Yes Professor Read online

  Yes, Professor

  by Renae Kaye

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Yes, Professor © 2016 Renae Kaye.

  Edited by Olivia Ventura.

  Cover Art © 2016 Bawd Designs.

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission, except where permitted by law.

  This book is dedicated to my good friend, Sleep.

  I know I haven’t been around much lately,

  but I would like you to know

  I still love you and think of you daily.

  I hope that one day, after this writing gig is over,

  we’ll share the hours together like we used to.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  “He’s out the front again.”

  Those words speared through me like a white-hot rod of steel. I gasped, and was on my feet running even before my best friend, Nick, could draw breath. I ignored Nick’s chuckle—the wanker loved to tease me about everything—and dashed for the front window, peering through the lace curtains to spy on our neighbour. The makers of lace curtaining deserved a pay rise. They made spying undetected so much easier.

  Nick was correct. Mr Redding was out the front of his house, this time with large hedge clippers that he was wielding against his perfectly hedged hedges. I assumed that Mr Redding had some sort of hedge fetish from the way his garden was kept. The front garden was an irregular shape due to the position of the road and house, but its curves and straight edges were bordered by a bushy, green hedge that was kept immaculate, and exactly the same height and distance from the boundary all the way around. In the centre of the area stood a cream-coloured birdbath on some paving bricks; otherwise the garden was only lawn.

  Lawn, hedges, and one single birdbath. Its simplicity and plainness intrigued me more than I would like to admit. I wondered if the man who owned and tended the garden was the same.

  Nick spoke from behind me, making me jump, obviously creeping around on silent feet. “Is he doing anything interesting today?”

  “Just trimming his hedges. Again.”

  “So no, not doing anything interesting.”

  I ignored his sarcasm. It was the only way we stayed best friends. Besides, he’d never let me hear the end of it if I told him I found Mr Redding’s dedication to his hedge very arousing.

  “I really don’t see what you like about him, Avery,” Nick mused in a tone I’d heard often. It was his bewildered, Avery-is-weird tone. “I just can’t see it.”

  This was not news to me. I’d been crushing on our neighbour for weeks now, ever since we’d moved in, but I was unable to unearth any information about the man apart from his surname—thanks to a letter accidentally put in our box—and that he liked his hedges. Nick had teased me endlessly about my “professor crush.” And I had absolutely no reply to that, because it was true. I knew that Nick didn’t understand my gender preferences or my sexual preferences within that orientation. And Mr Redding did look exactly like an old-fashioned professor—and that’s exactly why I melted at the sight of him.

  My thing for professors is why I watch and rewatch Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I’m still not sure if I prefer Professor Harrison Ford or Professor Sean Connery. Probably Sean, because his hat was the icing on the cake.

  “I’m going over,” I muttered, and turned, but was blocked by Nick’s bulk as he refused to move out of my way.

  “Avery, why do you torture yourself like that?” he asked in exasperation.

  I pouted and stuck one hip out, plonking my well-manicured hand on it. “It’s not torture. It’s offering the goods to the consumer. How can he consume if I’m not in front of him? Now, how’s my hair?”

  I watched as Nick glanced at my quiff.

  Nick shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

  If Nick thought it was fine, it meant that it was terrible. It probably resembled Madonna’s locks from the ’80s. I dashed to the mirror in the hallway and began pushing strands back into place. I checked the brown eyeliner I’d worn out earlier and decided it would have to do. Mr Redding might leave and go back inside if I didn’t hurry out. I yanked my jeans a notch lower and hauled up the back of my T-shirt a little, turning in front of the mirror to see the effect.

  Yes. Perfect. It looked naturally rumpled, as if my jeans had just gradually fallen during the day and revealed the elastic of my underwear. I squared my shoulders, licked my lips, then raced to the door. Mr Redding was sure to be waiting for me.

  Adopting a relaxed walk, I sauntered to the end of the driveway and checked the empty letterbox. I knew it was empty. I’d collected the letters two hours previous. Without looking in Mr Redding’s direction—on which I had to congratulate my self-control—I pretended to be upset that the letterbox was empty, as if I’d been waiting for something that hadn’t arrived. I pouted, frowned, then looked up the street for the postie, who’d already been earlier that morning. Then, with my hands on my hips, I turned around and looked over at Mr Redding’s house… and saw nothing.

  Mr Redding had disappeared.

  Dammit.

  With shock and a sinking heart, I nearly cried aloud. It was unexpected, comparable to Prince dying, and my heart dropped to my knees. I frantically looked around, hoping to see a glimpse of the man I wanted. But like Muriel at a wedding, I was disappointed. Then I spotted the hedge clippers resting neatly on the edge of the grass. Mr Redding would never leave the clippers out. I realised he must be coming back, and I just needed to give him time. MacGyver always needed time, and nothing is sexier to me than a thinking man who can make a helicopter out of bamboo and duct tape.

