Coyle faced the class, fist beating his chest as he opined about poetry and heartbreak, eyes gazing up at the ceiling as though the ghosts of literary giants floated there. He may not have given it the scrupulous attention he gave his other classes, but he certainly hadn’t slacked off, maintaining a respectable average on his tests and papers.ĭr. Granted, he hadn’t much interest in classic literature, but was fully aware that he needed these credits to graduate this spring. Incomplete? How the hell had that happened? He’d attended every class, boring as they were, and turned in all his homework assignments. He glared down over the rows of seats at the professor, though with the vastness of the hall and glut of students, his dirty look was in vain. All A’s except for one class: Interpreting Literature, with Dr. But while Ben may have entertained a fantasy or two about melting the charismatic teacher’s frosty demeanor, today he burned not with lust, but with bottled anger.īen looked down at the paper he held on his lap, wrinkled and worn from crumpling it spitefully into a ball, then smoothing it out again. Sexy for an older guy, if not a bit detached and robotic.
With the loose, layered clothing, his body wasn’t easy to scrutinize, but the suit jacket hung nicely on his broad shoulders. Coyle was attractive, Ben supposed, with his dark hair curling above his collar, nice bone structure, deep-set eyes. He kept his gaze mainly on the floor as he lectured, gesturing emphatically with his hands like a symphony conductor. Coyle never made eye contact with the students. The teacher’s deep, melodious voice carried thespian style through the lecture hall as he droned on about D.H.
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