The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

Keeping my head down, I grip the edges of my khaki wool pea coat and pull it tighter to my body as I pick up the pace to finish the short walk to NYU’s campus.

Today, I’m here to meet someone. As of tomorrow, the official start of the spring semester, I get the pleasure of being a random professor’s teaching assistant. All thanks to my dad’s convenient position as head of the English Department at NYU, he took it upon himself to set this up—without talking to me about it first—with a professor he deemed worthy.

That’s typical Nathaniel Rose. If he thinks you should do something, he’ll find a way to make you do it. Your thoughts and feelings on the matter be damned.

Honestly, since this is my first semester back at school, I would have preferred just to focus on my grad school classes and work at Lydia and Lou’s bakery part time, but that wasn’t what my dear old, very bullheaded dad had in mind.

And while the urge to skip this little meet-and-greet and tell my dad he can fuck right off with his plans is strong, I didn’t come back to New York to have tension with my father.

I came here because I want to get serious about my career.

Sure, I’m still not certain what it is I want to do with a master’s in English, but I know, with time, I’ll figure it out. If you asked my father, he’d probably have a different opinion. Say something along the lines of me following in my late mother’s footsteps and becoming a professor who will later publish her first novel.

But it’s those expectations that had me running off to the West Coast as soon as I was a legal adult.

My mother, Nadine Rose, was a force to be reckoned with—one I could talk about with pride until I’m blue in the face. But living up to her achievements is a cross I’m not sure I’m ready to bear.

My father didn’t get the memo—he never does.

At least you were able to stand strong on the apartment thing…silver lining?

I sigh and pull my phone out of my pocket just as I’m pushing through the entrance doors of the English Department building and check the email my dad sent last week one more time.

Rachel,

Professor Ty Winslow has agreed for you to be his TA. He’s a brilliant, astute man who has built an incredible career for himself here at NYU.

Brilliant, astute man? No offense, but he sounds kind of boring.

He primarily teaches undergrad classes at NYU, and I think that is the best place for you to start this year.

He thinks that will be the best place for me to start. What I think, evidently, doesn’t matter.

I roll my eyes and scan the email again, looking for Professor Winslow’s office number, but a female voice grabs my attention.

“Can I help you with something?” a pretty blonde with soft coral lipstick asks, looking at me from behind a massive reception desk. I drop my phone and put it in my pocket. Yeah, that seems easier.

“Yes, actually. I need to find Professor Winslow’s office.”

“Professor Winslow?” she questions in a way that both confuses me and makes me want to glance at my phone again to make sure I’m saying his name right. I don’t need to look, though. I’ve read it enough times to know that’s right.

“Yes. Professor Winslow. That’s who I’m looking for.”

She purses her lips, picking up the receiver of the phone on her desk. “And what business do you have with him?” When I feel my eyes narrowing on the phone and then the woman who apparently ate piss-Cheerios for breakfast this morning, she tries on a fake smile. “Just want to let him know what to expect.”

“I’m his new TA,” I say. “And he knows to expect me because we have an appointment for this meeting.”

She slams the receiver back down, lets out a little scoff, and points toward the stairs with one French-tipped index finger. Apparently, she’s the only one allowed to get salty. “Second floor. Room 213.”

“Okayyy. Thanks.” I turn for the stairs, but her voice has me turning around once more.

“I’m Alison, by the way,” she states, but her words drip with cattiness and pent-up angst. “I handle Professor Winslow’s class schedules and appointments and other very important things.”

“Great,” I remark. I could give a single shit what this woman’s job is if it doesn’t have anything to do with mine.

“I work very closely with him.”

I have no idea what the story is behind Little Miss Coral Lips and the professor I’m supposed to be TA’ing for, but I’m finding it hard to believe it’s anything besides sharing a Google Drive. I mean, any man my father describes as astute and brilliant generally ends up being a fiftysomething dude with a beard, glasses, and a penchant for sweater vests.