The Girl Next Door

Does that scare me even more?

You bet your damn ass it does.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Beck

I rap my knuckles against Dr. Hayes’ office door.

“Come in,” is the muffled response from the other side.

As I push open the door and poke my head in, she glances up from her desk and smiles. Papers are spread out all around her. “Thanks for stopping by. I wanted to check-in with you regarding the progress you’ve been making.” She pauses for a beat. “Please tell me that you’ve been working on the paper.”

I crack a smile. “Yeah, I have.”

“Good. I was worried after our last conversation. It seemed like you were dragging your heels about delving in.”

“You’re right, I was,” I admit. “It’s a little overwhelming.”

She wags a finger at me. “You athletes are all alike.”

I really hope not. School might not come easy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t work at it.

As I get ready to slide onto the chair parked across from her desk, Dr. Hayes rises to her feet and points to the small couch against the far side of the office. “Would you mind if we sit over there?” She arches, thrusting the fullness of her breasts against her silky white tank. My gaze skitters away, landing on the navy sweater draped across her chair. “My back has been bothering me.” She closes the distance between us. “That’s what grading papers for several hours a day will get you.”

“I bet.” I hustle over to the couch, which is more of a glorified loveseat. There’s no way two people will fit comfortably on it, especially when one of them weighs in at two hundred and twenty pounds.

I drop onto a cushion and keep my attention focused straight ahead. Her thigh brushes against mine as she settles next to me. All of those uncomfortable feelings she stirred in me the last time we spoke come rushing to the surface.

It’s not like there has been anything blatant about her behavior. But still…

I don’t like the way it makes me feel. I shift restlessly, wishing there was more room between us. It feels like she’s practically sitting on my lap. It’s awkward.

“How has your week been going?” she asks, unaware of the thoughts circling through my head.

I glance at her from the corner of my eye. “Good.”

“You’re a man of few words, Beck Hollingsworth,” she chuckles. “The strong silent type.”

That would be because you make me uneasy.

Even though I don’t say that, the words are perched on the tip of my tongue. Any moment I’ll blurt them out.

Dr. Hayes flips through her notebook until she lands on a page with my name scribbled on top of it along with a few notes. She shifts her body until she’s able to face me. Our thighs are no longer touching, but our knees are pushed together. I remain still so we don’t brush up against one another anymore than we have to.

I glance at her face, trying to get a read on her thoughts. Her expression is open and friendly, that of a concerned professor. There’s nothing about her demeanor that would lead me to believe she’s aware of the discomfort she’s causing.

“Let’s talk about the sources you’ve come up with and where you are in the process of drafting your outline.”

I blow out a steady breath and the tension filling my muscles dissipates.

“There are a lot of studies out there regarding concussions and contact sports, so finding research material hasn’t been an issue. I’ve already gathered six different sources.” The more I talk about what I’ve found, the more comfortable I become. “One problem I’m running into is that there’s so much information, I’m having a difficult time narrowing down my focus and organizing it.”

“Sometimes having too much information can be as problematic as not finding enough.” Her lips lift. “Think about your thesis statement and try to stick with information that supports the main points you’re trying to convey.” She gestures toward my backpack. “If you have your outline, I’d love to take a look and give you some direction.”

“Sure, let me grab my computer.”

“Great.” She relaxes against the couch and crosses one leg over the other. Her skirt rises a few inches up her thigh.

I pull out my laptop from my backpack and fire it up. Once the document pops up on the screen, she scoots toward me. The soft curve of her breast brushes against my bicep.

I clear my throat and stare pointedly at the screen. “Would it be easier for you to read if I give you the computer?”

“Nope,” she presses closer, “this is fine.”

Silently, she scans the document. Every once in a while, she’ll point to a word or section. When she does, something hard and pointed drags across the bare skin of my arm. I’m really hoping it’s not her nipple, but what else could it be?