Home > Professor Feelgood (Masters of Love #2)(9)

Professor Feelgood (Masters of Love #2)(9)
Author: Leisa Rayven

All three of us laugh. Then, the smell of delicious melted cheese reaches me, and my stomach growls so loudly, the other two look at me in surprise.

“I skipped lunch,” I say with a shrug.

“Okay,” Joanna says as she stands and moves over to Eden. “You message the professor, and we’ll get cocktails organized.”

As they leave, I call after them, “Whatever you’re drinking, I’ll take a double.”

When they’re gone, I sit and stare at my phone for a few minutes and just breathe. I don’t know why, but I’m stupidly nervous about messaging the professor. I think part of it is because I’m scared he’ll say no to the project, and another part is terrified he’ll say yes. This could be huge for me, or it could get me laughed out of an industry I love.

My finger hovers over the screen as I try to think of how to word my request.

“Hi, complete stranger! Please let me plunder your talent-mine of words and picture porn, so I can get a promotion and scream, ‘In your face!’ to Devin Boob-Ogler Shields.”

Hmmm. Not bad. May need some refining.

Something else I need to consider is that someone with that many followers probably gets a crapload of crazies invading his inbox every day, and I don’t want him to think I’m one of them.

I lean over and pick out my letters carefully with my forefinger. I start the message several times before deleting and doing it over. I don’t think of myself as shy, but there’s something about how honest and passionate the professor is that makes me desperate to impress him.

Ugh. This is taking forever.

I blow out a breath and decide to just go with the facts.

<Hi, Professor Feelgood. My name is Asha Tate, and I work at Whiplash Publishing. I found your Instagram feed a short time ago and think it has huge potential to be transformed into a bestselling novel. Have you ever considered becoming an author? You have a wonderfully passionate way with words, and it’s clear your posts resonate with a lot of people, myself included. I’d love to help you reach an even broader audience, if you’re interested. Please message me back at your earliest convenience, so we can discuss the matter further. Warmest regards.>

I include my phone number just in case he’d like to call instead of message, and I don’t miss the way my whole hand shakes as I press send.

I slump back and close my eyes. God, that was more stressful than my last pap smear.

Please let him say yes, please let him say yes.

If I miss out on this promotion I’ll not only be disappointed, Devin will technically become my superior, and that’s not cool in any universe. But beyond that, I think that the professor has a real, authentic voice and his potential book might actually inspire people. That would be even more satisfying.

“Come on, Ash!” Eden calls from the kitchen. “The pizza is getting cold. And your margarita is ready. I put it in our largest vase. Hope that’s okay.”

I launch off the bed and go join them. If I must be in hell while waiting for the professor to reply, I might as well get buzzed while I’m there.



Pizza and Passion

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, OUR coffee table is a mess of plates, bits of half-eaten pizza, napkins, and smears of grease. Joanna and I are at opposite ends of the couch, each clutching huge margarita-filled tumblers that we sip through super-classy bendy straws. We’re onto our second refill, and already most of the bottle of Patron that Joanna was kind enough to donate is gone. Did I mention that my sister makes the strongest cocktails in the world?

Having fulfilled her bartending duties, Eden is slouched in our giant easy chair, her bare feet on the coffee table as she slowly sips her drink and rubs her belly.

“My man has a lot of amazing qualities,” she says. “But his pizza preferences are narrow-minded and wrong.” She closes her eyes and leans her head back. “Pineapple and pepperoni is the best. I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.”

“Yeah!” I say, throwing up my hands. “Screw the patriarchal pizza system!”

Joanna bursts out laughing. Over the course of our friendship, I’ve come to recognize that we become equal parts judgey and giggly when we drink.

“Now, listen,” Joanna says, and I can see that it’s time for a judgey rant. “You know I love men … but let’s talk about unsolicited dick pics. I mean, seriously.”

I screw up my face. Having been dick-picced on more than one occasion, I know how weird and uncomfortable it is. “Why do men do that? Especially with girls they hardly know. Do they honestly believe it turns us on?”

Joanna nods. “I once had a prominent European royal send me a penis pic. It wasn’t the first time a foreign security force detained me so they could delete images off my phone, but it was certainly the most awkward. Those security agents did not want to see their boss’s peen.”

“Oh, God,” Eden laughs as she grabs the dirty plates and takes them into the kitchen. “You just gave me a mental image of Derek sending me a picture of his junk. I bet it’s all red and angry, just like him most days.”

Derek is Eden’s hardass boss and the two of them have one of the most confrontational professional relationships I’ve ever seen. At the mention of his name, I take a long sip of alcohol. Personally, I’ve always found Derek to be quite handsome.

Joanna slumps back into the couch and sighs. “We should make a pact that the next dude who sends us unwanted junk photos receives a bombardment of huge, gargantuan donkey dongs that will make their average dicks seems like cocktail wieners.”

That makes all of us laugh, and I stifle more giggles as I watch Joanna chase the tip of her straw with her tongue and completely fail to capture it.

“Oh, goddammit,” she mutters before grabbing it with her fingers and shoving it in between her lips. After sucking down a huge mouthful, she leans over to the table and taps a few keys on my laptop to add the finishing touches to her spreadsheet.

“There,” she says with a flourish. “Epic professorial profit projection - done.”

She turns the screen so I can see it. It’s a thing of beauty.

“Joanna, how on earth can you whip up a crazy-good spreadsheet so fast while totally drunk?”

She leans back and smiles. “Practice, dear friend. Now we just need the professor to come onboard our bestseller train to Editorville.”

I take another sip of alcohol and check my phone for the hundredth time.

Damn. Still no reply.

Come on, Professor. Put me out of my misery. Either say yes or tell me to go jump in the Hudson. Just let me know.

I switch back to his timeline and study his latest post again. As I read, my face heats up, and I don’t think the alcohol is helping

I want to slide my tongue over yours

until you understand all the reasons I love you

that I can’t put into words.

God, what he does to me. I’ve always enjoyed writing, but I can’t come up with anything as visceral as his prose. I wonder what he’s like as a person. His bio says reformed asshole, so I’m guessing he’s no angel, but there are a million different stages of douche. I wonder where he falls.

I’m also fascinated by the story of what happened with him and his woman. Did she end it? And if so, why? Most of his followers are women, so I know for sure he wouldn’t be short of female company if he so desired, but all his posts suggest he’s single, brokenhearted, and pining. Goddamn, that’s attractive.

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