The Professor

Chapter 1: Professor Thomas W. Hiddleston

"I'm sorry, John! I have to go!" I yelled as I threw my apron over the counter of the local university coffee shop.

"Well here!" John bellowed as I was nearly out of the door, "Best not show up empty-handed since you're already late on your first day!"

As I turned around, I saw that my sweet, kind-hearted barista coworker had placed two steaming cups of hot coffee on the counter for me to grab.

John had been one of the first friends I made when I got to the city. He had helped me move in and showed me around, making sure I never got lost. He even got me the job at the coffee shop when I first expressed interest in attending this university.

"I owe you," I smiled, my sweet, genuine smile, making him blush.

"I'll hold you to it," he winked, causing my own cheeks to flush, reciprocating that of his own.

"Bye," I grin as I turn and quickly head out into the downpour of another cold, dreary, London day.

This place was nothing like the hot, dry, humid, and gorgeous place I used to call home- a little place in the States called Wetumpka, Alabama. By this time in early September, the weather was still warm and lovely with a small nip of coolness as I would begin preparing for my favorite season-fall. Our little town was often overshadowed and forgotten by the excitement and business of the state capital, but that was alright. Quiet, country living suited us just fine.

Lost in thought, I make my way across the quad and hurry into the Business building as a cut-through, my hair and clothes already drenched. You would think, after all this time, I would have learned to pack a rain jacket. I skip, invisibly through the straight-neck, haughty business students and made my way back out into the rain. Running quickly, dodging raindrops, I make my way, finally, into the Arts building. Gosh, I hope this professor is not as tough as I've heard.

I arrive at the door of the professor I am meant to be the aide for over the next 2 years. The door reads Professor Thomas W. Hiddleston. The old wooden door looks to be older than the institution itself, and the glass in which the words are inscribed seems to be just barely maintaining its integrity. I can sense someone moving around inside just before I place a quick wrap on the door.

"Come in," a strong, masculine voice resounds throughout the office, sounding terribly cross- a word I picked up from some of the locals.

I gather myself, take a deep breath and open the door, "Hello, sir. I'm sorry I..."

"You're late!" His thick English accent echoes through the office, his face never glancing from the stack of papers on his desk.

"Umm, yes sir, I'm sorry. You see, I work across camp..."

"I did not ask to hear your excuses, justifications, or explanations. Just as I did not ask to be reassigned another aid for the coming years." As he finally looks up from his heaps of paperwork and I watch as his expression changes.

I shift uncomfortably, squishing in my wet black wedge shoes. I know I must be a sight- my long honey-blonde hair is pulled back into a messy bun now stringy and plastered to my face. Thank goodness I remembered to wear a tank top today or my bra would be exposed beneath my white button-down uniform top. My black knee-length skirt has clung to my legs for dear life from the rain.

As I watch Professor Hiddleston stand, his face stern and serious, I realize how tall he really is. I try to stand a little taller, but my small, 5'4" frame doesn't measure up to the easily 6 ft man that walks and stands in front of me, glaring down at me. His eyes are intensely blue, accentuated by his brow that is furrowed down at me as he looks me over- clearly unimpressed. His golden blonde hair is pushed back over his head in soft waves. The stubble that covers his face makes him appear much older but you suspect he can't be more than 10 yrs your senior. His strong arms are accentuated by his white shirt that has been folded to his elbows. The gray tailored vest which he wears, clings neatly to his chest.