  Peeved that Mr Redding had missed my wonderful acting at the letterbox, I soldiered on, my mind firmly fixed on the goal—a conversation with Mr Redding. I walked over to the scraggly bushes that pretended to be a front garden at my house, and began to look under them. Parting the leaves and looking in the branches, I hoped that anyone watching would assume that Australia Post was throwing letters in bushes these days.

  I was onto my fifth bush—this one was lavender because it had purple flowers, or then again it could’ve been lilac, violet, or grape, I wasn’t sure—before Mr Redding reappeared, picked up his hedge trimmers, and got back to work. For the thousandth time, I wondered how old he was, what he did for a living, and did he like to suck cock? Please God, be nice about that last one? Nick called him old, but I called him prime. He had a neatly trimmed beard that was sprinkled liberally with grey that matched the brown-and-grey combed hair on his head. His glasses were ordinary, but obviously expensive, with squarish gold frames that made him look scholarly—which was why Nick called him a professor.

  The image was compounded by the clothes he wore. Every morning he’d head off to work wearing a three-piece suit, usually in a shade of brown or tweed. Three pieces! I didn’t know anyone who still wore matching waistcoats with their suits, and wondered if Mr Redding needed to order them special, but I had to admit those clothes looked wonderful on him. Despite being at least forty, he seemed to be fit and healthy. No flab or beer gut pushed against those waistcoats. He was from top to toe the image of a professor—his hair and beard always perfectly cut, his clothes perfectly ironed, and not a hint of the latest fashion about him.

  On the weekends he’d relax his standard of clothing but it was still tailored trousers, a collared shirt, and a knitted jumper. Since we’d moved into the house only six weeks ago, I had yet to see what Mr Redding would wear in the summertime, but assumed it would be just as fussy. The man was outside gardening, yet from the glimpse I had of him, he seemed to be wearing cashmere.

  Not wanting to seem obvious—I knew Nick was inside pissing himself laughing—I finished checking the garden for the mystery letter before pretending to look up and down the cul-de-sac again.

  Mr Redding’s house sat squarely at the top of the street. Our rental house was two houses back from the top, putting it at a right angle to the house with the perfectly trimmed grass and hedges. In between our houses lived a young couple who were rarely home because they both seemed to work such long hours. I despaired at the thought of wanting a house so badly you had to work forever to afford it and never be in that house. Renting was fine for me.

  Mr Redding had picked up the clippers again and was snipping off what seemed to be one leaf at a time. I screwed up my courage—like Billy Elliot about to audition—and
approached.

  It feels like ’lectricity. It feels like ’lectricity.

  “Hi.”

  The older man didn’t turn immediately, which I thought I would’ve done if some strange person snuck up on me from behind. Instead Mr Redding gave one more snip, straightened, and then turned slowly. I eagerly watched his face for the emotions I hoped to see—surprise, recognition, pleasure, lust, happiness. Dear God. Lust would be wonderful. Please?

  Instead I received a blank stare. I was more disappointed than Julia Roberts being rejected by Hugh Grant while standing next to a painting of a violin-playing goat.

  Then Mr Redding’s gaze dropped to my chest and I could see he was reading the word mosaic printed on my T-shirt. I loved that shirt. It listed all the big cities I wanted to visit but could only dream about. Mr Redding’s stare moved back up to my face. I made sure I was smiling—my best smile that I had practiced in the mirror. A lot. I really, really needed to make a good impression.

  “Remember me?” I asked gaily, broadening my grin. Someone had once told me I had great teeth. I hoped they weren’t lying. “I brought your letter back the other week? I live there?” I pointed to the correct house just in case Mr Redding thought of making a midnight visit and needed to know which door to knock on for the booty call.

  I watched his face change as he recollected the incident when I brought back his letter. At the time he’d been getting in his car and he’d thanked me, shut the car door in my face, and driven away. It was a bit of an ego deflator that it took him so long to remember me, but I had never suffered from having a small ego, so a bit of deflation wasn’t that hard of a hit.

  “You have a name that has something to do with birds, right?” Mr Redding asked. “Robin?”

  I felt my smile become a little more fixed and a little less natural. He thinks my name is Robin. Did he mean Robin Hood or Robin, Boy Wonder? Either way, he had me wearing tights.

  “Avery,” I reminded my crush. “Avery Stewart.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Mr Redding smiled a bit, as if it were an everyday occurrence for him to tell a twenty-two-year-old that he had correctly identified his own name. Did he think I would forget what my parents had called me from birth?

  I gritted my teeth and hung on to my smile. “And what was your name again?” I asked casually. I knew damn well that Mr Redding hadn’t given his name. I remembered every word of the conversation, and his name hadn’t been one of them.

  “Christopher Redding.”

  Christopher Redding. I savoured the name in my head. Christopher. Chris. Very close to the word “kiss.” I liked it.

