The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

He’s not lying. Both Kip and Adele are hard-asses. I should know; I experienced both of them when I was finishing my PhD.

“So…if you’re not going to try to fire me, what’s the big occasion? Want to bring some freshmen in here and listen to them sob together?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I want to ask a favor of you.” He steeples his elbows on his desk and rests his chin on top of his hands. “My youngest daughter Rachel has finally decided to move back to New York and get serious about her career, but she needs guidance. She needs someone who can show her the ropes and inspire her to follow through with what she’s meant to do.”

“And what would that be?”

“Well, deep down, she’s a writer. And she’s brilliant. She had no issues maintaining a 4.0 GPA at Stanford during her undergrad because, simply put, literature is in her blood. Honestly, she reminds me a lot of Nadine.”

Nadine, as in Nadine Rose, his late wife. A brilliant professor and writer, and there is no doubt she was taken from this world too soon. I never had the pleasure of knowing her, and it’s a sad realization that she was only able to publish one book under her name before she became ill with brain cancer.

But anyone who is anyone in the literary world knows the name Nadine Rose.

“So, what’s your daughter’s plan here at NYU?”

“Well, son, she’s finally buckling down and has come back here to finish her master’s degree. Something she should have completed about four years ago,” he muses with a sigh. “Because of that, I’d like you to take her under your wing and let her be your TA over the next few semesters.”

“Of course,” I agree because I’d never not agree to a favor for Nate. I owe him so much that I don’t think I could repay him in ten lifetimes. Honestly, if the man committed murder and needed me to help hide the body, I wouldn’t report him to the cops or the tenure board. I’d bring the damn shovel.

“Now, you should know, she can be a bit stubborn. A lot of these gray hairs I have are proof of the hell she put me through during her teenage years. But I’m thinking your brand of teaching—caring about students having fun and all that,” he says with a fake roll of his eyes, “might be the ticket to getting her in the mind-set of tackling responsibility head on.”

A soft laugh jumps from my throat. “I’m pretty sure we all gave our parents hell during our teenage years. And it’s no problem. Consider the favor done.”

“Really appreciate this, Ty, and—” He pauses midsentence, his ringing desk phone grabbing his attention. He holds up one finger and answers it with a curt, “Professor Rose.”

While he chats about an upcoming department meeting, I spot a picture on his desk, one I know that’s been there for a long time, but I’ve never paid much attention to.

It’s two young girls, both brunettes, and they look to be in their early teens. One is smaller than the other and showcases a mouth full of braces. And since I know that Nate has two daughters, I quickly assume that the smaller of the two girls is his youngest, Rachel, the one who will be my new TA.

Though she’s older now, midtwenties from what I understand, I try to get an idea of what she might look like these days. It’s pretty tough, as I highly doubt she’s still sporting a mouth full of metal.

Nate chuckles loudly at something, and I know him well enough to understand this call won’t be short and sweet. Up from my chair, I stand and offer him a knowing wave, silently saying, “I’ll see you later,” and he quickly places his hand over the receiver.

“Thanks again, Ty. I really appreciate you taking Rachel under your wing.” His smile is equal parts amused and concerned. “I just hope she doesn’t give you as much trouble as she gives her father.”

I grin. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Nate.”

A sometimes-stubborn, twentysomething, studious bookworm? I mean, how hard could it be?

Monday, January 14th

Rachel

I step off the subway, moving with the crowd that encompasses the Monday morning rush. It’s not easy staying on your feet when you’re wearing heels and sandwiched between what feels like half of New York, but I manage to walk up the steps that lead out of the underground tunnel and to the outside world without falling on my face.

Sunlight brushes across my cheeks just as a burst of cold air blows my coat open and tries to become besties with my bones.

Damn, it’s cold.

It’s like New York is trying to punish me for being away for so long. Either that, or she wants me to haul ass back to LA, where I know it’s sunny and seventy-five degrees.