Instead of answering, she leans in more, peering into my eyes from a centimeter away.
Her scrutiny makes my skin itch.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"They say the eyes are the windows to the soul." She tips her head left and right, still boring her gaze into mine. "I'm searching for yours."
"I haven't got one, remember? I'm the Soulless Sassenach."
She straightens, sighing. "I should never have made up all those stupid names for you. I'm sorry."
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I have no flippant response to offer. My brain can't summon any words at all. Catriona apologized. To me.
Her lips tick upward into a charming smile. "A miracle has happened. Alex Thorne is speechless."
"Not speechless." Just because I have no fucking idea what to say to her doesn't mean I'm incapable of speech. I spoke two words, didn't I? There, I'm not speechless. Now that the verbal pump is primed, more syllables flow from me. "You apologized, and I feel rightfully stunned by this turn of events. Wouldn't you rather whack me on the head with a book or punch me in the gut?"
She keeps smiling, like she's discovered a wonderful secret and knows exactly how she wants to use it against me.
I snatch up a book and thrust it at her, realizing too late it's a slender telephone directory. "Here. Beat me with this."
Cat laughs at me. "I love it. You're confused and can't figure out what to say." She bends over my desk again and pats my cheek. "It's adorable, Alex."
Why didn't I grab the unabridged dictionary? Maybe then she would've believed I'm not one bit affected by her.
I toss the phone book onto the desk and make a noise that might be a growl, or possibly a snarl, then I slump back in my chair. No one has ever affected me the way she does—now. When I knew her before, she hadn't done this to me. I'm not at all sure I like it. Being off balance is…disorienting.
At least this bizarre encounter with Cat deflated my cock. I can walk into the lecture hall without being arrested for indecency.
"I have to prepare for a class," I inform her. "You'll need to find another way to amuse yourself."
Her smile broadens into a grin. "I know. I'm sitting in on your lecture."
"My—Why?"
"Because I like this new side of you, the confused and speechless man. He's so much more likable than the evasive, annoying version of you."
I open my mouth but decide against speaking. It seems likely to get me into more trouble. I usually like trouble, but not this kind. She's dangerously close to figuring me out, at least in part, and uncovering the secrets I don't want her to find.
"Go on," I say, waving toward the door. "Get out of my office."
"Yes, Dr. Thorne." She whirls around and marches to the doorway, her hips swaying in a deliberate attempt to tease me with that body. On the threshold, she pauses to look back at me. "I'll see you at two o'clock, Dr. Thorne."
Why the blazes does she keep calling me that? It's rousing my cock again.
"Yes, whatever," I say, pretending to study the papers on my desk.
She leaves, and I sink back in my chair, eyes closed. Cat intends to audit my class. If I want to be vindictive about it, I'll switch to the sex lecture. That will serve her right.
Or get me arrested. Is it illegal to have an iron-hard erection in the middle of a lecture hall?
I'm about to find out, because I've made up my mind.
Oh yes, if Catriona wants to audit my class, she'll get an earful—and an eyeful. What a bloody brilliant idea. First, I need to run home and get a few props. Then…
You're in for it now, Catnip.
Chapter Eight
Catriona
After leaving Alex, I go back to my new office and start organizing it. I don't have files yet, so all I can do is rearrange the pens and pencils someone has left for me and flip through my new desk calendar to mark the days when I have classes to teach. Once I've done that, I lean back in my chair and try to convince myself the past few days haven't been a dream. I'm teaching. Living in America. In Alex's house.
I feel like pinching myself to make sure I'm awake, but I stop short of doing that. Why does everything these days seem unreal?
Because of Alex.
And I can't decide if he fashes me because I despise him, or if it's because I still feel something for him.
The phone on my desk rings, giving me an excuse to stop analyzing my emotions. I'm half sitting on my desk, facing the doorway, and I watch students ambling by outside while I pick up the phone.
Before I can speak, a familiar voice says, "Are you all right, Cat? I heard a rumor Alex Thorne has you locked in his basement. Do I need to fly over there and save you?"
A laugh tries to burst out of me, but I stifle it, resulting in a spluttering noise. "Good morning, Lachlan. It's so nice to hear from my mature older brother who respects me and trusts my judgment."
"Of course I trust you. It's that scunner of a Brit who's up to no good. I've heard he locked you in his basement."
"Who told you that rumor about Alex? He doesn't have a basement." As far as I know, but I won't admit to Lachlan that there's any doubt about that. Overprotective brothers are a damn nuisance.
"Logan suggested it."
I do laugh now, which makes Lachlan huff.
"Why is it funny," Lachlan says, "that Logan told me how depraved Alex Thorne is?"
"Because Logan was having you on." I pause when another bout of laughter takes hold and wait for it to subside. "Logan and Alex are friends. Our cousin has a strange way of bonding with the family, and I'm sure he expected you'd realize he was making a joke."
"I still don't understand Logan. Evan says it was all those years in MI6 that made Logan strange, but I think he's just off his head."
"You like Logan. Admit it, Lachie. We all know it's true."
"What have I told you about calling me that name?" He drops his voice to a lower, harsher tone that's meant to cow me, though it fails. "I said donnae be calling me that ever again."
"Aye, and you've been saying that all my life. Hasn't worked yet, has it?"
"How can you sound happy? You're working in the same building as Alex Thorne."
Lachlan never, never, never says just "Alex". He always says "Alex Thorne." If Lachie knew Alex's middle name, he'd use that too, like Alex is a serial killer. And why do serial killers always have three names, anyway?
"Relax, Lachlan," I say. "I'm fine. Alex is not doing unspeakable things to me in his basement or in a dungeon or in the potting shed."
I have no idea if Alex has a potting shed, but that's not the point.
"You're sure?" my brother asks. "I have a jet, so I can fly over there—"
"No, Lachie, don't you dare. I am an adult, not a bairn. Let me handle Alex in my own way." I might be eleven years younger than Lachlan, but I am not a child.