His lips curved. “That would be telling.”
Gulping, I whispered, “Can you turn it down a bit?”
“No.” He tilted his head to the side. “Why do you look like you’ve been crying?”
Stunned that he’d asked, I whispered, “The woman who helped raise me and my brother died last night.”
His eyes flared wide and he reached for his phone. “When?”
“About two hours ago.” I grunted as the vibrations died down to nothing—was it weird that I considered that to be a respectful move on his part? “S-She was the reason I—” I sucked down some air. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life. But when she was taken to the hospital the other day, I had to arrange for childcare. I didn’t have the money.” My eyes burned with shame. Swallowing thickly, I murmured, “She died all alone and I couldn’t go see her again because I was working.”
I bowed my head, hating my words, hating how they’d made me feel.
I’d been sleeping while Enid had taken her last breaths on this plane. I’d been sleeping with a lighter load thanks to the gift she’d given me…
God, I hated myself.
When his hand gripped mine, it had me jerking back in surprise. Of course, I couldn’t have just done it neatly. Nope. Couldn’t have winded myself as I slammed myself against the cushioned wall behind me. Oh, nope. Too easy.
I knocked over the scalding hot coffee, managing to drench my arm in the stuff.
The instant the heat hit me, I yowled, and he stared down at me like I was a time bomb that he felt sure was about to explode.
As pain assailed me, I released a whimper and that seemed to work. He shuffled out of the booth and quickly hustled me onto my feet. Together, we rounded the counter toward the kitchen, and he instantly turned the faucet on the second we approached the sink.
When he stuck my arm underneath the cascade, he muttered, “Keep it there. Where’s the first aid kit?”
Though I blinked at him, I pointed to the wall—it was right in front of him. He shook his head. “Need glasses,” he grumbled, more to himself than to me, I figured. But damn, I’d pay to see him in glasses.
As he pulled out bits and pieces from the kit, I let the cold water soothe the scald and chided myself for being an idiot.
Who the hell burned themselves on coffee?
Christ.
The kitchen scented of freshly baked muffins and coffee from the front, but also, his aftershave… and as someone who adored Lorenzo’s recipe for blueberry muffins, I could attest to the fact that Professor Maclean smelled better.
The place was typical for a mom-and-pop joint. Kind of grody, in need of a new layer of paint, but painfully clean to the point of being Maria’s obsession.
When I cut him a look, saw his brow was furrowed as he delved into the kit, I realized how out of place he looked and how much I fit in.
He was made for faculty events, boring cocktail parties in smart suits where other professors gathered together and talked about boring shit. He belonged in casual designer gear like the polo he was wearing—legit gear, too, not fake—and those shoes of his probably cost more than my past five pairs combined.
What the fuck was he doing messing around with me?
I was a student; he was my professor.
Wasn’t this a breach of the rules?
As much as he was blackmailing me into keeping quiet about what he’d seen, didn’t I hold leverage over him? I had proof of his calls, could attest to the fact he’d been in my place of work… Hell, if I got to the Dean first, I could make it look like he was stalking me. Sure, they would probably laugh me out of the office, believe him over me, but there was still a threat.
So, why?
Why was he doing this?
When he headed out and began searching the counter for something, I watched him. His thick blond hair was mussed up, like he’d been running his hands through it over something hard he’d been working on. His brow was creased as he hunted down whatever he was searching for, and in his casual outfit, he looked all the more handsome. Enough that I stared at him and wondered what he’d look like without the clothes, without all the gloss.
I bet he’d look even finer.
When he returned with Clingfilm, I didn’t argue. The wrap was basic 101 in scald treatment, but I was surprised he knew that. Most people didn’t know first aid unless they had to know it for a job, and it made me wonder if, back in the day, he’d worked in a place like this, had strived to reach his lofty position.
Somehow, that made me feel better.
Made me feel less like a lost cause.
When he turned off the water, I winced because the heat instantly hit me. He gently dabbed the area with clean swabs from the kit, and moving fast, loaded my arm with a burn cream before rolling some Clingfilm on it and covering it up.
When he shoved a couple of Ibuprofen at me, I shook my head. “It isn’t that bad a burn.”
“Doesn’t mean it won’t sting.” He stared me down until I accepted them and put them in my mouth. Under his watchful eye, I reached into the fridge under the counter and took a deep sip of the water I pulled out.
He released a relieved sigh. “Good. It will feel better soon.”
I stared up at him, wondering at the concern on his face.
“What’s happening here?” I whispered.
His lips twisted into a half-smile that looked the antithesis of amused. “That’s for me to know.”
“And for me never to find out?” I shook my head. “It doesn’t work like that.”
When he reached up and traced a finger along the curve of my jaw, I realized it was the first time he’d ever touched me intimately. Not just the comfort of hand-to-hand contact, but an intimate, personal caress.
My body froze into one huge piece of ice before it flowed molten hot as I shuddered at the simple, negligent touch.
My response to him was beyond anything I could have anticipated.
I’d never expected this.
Never thought to feel so much for someone who was intent on making me miserable.
I was sick.
I had to be.
Who got off on the person who bullied them? Who made them do things no one should ever ask of another human being?
Me, that’s who.
My eyes closed as his finger trailed down my jaw and across my throat. Every single nerve ending leaped up in response, and I shivered, completely in his control as he whispered, “That’s exactly how this works.”
And with that, he moved away, leaving me cold, alone, and wanting him.
Chapter Six
Mrs. Linden, Enid, had arranged her own funeral.
I wasn’t sure if that came as a relief or not. It meant that the State didn’t rely on her nonexistent next-of-kin to settle the debt of her burial, and it meant that I wasn’t obliged to help out—like she’d undoubtedly known I would.
God, I missed her.
I missed the cup of tea she had waiting for me each morning after I left Scottie at her place so I could drink it on the way to work.
I missed her telling me about Jeopardy and bitching about Mr. Gardner on the eighth floor who I was certain she had a crush on.
I missed her perfume that filled my nostrils when I hugged her.
I just plain missed her.
If there was one advantage of being overworked, underpaid, caring for a baby, preparing for finals, and being blackmailed by my professor, it was that my mind was all over the place.