Mr. Knight/A Jordan Knight Fanfic ✔️

3

3. anachronism

"Well, is anyone going to comment on Terrance's piece?"

I look over the classroom, noting the students who meet my eyes and those who stare at their desks. When no one says anything, I wring my mental hands. Despite Knight's warning, I can already tell they're not taking me seriously.

Chin up, buttercup, whispers my brother's voice. You'll always be underestimated, so you might as well come out of the gate swinging.

I sigh loudly, complete with groan. "Okay, people. In case your brains malfunctioned, we just listened to an extended metaphor about an infected nose ring. Did you like it? Did it make sense? Greg, talk!"

Greg jerks in his seat, then clears his throat. "Yes, it made sense. It was gross, but that kind of made it more appealing."

My gaze scans the room. "Janice? You look like you're sucking on a lemon. Why didn't you like it?"

She shrugs. "It was well written, and I like that he used something not clichéd to represent a broken heart. But like Greg said, it was gross. Gross in a distracting way, like by the end I wasn't thinking about heartbreak but getting the poor guy a tissue and some peroxide."

The class laughs, even Terrance. "Tone down gross-factor, check."

The nicest feature of senior writing students is that by now, they're used to critiques. There's nothing quite as irritating as crying freshman. I should know—I used to be one.

I glance at the clock. "Okay. Fifteen minutes to work on Knight's assignment due Monday. And don't forget to pair up with a proofreader. Even if you think you're Hemingway, you need a reader."

I veer around the desk and sit, pulling out my notebook and grabbing a pen. After a quick review of Thursday's lesson plan, I retrieve my thesis proposal and read it for the billionth time. My meeting with Knight is right after class. At least his office is in the same building, so I can avoid a repeat of yesterday's sweaty-mess performance.

In fact, my attire today screams demure professional. White blouse, grey slacks, black cardigan, my long hair drawn back into a sleek ponytail. My only concession to personality are my bright red flats; after last night's slippage, heels and I are on a hiatus.

The closer the minute hand moves toward 10:50, the higher my anxiety ratchets. So does the noise from the hallway as other classes let out.

After several questioning glances, I relent. "See you Thursday." Everyone gathers their things, waving or saying goodbye as they hurry from the room.

When the last student is gone, I slide my notebook into my bag and prepare to face down Knight.

The door opens suddenly, revealing the man in question. My heart leaps alarmingly. He's wearing faded jeans that cling to all the right places and a black dress shirt sans tie. Messy hair, scruffy face, ink-stained left hand.

God help me.

"Ms. Davis, we're taking our meeting to the HUB. I'm starved."

"W-what?" I stammer.

He frowns. "I spoke English, didn't I? Hustle. I'm yours for thirty minutes."

Then he disappears into the hallway, final words thrumming in my head and body. Damnit, why does he have to be so good looking? The universe doesn't answer. Or the silence is answer enough.

Knight is fiddling with his phone at the top of the stairs. His hair looks even more chaotic than it did a minute ago. Bracing myself for the impact of his eyes, I walk up to him.