The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

I don’t know the official university policy, but I do know my dad’s stance on the matter—he made that clear. And as the head of the department, what he says goes.

God, I hope I haven’t been a party to jeopardizing Ty’s career.

Relax, Rachel. You don’t know that’s what this is. You don’t know what he wants to talk about.

My pep talk is swift and strong and filled with effort. The problem is, even if this isn’t the time of reckoning now, one day, it’s going to come.

I inhale a big breath, forcing myself to text my father back.

Me: What time?

Dad: Now, please.

Ready or not, time to face the music.

Roiling in my gut makes the walk up the two flights of stairs that lead to the faculty offices feel like a climb to the top of the Empire State Building. Trudging down the hall, I work diligently to calm the racing speed of my heart.

It’s time to get prepared—prepared to go to war for myself if I have to. The best way to do that is by removing the element of surprise.

I can do this. I’m ready.

His door is partially closed when I arrive at the end of the hall, so I push it open with a soft knock—only to nearly fall on my ass.

Fuck prepared; I’m blindsided.

Because not only is my father in his seat behind his massive desk, but Ty is sitting down in one of the leather chairs on the front side. This isn’t a meeting with me—it’s a meeting with we.

Desperation makes me cling to another possibility, though, and I volley a polite offer to do this another time. “Oh, uh…do you need me to come back?”

“No, actually, we’ve been waiting for you,” my dad says and gestures toward the only empty chair across from his desk. “Take a seat.”

Waiting for me? Like, together? What in the hell is going on here?

I wish I could get a read on the room, but I can’t. The only option I’m left with is to take a seat beside Ty and wait for the onslaught. So, that’s what I do.

My dad stands up from his chair and paces the spot to the right of his desk. Both Ty and I follow his movements, and I find myself looking at Ty again, trying to figure out what’s going on.

But his blue eyes give nothing away. Chillingly, they don’t even glance in my direction.

“Is everything okay?” I eventually ask, and my dad turns on his heel to face me, the expression on his face cutting me all the way to the bone.

“No, Rachel. Everything is not okay. We need to discuss what’s going on.”

“What’s going on with what, Nate?” Ty questions, and if my father’s mouth was firm before, it’s downright acidic now.

“I know what you two are doing.”

Oh no. The time of reckoning really has come.

I almost open my mouth to deny it, but I stop myself before following through. It’s not the time for excuses. Not anymore.

“I saw you. Both of you. Together,” he expands. “Last week, near the Carlyle.”

Ty’s gaze falls to his lap briefly and then lifts again, meeting my father’s judgment head on.

“You were both very…involved with each other.” He pauses briefly to take his glasses off his nose and rub at the space between his eyes harshly. I watch silently, as does Ty. The irrational urge to reach out and take his hand in mine is both overwhelming and insane. Touching him right now would not be in our best interest.

“The conference I asked you to attend, Rachel, just so happened to be a block up the street from the hotel you two were apparently staying in together,” he continues. “I know this because I was blessed with the visual of one of my professors getting far too close with my daughter.” He turns his glare to Ty. “I had a feeling something was up between you two, and I was right. And I think it goes without saying that your being involved with your TA goes against university policy, Ty.”

This is not good.

“But perhaps less explicitly outlined by HR, it goes against everything I ever taught you to be. You two are putting both of your careers on the line,” my father continues, his voice rising in irritation. “You’re putting everything in jeopardy. And for what? Some kind of game or thrill? These are your lives.”

I start to open my mouth with a rebuttal, but Ty’s voice is louder than mine.

“It’s not a game, Nate,” he says, and his voice is laced with a serious edge that I’ve never heard before. “It might’ve started out that way, but it’s not anymore.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” my father shouts, losing his cool and using the f-bomb for the first time in my life. Even when Nathaniel Rose is mad, he’s dignified.