Teaching Ms. Tingle: Class in Session, page 1
Teaching Ms. Tingle by Dee Ellis
© 2023 by Dee Ellis. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
Cover Design: Ember Davis
Interior Formatting: Dee Ellis
Publisher: Hummingbird Press
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Hi Reader!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Thank You for Reading!
Ready For The Next Class?
Class In Session Series
About the Author
Chapter One
Kinsley
Whoever said if we do what we love, we will never work a day in our life was not a teacher.
Do not get me wrong, I adore what I do. I am just two years in as an English Literature professor at Hollow Oaks University so perhaps I won’t always feel this way. To not call it work, however, is laughable. I bust my ass for my students.
Because I am the newest staff here, I guess I feel I must prove myself. My love of classic literature: Bronte, Keats, Austen, all the greats, has driven my syllabus. To shake things up I also included portions on some of the most controversial books of our time: Valley of The Dolls, It, and even V for Vendetta.
Pouring my heart and soul into these courses and my students ought to be enough. As it turns out it is not nearly enough. Not for Dean Vickers. He put me in charge of a remedial class for freshman, asked that I act as an interim house mother for a new sorority, and now…my worst fear.
“Tutoring? I am a professor, Mr. Vickers, not a tutor.”
“Wrong, Ms. Tingle,” Vickers glances at me over the top of his glasses dismissively. “As of now you are also a tutor. It is just two students, I am asking this of other staff as well. It is our duty to prepare these kids for becoming adults. Some need a little bit more attention.”
Staring at him dubiously, I doubt very much anyone else is being forced to tutor. How am I going to find time to show special attention to two students? Between my three classes a week, two remedial classes a month, and keeping an eye on those girls at Gamma Sigma Pi Theta, I have no time for myself.
Putting up a stink about filling my empty nights with tutoring wayward students is almost sad. What would I be fighting for? Those long bingo nights with Gran? My nights spent alone watching bad horror movies while covered in Cheeto dust and shame?
“Yes, sir,” I say with resignation. What else is there to say?
Dean Vickers passes two folders across his oak table, nodding his head affirmatively. He mentions both will be a high priority without giving much detail as to why. I thank him for his time—though this was my time—and excuse myself.
Tucking the folders atop my stack of books, planner, and worksheets, I rush from his office. Whenever I get called here, I walk away with a bigger stack of work. At what point will I have proven myself to him?
“Morning, Ms. Tingle,” a friendly voice calls. Smiling at the young TA who works for some of us in the English department, I pause to chat.
“Morning, April,” I respond with a genuine smile.
We talk about the end of the first semester and some new English courses. Talk turns to the coming football season, one half of the school is looking forward to. April flushes as she mentions Kane Hilton, Hollow Oaks’ star running back.
As she goes on about the revered senior, I am looking for an escape. Not because I mind April behaving the way a young woman her age does over the hot, charming, admirable jock. No, I am downright rotten for my reasoning.
I myself have an awful crush on the team’s hottest player.
“I am sure you have plenty to offer,” I assure her, meaning my words despite the bitter taste of jealousy they're loaded with. “Just have to actually offer it to him, I suppose. See you later, April.”
Excusing myself, I ignore the flaming of my cheeks as I rush down the hall. I endure dozens of similar discussions about Kane. Just about all the ladies in my classes seem absolutely smitten with him. Obviously, I cannot blame them, not that I could share that with them—or with anyone.
Once I reach my office, I slam my door shut, clocking the lock with a huff of a sigh. I need to get over this stupid crush of mine. It is outrageous. It is improper and of course impossible. Since I took notice of him last spring, I have done all I could to avoid him completely.
Thankfully, English literature is not high on a football player’s list of needed courses. Still, he has come into a few of my classes looking for a friend. Once he even had to pick up homework for his roommate. Each time I have encountered him, I become almost mute. I cannot talk to him at all.
“Stop thinking about a problem that is not yours,” I tell myself as I sink into my ergonomic chair, dropping my pile of things with a thud.
Sitting back with a sigh, I kick off my sensible flats beneath my desk, wiggling my toes. Grabbing my phone from the tower of trouble I have to deal with today, I navigate to a music app. Shuffling for a moment, I turn on my favorite horror podcast, turning it on low so I can concentrate.
“Who will be my new wards?” I wonder aloud as I drop the files, opening the top one with a bright pink post-It sticking out.
Flipping it open, I almost choke on the bottled water I just took a sip from. No. No way on earth. Is Dean Vickers out to ruin me? He must be, there is no other explanation for what I see laid out before me. I even close the folder, take a breath, and open it again. Nope, it still says what I thought.
“Kane Hilton. How could it be him? How could he do this to me?”
