The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

“Wait, Prof!” Landon interjects. “Can we at least…uh…do this essay in the digital age of computers?”

Ty smirks. “Considering I’ve seen your shit handwriting, and I’m sure it was no easy feat for Rachel to grade your last essay, yes. Turn this one in via the Google Drive.”

Landon isn’t offended at all. “Thank you!” he exclaims and plops back down in his seat.

The sounds of fingers tapping across laptop keys fill the room, and I start to use the time to get a little grad work done, but Ty’s quiet voice grabs my attention.

“Hey, Rachel, you mind stepping out for a quick chat?”

I shrug and get up from my seat, following his lead into the hallway.

“All right,” he says and leans against the now-shut door of his lecture hall. “What’s your final answer?”

“My final answer?” I question with a tilt of my head. “On what?”

“On Tolstoy.”

“Are you assigning me a verbal essay right now?”

His stupid smile is contagious. “Something like that.”

“Okay, well, I think it’s pretty obvious what I think.” I snort. “Tolstoy was ahead of his time in how he viewed women. Although he wasn’t exactly a leader in the feminist movement, he certainly showed the kind of compassion for women that wasn’t common during that time. Especially in Russia.”

“Hmm.” Ty rubs his fingers over his chin. “Interesting.”

“Wait…you don’t agree?”

He stares at me for a long moment, searching my eyes, but then his face morphs from serious to amused. “I’m just messing with you. Of course I agree.”

“Geez.” I roll my eyes, and it’s as if my hand has a mind of its own, reaching out to nudge him playfully in the shoulder. “Does everything have to be a game with you?”

“But aren’t games so much fun, Rachel?” he teases back and waggles his brow. “I certainly love games.”

“I’m aware,” I say, and for the first time, it’s almost as if I’m silently acknowledging what we both already know.

“Oh, Rachel. I know.”

I find myself playfully nudging him again, this time with my elbow, and Ty smiles at me. This is his sexy smile, the one that makes most women turn giddy and flirty and all the other things he probably loves so much.

Hello, kettle. Meet pot.

When I realize I’m smiling back at him like an idiot, I roll my eyes and glance over my shoulder, trying to collect myself. But in my search for equilibrium, it seems I’ve found something else—a familiar set of scrutinizing eyes, studying my every movement.

My father strides down the hallway, heading right for us, and in a knee-jerk reaction that pisses me off, I step away from Ty a bit. A twenty-six-year-old woman shouldn’t feel like she needs to hide something from her dad, especially when, in all reality, she’s not even doing anything wrong. I mean, we’re discussing Tolstoy, for shit’s sake.

“Rachel, Professor Winslow,” he greets us, his voice more firm than friendly. “Everything going okay today?”

“Just a healthy debate on Anna Karenina,” Ty offers easily, his voice every bit as relaxed as it was moments ago. If he can feel the tension vibrating off my father, he’s doing one hell of a job pretending he can’t.

“One of Rachel’s favorite books,” my dad answers for me with a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. He turns to me then, expression dropping the façade entirely. “Rachel, do you mind stopping by my office later today?”

“I would, but I have a class at three,” I say, doing my best to avoid the coming confrontation. Normally, I have a lot of fight in me, but today, I’m really not in the mood.

“Not a problem, sweetheart. I’ll still be there when you’re done.”

I could try to refute again, but I know it’s a useless endeavor where Nathaniel Rose is concerned. He’s holding the line, and I’m expected to tow it.

Pigeonholed, I agree with a “Great. See you then” and excuse myself from what feels like an awkward powwow to head back into the lecture hall.

For a woman who came back to New York to live her own life and figure out her career path without worrying about her father’s expectations, I sure seem to be doing just the opposite.

At a little after five in the evening, I walk out of my Literature and Philosophy class and start on the march of death.

Maybe that’s a little dramatic for a visit to your own dad’s office at a prestigious university, but I have enough receipts from over the years to prove my point in a full-page spread on Page Six.

I shuffle down the hallway, jockeying through the last of the students who remain on a Friday evening, and head up the stairwell to the second floor.

I have no idea what stuffy Professor Rose wants to talk about now, but I’m sure he has a point, a presentation, and notes for me to take home for studying. If there’s anything he loves to do, it’s listen to himself breathe hot air in my direction.