The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

I wish I could say I haven’t noticed how insanely good-looking Ty Winslow is, but even without our real first introduction, admitting that he is a different brand of handsome would be unavoidable.

He’s walking sex, and it shows in the fluttered eyelashes, coy smiles, and giggles of every female student in the classroom. He could have any of them if he wanted, but so far, he hasn’t given any of the attention a second glance.

Ty glances at his watch briefly, and with a quick look to the clock above him, I know what’s coming.

“All right. Get out of here, kids. Your first brush with Anna Karenina is officially dismissed.”

Chatter fills the massive space as students shove their laptops into their bags and snag their notebooks off the long lecture hall tables and start heading to their next class.

I follow in kind, gathering my things as quickly as possible. I’d like to get out of here without talk of mood rings or Orchid or anything else if I can help it.

Ty stands by the exit door, gabbing with students and answering any questions they might have before they leave his lecture hall, and that puts a bit of a kink in my plan for a clean getaway.

I try to wait him out, hoping that maybe a student will pull him into a long conversation, or he’ll head back to his desk, but I can’t stay here forever, as much as the power of my will compels me to. I have places to be.

Resigned to womaning up and making my exit, I’m surprised when Professor Winslow calls out to me as I’m slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder.

“Hey, Rachel, can you do me a favor?” he asks from the door, garnering a nod from me in response. “Before you leave, I have a file with a few changes to next week’s teaching plans for you in my office. It’s in my desk, the second drawer on the right. Would you mind grabbing that before you go?”

Okay, that’s a reasonable request. One that even sends me somewhere other than where he is. I’m relieved.

“Sure thing,” I agree eagerly.

My shoulders sag as he heads back to the desk in the lecture hall, and I head out the door. Maybe denying the truth of the panties doggedly was the way to go after all.

Since the lecture hall is on the first floor, I make my way down the hall and up the stairs to the second and then all the way to his office. Staff and students linger around in discussions, some of whom I’m at least familiar with because of my dad, but I keep to myself in an effort to be in and out in no time.

Ty’s door is open, and I head straight for the other side of his desk. Years of age and use have made the second drawer on the right a little snug, but I manage it open with a few rough tugs.

And then nearly piss my pants.

Oh, what the hell is this?

My sheer pink La Perla panties lie across the top of a manila folder with my name on it, staring me in the face. This motherfucker kept my freaking panties—which, admittedly, was the intended consequence of giving them prior to all the complications—and now he’s haunting me with them like Cas-Perla, the underwear ghost.

God, I wish I had the capacity to be embarrassed, but I don’t. I’m angry—and I’m really fucking impressed. I can’t believe he lulled me into complacency this easily.

I grab the yellow Post-it note that sits on top and read it.

You and I both know these belong to you.

That bastard thinks he’s going to win this game? Screw that. Rachel Rose never says die.

I snag the file out of the drawer and slam it shut so hard that a few pieces of paper shimmy off his desk and onto the floor, leaving the underwear and the Post-it right where I found them.

If I took them, I’d be admitting the truth, admitting defeat, and I’m no quitter. No matter how many lies I have to continue to tell, I’ll ride this lying train until the cows come home or until it goes down in a blazing fire—whichever comes last.

This is war.

I head out of his office and into the hallway, and it comes as no surprise that I only get halfway to the stairwell before the devil himself smiles through his stride in my direction.

He’s coming to see the spoils of his efforts, but he’s going to be sadly disappointed.

I’m not admitting shit. At this point, he could strangle me with the panties themselves, and I’d pretend I wasn’t choking.

Sheer pink La Perla panties I bought with three years of birthday money? Never fucking heard of them.

Without hesitation or uncertainty, I walk toward him with a defiant chin, steady eye contact, and a throbbing gut full of anger and excitement. He’s a bastard, but I haven’t felt this alive in years.