The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

Right?

I’d at least like to think I can.

“Okay,” she says hesitantly, perhaps the first time I’ve ever heard her speak with anything but confidence, and she searches for a spot to plant herself that’s somehow within the walls of this lecture hall but also on another planet at the same time.

I put my head back down to my partially finished lesson plan, just to give her the space to find somewhere to be, but I don’t see any of the words in front of me. Instead, a film reel of her skin and the catch of her breath in the back of her throat and the way her back arched at my touch plays relentlessly.

Rachel Rose is a core memory kind of woman. Not the one you forget or pass by or ignore pointedly like I’m doing now, that’s for sure.

But she’s also the head of the department’s daughter and, more than that, the daughter of a mentor and a friend. I don’t have many lines I don’t cross, but going behind a friend’s back and sleeping with his daughter is not exactly the man I want people to talk about at my funeral.

Over and over again in my head, I repeat a chant to remind myself of what’s at stake. “Dead pariah, dead pariah, dead pariah.”

Rachel jerks her head up from her spot in one of the stadium seats and asks, “What was that?”

Okay, so maybe I didn’t just say it in my head.

“Nothing.” I wave her off with a chuck of my chin and swat of my hand. “It was nothing.”

She nods cautiously and then puts her head back down to her work, and I try to do the same. I write two words and then glance up to see what she’s doing.

Amazingly, she’s actually focused, and just as I put my head down again and try to do the same, her eyes flutter upward, barely snagging on the gaze of mine in passing.

I deliberately ignore it, clearing my throat and waiting for my eyes to adjust to the words on my paper. What am I even saying at this point? Does this lesson even make sense?

Breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, I force a deep circulation of air through my lungs and try to reset. It’s going to be a long day—and a truly long-ass semester—if I can’t find some way to make peace with being in Rachel’s presence without wanting to rip her clothes off.

Just focus on the job, Ty.

After a couple more deep breaths, I forget that Rachel is there and get back into the lesson. It’s about Love in the Time of Cholera, a book I’ve always found interesting. It’s complicated and messy and real. It’s not a happily ever after wrapped up in a bow, and also, I’m a fucking liar because I’ve been thinking about Rachel and Rachel’s eyes and Rachel’s legs and Rachel’s sheer-panty-covered pussy this entire time.

Fuck.

I shift my pen under the word complicated and underline it five times. It’s a heavy theme today in more than just this book, that’s for sure.

I close my notebook, placing my pen inside, and pick it up to carry to my office. Rachel’s head comes up at my movement, and I try on a friendly smile. Which I’m pretty sure looks more like The Joker’s signature grin than anything remotely normal.

“I have a couple of notes I left in the office that I need,” I tell her.

Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

“I’m going to run and grab them.” I keep lying through my teeth. “And then, I’ll probably just finish up in there until it’s time for class.”

She nods carefully again, and I return the gesture with a little more fervor. Too much, if I’m honest.

“Okay, well…see you in half an hour.”

“See you then, Professor Winslow.”

I don’t dally after that. On quick legs, I head straight for the door. The sooner I get the hell out of here and gather myself, the better for both of us.

Out in the hallway, I take long strides, jockeying around students, and swing open the stairwell door to jog up the steps to the second floor in a hurry. I barely look at anything other than my feet. Which is why when I crest the top of the flight and bump immediately into someone, I’m not all that surprised.

“Ty!” Professor Rose greets excitedly, laughing off the physical contact. “Where’s the fire, son?”

My head jerks side to side quickly, and I force a smile onto my face. It’s not that it’s not good to see him—it’s just that the timing could definitely be better. Generally, I try not to be thinking about a man’s daughter’s pussy when I look him in the eye. A small rule of thumb, if you will.

“No fire, sir. I just need to do a couple of things in my office before class starts shortly.”