Welcome to Bridgeport Academy, an elite boarding school in New York where glamorous rich kids don't let rules get in the way of a good time.
[ Based on the It Girl series by Cecily Von Ziegesar ]
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Thursday morning, Jasmine took her time walking to Stansfield Hall for her first meeting with her new adviser, the infamous Mr. Jordan. She hadn't taken any special care getting dressed this morning—it was easy to appear effortless when half your clothes are made specifically for you— and had unconsciously chosen a fairly simple outfit. Her white blouse and pencil skirt seemed, at first glance, quite proper. Until you noticed the slit that showed off most of her slender thigh and the distracting way the lines of her red bra could be seen through the delicate chiffon whenever she shifted a certain way, which she could be counted on to do. Even her peep-toe wedges implied repressed sexiness, which Jasmine knew was far more seductive than blatant sexiness.
Her father was a globe-trotting businessman, always involved in dozens of multinational ventures and investing in companies that drew him to places like Cape Town and Beijing. Jasmine's mother was a photo journalist and former model, half Portugese, half Danish, an ethnic combination that happened to be one of the world's most aesthetically pleasing and to which Jasmine's owed her exotic features. Her parents had treated her like an adult since she began to speak, so she'd always felt comfortable with an older crowd. They talked fast and moved faster, and that's how she liked to feel like she was living, at the fastest speed possible. Chiedo, their translator and guide over the summer, must have been twenty-five, though it never occurred to her to ask him during their fling. Michael B. Jordan, if he had just graduated from Howard, couldn't be much older than twenty-two. That was nothing.
After all, when she met him at Chapel, he had practically been drooling. Jasmine might have felt guilty if Alex had actually told her what was going on between them, but if Alex thought she didn't know and had no plans to tell her, Jasmine had every right to flirt with Mr. Jordan as much as she wanted to. So there.
She heard a Billie Holiday song playing from behind his closed office door. She pictured him flipping through his playlist, trying to decide what would make the best sound track for their first official meeting. Billie Holiday was a bold choice. Because she was such a jazz classic, it couldn't be construed as inappropriate in any way, yet her throaty, dramatic voice was so blatantly sexy, it had to reveal something about the inner workings of Mr. Jordan's brain. She hadn't even met him yet and she'd already read his mind.
Mr. Jordan opened the door and Jasmine was startled again by how beautiful he was. His hair was damp, which instantly conjured up images of him stepping out of the shower and reaching for a very small towel. He smelled like Polo aftershave, and Jasmine found herself longing to touch his smooth, freshly shaven cheek.
"Jasmine Sanders. Very nice to see you again." His voice was deep and very professional, but this was quite clearly the highlight of his day. Where did he go from here? Trying to teach bored freshmen to care about ancient historians? An intimate meeting with his gorgeous advisee was clearly the perfect way to start off his day.
"Hey, Mr. Jordan." She stepped inside his cluttered office, loving everything about it and him.
He groaned in mock anguish. "Michael, please." He indicated the leather chair in front of his desk, and Jasmine took a seat, smoothing her skirt and crossing her legs in one unified, elegant gesture. Michael pretended not to notice the slit in her skirt and sat down behind his desk. He shuffled through a stack of folders before pulling one out and opening it. "I've always felt like students should be able to call teachers by their first names. It makes them seem more human. And it makes me feel less old."