Pulling the folder off the pile, I flip through his records. Lots and lots of post-It notes stick out on several pages. Bad behavior. Delinquent papers, missed tests, and... throwing a football in the middle of a physics class. I have heard all the good talk about the young football hero.
Now I am faced with a pile of bad behavior.
Turning up my podcast, I spin to gaze out over the quad. I do not see the wandering students or the scattered leaves. I am focused on page after page of information about Kane. Not just because I have to be prepared to tutor him. Because I am hungry for any morsels I can get on the man.
“Ten demerits. Do we give demerits anymore? Damn, I had no idea. It seems Mr. Hilton is a little mouthy mister. No surprise there. The entire school worships the guy.”
Kane is almost twenty-three, here on a full scholarship. You would assume he came from good stock, but that is not the case. One thing I knew—and the first thing that intrigued me. He needed that scholarship, and he earned it, or he may still be in Crystal Cove, working as a farm hand.
He refuses to answer questions about his parents, but rumor is he has no answers to give. That he was abandoned. It has been suggested he got his drive in a bid to shove his successes in their face—if he ever got to face them. Kane is notoriously private, limiting his time with the media.
“Stop feeling bad for the guy,” I tell myself with an aggravated sigh. “They treat him like a king here—and he clearly enjoys his throne.”
Setting aside his folder, I go through the other file, frowning as I do. Another player on the team. A cocky quarterback who is not well liked. He is second string, behaves like a first-round pick, and is clearly struggling to keep up in all his classes.
Turning back to my desk, I set both folders side by side. Pulling out my thick pink planner, I open it to the start of this new semester. Grabbing the stack of monster stickers I love to decorate the planner with, I get to work. I have a lot to schedule for the next three months and very little space to fit all of it.
Almost an hour and three podcasts later, I am done. I fit meetings with Kane and the quarterback, Casey, for later this week. I schedule two sessions a week to work with them, fitting them in with regular classes, the remedial course, and nights I need to make time for the sorority.
“That leaves me,” I turn a few pages with a wry grin. “Absolutely zero time for myself. Who needs Kinsley time?”
A knock at my door startles me. Hastily I try to organize the mess I made of my desk. When a knock sounds again, I frown, pushing from my deck, forgetting the mess. It is late now, the sun setting in the sky, so there should be no one here to bother me.
“Coming. Give me a moment, please.”
Just as I unlock the door, I realize I am still barefoot. What a weird way to greet someone. Shrugging, I throw the door open, tucking my bare feet behind it. Maybe they won’t notice my painted toes wiggling behind it. I glance up with a greeting smile that slides from my face.
One look at my visitor has me wanting to slam the door shut again.
Kane Hilton stands on the other side, waiting as if he has nowhere better to be than right here. At my door. Waiting for me. His eyes scan down to the floor. I just know he sees my bare feet. I wiggle my toes, unable to help myself, flushing when I catch the slightest quirk of his mouth.
Kane towers over me by at least a foot, his broad shoulders and wide chest taking up most of the doorway. I step back, almost hiding behind the door. His light eyes gaze down at me, done with their perusal of my feet, a slow smile curving his full mouth.
He is not the kind of handsome you see anywhere. Sure, there are good looking people all over this campus. Harmony Hollow is full of beautiful people. This is a different level of beauty. A rare kind that is, in my humble opinion, quite unfair to the rest of us.
“Evening Ms. Tingle,” he calls in that eastern drawl of his.
Kane has spoken to me exactly four times since I have been here. Each time left me more flustered than the last. When he talks to you, he truly looks at you, those butterscotch eyes crinkling just a little as he smiles. His hair is shaggy, golden silk just long enough you want to tangle your fingers in it.
Beneath his loose henley, I know he is built like an Adonis. Washboard abs, sculpted pecs, and arms thick and powerful enough to take huge men down with ease. I should not know this, but I do. I was foolish enough to get one of the football teams’ saucy fundraising calendars.
“H-hello Mr. Hilton. How...how can I... ahem, can I help you?”
“Well yeah,” he starts confidently, falling against the doorframe with a shrug. “Could you convince Dean Vickers I don’t need you?”
Stunned by his words, and stung by the dismissal, I blink. His light eyes travel over my face, as if seeking the answer he wants. I turn away, ignoring how his dismissive attitude hurts. It shouldn’t bother me. Wasn’t I talking about what a hassle this is all going to be earlier?
“Pardon me?”
“Oh, no, Ms. Tingle, that is not...I did not mean it that way,” he rushes to say, his words sounding panicked. “I just meant I don’t need a tutor. I get in some trouble, sure. They expect me to. Look at my grades, I am doing fine.”
“Have you pled your case to Dean Vickers?”
