardrobe. The broad-shouldered man leaned against a desk at the front of the stadium-seating styled lecture hall, his leather satchel and a tie that didn’t make it past his morning coffee sprawled across it.

Ah, the mysterious, rare, and long sought-after silver fox in the wild, mused to himself. I guess I’m getting the full spectrum of hotties this semester. And boy, are my priorities so messed up . He could only venture a guess that his suddenly raging hormones were a coping mechanism of going from a life of small-town home-schooling to a college in the biggest city he had ever lived in.

“Hold up. Professor Quinn, is it?” spouted an inquiring nails-on-chalkboard voice from directly behind .

“Ah, yes, it is,” responded the professor. “And, uh, is it?—”

“Ada Ambrose, whom some of my peers may recognize as a member of this year’s Mystic Hollow homecoming court,” said the girl. turned to watch her pop a comically oversized bubblegum bubble.

“Ah, yes, Ada Ambrose of this year’s Mystic Hollow homecoming court, of course ,” Quinn repeated lightheartedly. “What can I help you with?”

“Well, I first wanted to remind everyone who is new to campus to be sure to cast their vote. Unlike some bigger Division II universities, because of this year’s football schedule we are celebrating the wonderful tradition of homecoming during the very first week of classes. In a sense, it’s a true, traditional homecoming. This means you only have until this Friday to cast your vote,” said Ada as she began distributing merchandise with the text Ada for Homecoming Queen to the students closest to her. She stopped when she noticed the professor waiting on her, but managed to hand off a few branded pins to an entertained . “ Oh, sorry. My question. Right. Will all of what you just went over be on the test?”

“Thank you for the reminder to get our student body civically engaged, Ada, but no—the rules of the classroom, which as of this moment now include no soliciting votes in a popularity contest, will not be on the test,” replied Quinn with a dry chuckle. A quiet hum of laughter came from the students. “Remember, kids, it’s only syllabus week. That’s what you guys are calling it these days, right?”

A relieved made a mental note to cut the zoning out act for the rest of class. Whether because the professor was monitoring Ada or otherwise, it was in that moment that Quinn made eye contact with and smiled.

D’oh , gulped. Did he realize I wasn’t even paying attention?

His eyes now trained on the front of the class to not appear rude, missed the lone late entrant into the classroom. His trench coat, scarf, and sunglasses in tow, Uriah quietly slid in through a side door and took a seat at the far end of the same row.

“And, well, since this is only a freshman-level theater course, I’m not expecting my students to dive into and become experts on the particulars—things like, oh, how many surviving Greek plays have exclusively female choruses…”

“Twenty-one!” shouted someone at the front of the class.

“Or how much seating a Broadway theater has…” continued Professor Quinn, dragging his words as though to elicit another response from the audience.

“At least five hundred seats!” came a student from across the large lecture hall.

Professor Quinn smiled, impressed. “Or even, perhaps, who the third member of the love triangle in Shakespeare’s famous Romeo & Juliet was.”

The room was quiet.

Finally, a familiar-sounding voice rang out. “That’d be Count Paris, prof.”

Quinn turned his attention to Uriah. “Very good,” he hesitantly responded as he took in the presence of his newest student.

Soaking in his momentary glory, Uriah seemed to forgot about his plan to appear incognito.

coyly turned his head just as the two made eye contact. There was no way someone with a British accent wouldn’t stick out in a town like Mystic Hollow.

In his attempt to play things cool, Uriah nodded his head to acknowledge —and followed it up with a wink. The freshman nearly gasped.

Sexy or stalker? That is the question , folks, mused to himself with his own little play on Shakespeare’s Hamlet.