Page 12 of Even Werewolves Learn

Constance

He doesn’t let me forget him.

There are only two days between my first class with the first-year students and the second, and Louis sends almost a dozen emails in the meantime.

At least those don’t look inappropriate. They make me think he’s been reading the textbook I sent him. He could find the answers to everything he’s been asking in these emails on the interweb—and most students would have picked that option—but they’re valid questions, and my integrity as a teacher pushes me to answer, even if that means recording myself pronouncing half a dozen words and sentences.

If I hadn’t seen him act all flirty and invading my personal space on Monday, I would think he’s just trying to get a head start in my class.

He’s not the only one who sent me an email, though.

The other one who messaged me is named Luc, and his email was long and very thorough. He had questions about sentence structure and word etymology, and it felt like the more of his email I read, the fewer full sentences he wrote.

It felt as if he had started reading the next lesson, had questions, started researching and preparing an email with his questions, and then researched some more, had more questions, and then kept diving.

I wouldn’t be surprised if that student arrived today with red eyes and more questions. It doesn’t happen every year, but sometimes I get one of those students. They’re usually on the spectrum and get obsessed with what I teach for months. I’ll have to be careful with him and make sure he doesn’t get burned out.

“Bonjour Miss Constance.”

I’m pulled away from my thoughts by the deep voice of none other than Louis.

He’s early.

Again.

My schedule isn’t very full—the dean is trying to get my weekly classes down to a minimum and downsizing almost every year—but it’s like Louis knows exactly when I’m alone in my classroom.

“What did I tell you about the proper way to address me, Louis?” I ask him with what I hope sounds like an exasperated tone. All his emails were addressed to “Miss Constance” too, and I have a feeling it’s his way of still toying with me without making it too improper.

I can’t really hear myself over the rush of blood that his presence triggered, though, so I can’t be sure.

At least I’m not breathless.

“I think I prefer to call you by your first name,” he answers with a smirk as he circles my desk and comes to sit on the corner of it.

He shouldn’t be sitting there.

I should be making sure this doesn’t happen.

I should.

But I’m stuck on my seat as his words spin in my mind.

What the fuck?

“What you prefer doesn’t matter,” I tell him when my brain comes back online. “As long as you’re in my class, you’ll respect the way I asked to be referred to.”

“Ah, but we’re not in class yet, are we?” Louis has the nerve to ask.

“But we are in my classroom,” I counter.

“That’s not what you said initially,” Louis says as he brings the back of his hand to the side of my arm and lets it slide for a second.

I don’t have time to bat his hand away. I barely felt the touch, and it’s already gone, his hand back on his lap.

“Maybe we should meet over a coffee, and then there will be no reason for me to use your last name,” he adds with a knowing glint in his eyes that makes me feel like it’s not a coffee he wants to meet over, or that he has other ideas after that coffee.

“That’s not happening,” I answer, feeling myself blush at his proposition.