The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

And Alison doesn’t look like the type of woman who gets horny for Mr. Belvedere.

Maybe she’s just having a bad day?

“Well, that’s good to know,” I answer, offering a friendly wave to end the interaction despite the bitchy vibes rolling my way. “Thanks for the help.”

I don’t waste any time on Alison after that. Quickly, I head to the long staircase and walk up the two flights to the second floor.

I glance at my phone to check the time and see it’s 7:58 a.m. Even with the weird conversation with the chick at the reception desk, I’ve still managed to get to the appointment my dad set up on time.

Consider it a Monday miracle.

The hallway is eerily empty, most likely because it’s an in-service day for staff only, and every time my heels engage with the Travertine tile, a click-clack echo bounces off the walls.

Heels that I’m already rethinking, by the way. But walking several blocks and standing on a sardine-packed subway train for fifteen minutes will do that to you.

My eyes take in the numbers on each big wooden door, and I quickly calculate that Professor Winslow’s office is at the opposite end of the hall from my father’s. And since there’s only one office with lights on and a door opened, I have a pretty good sense that I’ve found where I need to be.

I stop at the threshold, knocking lightly. A man dressed in black slacks and a crisp white shirt that’s tucked in beneath his belt is rummaging through something on one of the shelves behind his desk, but I can’t be sure yet that it’s him.

From behind, he has broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a ridiculously firm ass. Basically, this guy is the exact opposite of what I pictured by my father’s description. There’s not a bald head or sweater vest in sight.

“Um…” I clear my throat. “Professor Winslow?”

“That’s me,” he responds, but he doesn’t turn around, his hands still busy with whatever is on the shelf. “Can I help you with something?”

“I’m Rachel…Rachel Rose…your new TA.”

“Oh shit, sorry,” he mutters, promptly turning around to face me while juggling a large book in one of his hands.

When his eyes meet mine, a rush of memories fills my head and recognition sets in. Instantly, I want to drop to the floor and take cover like a street-smart gang leader on the bloody end of a drive-by shooting.

Oh, holy irony.

My heart picks up a hard and fast rhythm inside my chest and the urge to let my jaw fall open is strong, but I overcompensate and end up smashing my teeth together so tight it makes the muscles in my neck ache.

Is this some kind of sick joke?

Blue eyes, full lips, and the kind of insanely gorgeous face a girl could never forget. This isn’t the first time I’ve met Professor Winslow. Oh no, we’ve been acquainted before. About two weeks ago, on a dance floor, when Lydia and Lou dragged me to Orchid.

He’s the guy. Mr. Tempting. My challenge. The one I gave my freaking panties to!

This is not good, Rach. Not good. At all.

His face morphs into a mixture of bewilderment and recognition and a whole lot of other shit that comes with the awkward territory, and there’s no doubt I’m not the only one who’s put the pieces of the panty puzzle together.

“You’re Rachel Rose?” he questions, and all I can do is nod. My throat is too clogged by shock to speak actual words. “Professor Rose’s daughter? That’s you?”

I nod again. He scans my face closer.

Don’t just stand there, you idiot. You have to do something.

“You’re—” he starts to continue.

“And you’re Professor Winslow, correct?” I blurt out in a rush, cutting him off before he can say anything else.

Seemingly, my knee-jerk reaction, when I’m confronted by the consequences of giving my underwear to a complete stranger and then having to face that stranger again in a professional setting, is to ignore the giant pair of pink panties in the room.

“Yes…” He nods and narrows his eyes. “That’s me.”

“Well, it’s really great to meet you.” Again.

“You look familiar.”

Ha-ha-ha…fuuuuuuck.

“Really?” I retort a little too loudly and have to fake a soft cough into my hand to hide my nerves. “You know, I get that a lot. I think I just have one of those faces.”

I circle my head with my hand, a la isn’t-Rachel-so-casual-and-collected.

“No. I don’t think it’s that.” An amused, all-too-knowing smirk lifts one corner of his mouth. “We’ve met before.”

“No,” I lie, shaking my head three too many times. “I don’t think so.”

“It was two Friday nights ago,” he states. “At Orchid.”

Are you really just going to act like it never freaking happened? Is that what you’re doing right now?!

“Orchid? What’s that?” I question, completely ignoring logical thought and settling, instead, for a fake bout of amnesia.