  “Of course. Now I remember. Chris. That was it. So Chris, I wanted—”

  “Christopher.”

  I paused. “Pardon?”

  “My name’s Christopher. Not Chris.” Christopher’s voice was gentle but firm. Soft but determined. And there was no hint of uncertainty in it. I held in a shiver, although I felt its authority flash down the entire length of my spine. The main thing that attracted me to older men was their self-assurance. Older men had already suffered through the pains of unsureness and who-am-I-ism. They were happy with and accepting of themselves. Being sure that his name was not shortened, contrary to virtually every single Australian male’s experience, was somewhat erotic. This was a man who had things figured out in life.

  “Oh. So sorry,” I immediately apologised, then corrected myself. “Christopher.” I hoped it wasn’t a black mark against my name. “I wanted to see if you’d received a letter of mine? Do you know how I received one of your letters the other day? Well, it seems I’m missing one now. So I thought I would ask you if—”

  “Who’s the letter from?” Christopher’s expression didn’t change.

  “From? Oh. Ahh.” I struggled for an answer. Damn. I should’ve thought of that first. First rule of subterfuge, have all your ducks in a row. “My, ahh, doctor.”

  Finally I saw a genuine change of emotion from Christopher. There was flicker of concern on his face. “Oh. Are you sick?”

  If he had been any other man I was trying to pick up, I would’ve had a dozen lines to say.

  Yes. Sick with longing for you.

  There’s this fever I’ve had since I first saw you. What do you think?

  My stomach feels tight each time I think of you. Especially when I’m alone at night.

  Yes. How about a little doctor and nurse action?

  Yes. There’s something wrong with my dick. Do you think you could look at it?

  I’m lacking proteins and vitamins. You know the type?

  But something warned me away from being so direct with this consumer. I had a feeling that he would be skittish and unwilling to show his buying power on the first meeting.

  I waved away his concern with a careless arm gesture. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just test results. So, did you see the letter? Addressed to Avery Stewart?” I said my name again, hoping Christopher would remember this time. I hoped he would be imprinted like a baby duckling. Then Christopher would follow me everywhere.

  “No. Sorry,” Christopher said. “I haven’t seen it. You should ring them and get them to resend it out. It could’ve ended up anywhere.”

  Then he nodded slightly and turned back to his hedging. I panicked. This couldn’t be the end of the conversation. I needed more. I needed a connection and a reason to come back another day. I frantically searched for a subject to prolong the meeting.

  “I… uhh… really like your hedges.”

  It sounded lame. So, so, so lame. Apricots in honey level of lame. But Christopher lit up at the comment. “You do?”

  Then I remembered that despite Hugh Grant uttering his apricots in honey line, he won the girl in the end.

  “Yes,” I confirmed. And I actually wasn’t lying. I did like them. “And yours are really great. Very… precise.”

  Christopher turned back to the hedge he’d been clipping and ran a loving hand over its flat top. “I find it calming,” he confessed. “You have a vision in your head, and you have to work and work and work to make it come true. It takes dedication and tenacity. It takes effort constantly, not just one day every six months. You need to keep at it. Rain or shine. Cold or heat.”

  I took a moment to self-reflect. Did I have anything in my life that I was dedicated to like that? Apart from my looks? I was a part-time student because studying full-time was too much effort. But it was the second time I’d switched degrees because I couldn’t make up my mind what I wanted to be. I’d tried sociology, journalism, and was now onto media studies. It wasn’t that I was dumb. It was that I was easily bored and easily swayed by the next big thing.

  I worked as a storeman for a local heating and cooling sales outlet, but that was only so I could afford to dither on my studying. And even then I was only working part-time hours because my—wonderful, darling, top-class—parents chipped in on the rent so I didn’t have to work so hard.

  I had no hobbies, no passions, and didn’t even feel the need to watch a TV series all the way through if it turned boring and deep. Yeah, I didn’t have vision, tenacity, or dedication.

  But Christopher did. And it was sexy.

  “I see you out here all the time,” I said with a small amount of flirt. Hint, hint—I’ve been watching you. “You’re not usually out here on a Friday.” Hint, hint—I even know your schedule.

  “I took the day off work to go and see my daughter,” Christopher said, very obviously missing the hints I’d dropped.

  My heart and confidence dropped at the same time. The mention of a daughter put a huge dent in my plans. Could a daughter mean a relationship with a woman? Heterosexuality? Was my interest in vain?

  Still, I was determined to be dogged about the matter. I was a consumable that had a small market, and I was being discounted for one special buyer.

  “A daughter?” I asked without showing my disappointment. “Does she live with her mum?”

  Finally a smile broke through on Christopher’s face. There was a flash of white teeth through the grey-brown trimmed beard. “No. She’s actually recently moved in with her boyfriend, which is why I went to see her. She wanted to give me a birthday lunch at her house and show me her new renovations.”