Home > Professor Feelgood (Masters of Love #2)(12)

Professor Feelgood (Masters of Love #2)(12)
Author: Leisa Rayven

than live in it alone.

God, how sad. And amazing.

Eden pulls on the cardigan and sits in the chair next to my bed to lace up her boots.

“The Professor message you yet?”


“Well, if it doesn’t pan out with him, I know another awesome book idea you could submit.” She shoots a look toward my closet.

I shake my head. “Don’t start with me. You know that’s just a hobby.”

“Yeah,” she says as she finishes her laces and sits up. “But it’s a hobby you’re really good at.” She pushes out of the chair and opens my closet. On the top shelf is a pile of banged-up notebooks that she pulls down before turning back to me.

One by one, she throws them on the bed. “This one is fantastic, but you need to flesh out the characters. This one has huge potential, if you’d just get off your ass and write an actual ending. And this one …” She holds up the notebook labeled, All the Things I Feel But Can’t Say and presses it against her chest with a sigh. “This one is my favorite, and please know I’m going to hassle you about it until your dying day. Or until you finish it. Whichever comes first.”

I grab the notebooks and place them on my nightstand. “Do you know how much crap I’d get at work if I let anyone know I write? There’s already a misconception that editors are just frustrated authors.”

“Well, in your case, it’s kind of true. You wanted to be a writer when you were a kid, right?”

“Yes, but I also wanted to be a professional chocolate taster, Indiana Jones, and a kangaroo, so …”

She puts her hands on her hips. “So you’re telling me you don’t want to be a writer anymore? That you spent hundreds of hours working on your stories because … what? You needed to practice your handwriting?”

I grab my hand cream off the nightstand and squirt some into my palms. “I’m saying that I have about as much chance of becoming a successful author as I do of turning into an Australian marsupial. Now, you have a hot man waiting for you a few blocks away. Do you really want to waste more time dissecting my career choices?”

She pauses for a moment before leaning down and kissing the top of my head. “Okay, fine. I’m going. But you need to know that if and when you publish your own work, you’ll have at least one customer who will buy everything you write.”

I wave as she leaves, and while I finish rubbing cream into my hands, my gaze goes to my pile of notebooks. There was a time when I spent every spare moment writing. It was a form of therapy, exorcising all of my angst and frustration onto the crisp pages. I also have a few that Eden hasn’t seen. They’re my version of screaming when a train passes, and they helped me through some dark times. These days I’m too busy with my job to even consider indulging again.

I grab the notebooks and stack them back neatly in the top of my closet. It’s easier to ignore my creative urges when I put them out of sight.

I can’t be bothered drying my still-damp hair, so I strip out of my robe, grab my phone, and crawl into bed. In contrast with my hesitance to get naked with other people, I love sleeping in the nude, and I sigh in pleasure as I feel the cool sheets on my skin. When I’m comfortable, I go back to the Professor’s timeline, and lo and behold, there’s a new post.

I sit up in excitement. It’s a sweaty picture of him in a tank and shorts. His muscles are gleaming in the sultry black and white shot. I notice he uses black and white a lot. It makes everything seems shadowy and mysterious, and that only adds to his appeal.

I scroll down to read the caption.

I run to quiet my mind,

and as I force my feet one in front of the other, my dark thoughts trail behind me

like an oil leak.

I run to purge. To punish myself. To push thoughts away.

I run, because whenever I stand still,

the suffocating, life-ruining love I feel for you

catches up with me.

Yet again, a chill runs up my spine. Goddammit, I need to publish this man’s words. I have a burning desire to shape and frame them, and gift them to the world. It has to happen.

Even though I’ve just had a pretty decent orgasm, the Professor makes me feel like I could start in on round two.

I quickly type out a message. I don’t know if he’s even gotten my last note yet, but I want to strike while I know he’s online.

<Hi, Professor. It’s Asha Tate again. I messaged you earlier. If you’re around, I’d love to chat. Sorry to hassle you, but I’m kind of on a deadline.>

I hit send and then chew on my thumbnail. Come on, guy, reply. Read the message and reply. Now, please.

It’s nearly a minute later when I get his response.

<J, stop. Whoever’s phone you’ve hijacked, this isn’t funny. I’m not playing this game with you.>

I frown at the screen and tap out. <This isn’t a game. I’m very serious about this project.>

<Sure, you are. Also, you’re an asshole. Quit it. Now.>

Okay. Unforeseen glitch.

<Professor, this is absolutely not J, whoever that is. As I mentioned, I’m an editorial assistant at a publishing house, and I plan on submitting your work to my bosses tomorrow with a view to turning your Instagram feed into a book. I’d like to talk about the details with you. Please don’t think this is a scam or a joke. >

Still nothing.


<Sir, I understand that you must get some strange messages considering your number of followers, but I assure you, I am who I say I am. You can go to the Whiplash Publishing website and find me on the ‘Our Staff’ page. I have red hair and glasses. If you’d prefer to communicate by email, my address is [email protected].>

I go back to chewing my nail while I wait. This time it’s five minutes before anything happens.

<Directing me to a picture on a website is a new strategy, I’ll give you that. But do you seriously have nothing better to do with your time than screw with me? That’s just sad and pathetic.>

I let out a frustrated exhale. Damn, I knew he’d be used to receiving messages from crackpots, but this is getting ridiculous. How the hell do I convince him I’m me?

I get a flash of inspiration and go to his previous post, so I can take a screenshot of our brief, but seemingly meaningful interaction. Then, I post it in our chat.

<Professor, I’m not sure if you remember, but you and I had a brief interaction on your timeline earlier. I have no doubt that J has nothing better to do than screw with you, because quite frankly, he/she sounds like a dick. But my time is precious and quickly running out. Please call me, and you’ll see that you’re not being catfished. Hell, we can even Facetime if you like. Whatever it takes to convince you I’m on the level.>

Yet again, I press send and wait. Minutes pass.

Come onnnnnn.

When my phone eventually rings, it’s so loud I jump. It takes me a second to register he’s taking me up on my Facetime offer, and one more second to realize I’m still 100% naked.


I jump out of bed and mutter, “Wait a second! Don’t hang up!” while yanking on my robe. “Almost there! Stay on the line. Don’t you dare hang up!”

The instant I get my robe tied, I sit on the bed, swipe my clammy hair away from my face, and jab the answer button.

“Professor? Is that you? It’s Asha Tate here.”

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