“Just came from there,” he is quick to answer, biting at his full bottom lip. I watch his perfect teeth sink into the soft flesh, my thighs trembling.
“It was not my choice to take on tutees. He organized this, Mr. Hilton, I don’t see that either of us have much choice.”
Stepping back, I wave him in and nod at one of the club chairs facing my desk. He comes in, brushing too close for comfort. I back up to make room, my skin burning where his jeans brush against my thighs.
Clearing my throat as he sits, I round my desk to take my own seat. Spinning my calendar to face him, I am about to explain my plans for our tutoring sessions. Before I can speak, he smiles, nodding at the speakers still playing the darkly inappropriate podcast.
“Is that Shredded Stories you’re listening to? I love that show, I listen to it while training.”
Face going hot, I nod as I bow my head. It is a guilty pleasure of mine, talking about serial killers and their twisted histories. I once wanted to write an in-depth book about Jack the Ripper and H.H. Holmes. Ah, the silly dreams of silly girls.
“Yes, I listen to it when I am working. I know it is a bit dark,” I say softly, reaching for my phone to turn it off.
Pushing the calendar at him, I point out the days I have scheduled. He never even looks at the calendar. I feel as if he is there to study me. To research if I will get in his way of playing football this season.
“Well, Ms. Tingle, why don’t we make the best of being stuck with each other?” He suggests, a slow grin overtaking his handsome face.
He gets no argument from me—not when I am suddenly looking forward to being stuck with him.
Chapter Two
Kane
Being King on Campus is nothing but trouble.
Everyone around me treats me as if I am some sort of celebrity. From the moment I stepped on campus, it has been this way. People watching me or clearing the way when I walk down the halls.
Most of the guys want me at their party. All the girls want to say they got in my jockstrap. It does not matter how I act out or how big of an asshole I am. I am still their favorite guy.
It might sound like a good old time, but the truth is, I hate it. I was thrilled to get a chance to go to college, to make something of myself. I just wanted a shot at something more than football.
It is a lot of pressure to win games, to be that guy. The one that sells tickets, that fills the stadium, that has the media talking about our football program. All of it was a means to an end. A chance to get a degree in kinesiology so I could have a life after football.
“How am I failing?” I wonder as I glance at my grades again.
I am no dumb jock. I want my degree more than I want some fake fame. I want to work with athletes. I want to be someone after college. I refused all the offers to skate through my time here just to focus on football—I put the work in to earn my degree.
“Not failing, per se,” Dean Vickers tells me, fixing his bow tie.
“What is it then? I am busting my ass in all my classes.”
“Of course, Kane. You have done very well. However, you have not completed some of your core requirements. You cannot graduate without a semester of English. You also need another core science.”
Sighing, I nod because I knew I had some core classes I was avoiding. While my degree needs science and basic medical courses, I had finished most of them with ease. I might know all about how a body works, how to treat injuries, even how to change some bad behaviors, but I have dodged some important things.
Mostly seeing blood off the field makes me sick.
“Not to worry, son. I have a tutor lined up for English. I am working on one for science as well. We will do all we can to get you to the finish line, Kane.”
“Sir, I appreciate that, I do. But I do not need a tutor. Just tell me what classes I need to complete, I can handle it on my own.”
Dean Vickers steeples his hands together, peering at me over them. I get the sense he hates offering this help as much as I dislike having it offered. And yet he is not going to backdown. Clearing his throat, he puts on a dry smile, his thin lips pulled tight.
“Mr. Hilton, I am afraid I insist. Coach Weathers expects you to play this season. To play you must pass these courses. Your scholarship does depend on both. I am sure these tutors will offer the assistance you need.”
Sighing, I nod because I do not see a way out of it. I figured I could power through biology during the next semester. As for English, I knew what class I wanted to take, I just had not worked up the nerve to take it. Not because I was afraid of the course. No, I am afraid of the professor.
“Who will be the English tutor, Mr. Vickers?”
“Oh, Ms. Tingle. While she is our newest English professor, her rapport with her students is excellent. I let her know to make time for you.”
Suddenly I feel as if the room is closing in on me. He cannot be serious. First he hits me with this whole tutor bullshit out of nowhere, ignoring that I am top of the class in all my area of study courses. Now he delivers the worst possible news.
Ms. Tingle is the newest staff here at Hollow Oaks—not just the newest English professor. Everyone I know who takes her class raves about her. About how much she loves what she does. How excited she gets about talking literature with them—in turn exciting them about it too.
This exciting new professor is the very one I am afraid of.
Kinsley Tingle is the single most alluring woman I have ever laid eyes on. I can still recall seeing her for the first time last spring semester. It was a beautiful day with warm sunshine, that sort of warmth that lets you know spring is finally here.
