Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 60904 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60904 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
But that would be far too intimate, and it would probably be painful for him. He clearly suffered because of his dad. I won’t force him to make vulnerable confessions just to satisfy my own curiosity.
“Thank you,” I say instead. “If you think your friend can trace my stalker’s messages, I’d be grateful for their help.”
“Good.” The way he rumbles that single word makes my belly flip.
I ease back a bit. I’ve been completely swept up in him, and I’ve allowed myself to get far too close to my professor. Anyone could see us together and get the wrong impression.
“I should go home,” I assert. “I need to study for next week’s classes.”
A small frown ghosts around his mouth.
“What you need is rest,” he counters. “Give yourself the day off. You’ve been through a lot. You should get some sleep.”
Reflexively, I smooth my hair back into my high ponytail. I probably look like a mess. I barely slept last night, haunted by nightmares about Brandon’s and Rich’s deaths.
Exhaustion settles into my bones. I need a long bath with the comfort of my newest romance novel. If I try to study, I doubt I’ll retain any information.
“Okay,” I agree. “I’ll take the day off.”
He tips his head in approval. I long for him to say good again in that lightly accented voice. I like it far too much.
He gathers up his papers and puts them back in his satchel. I take the last bite of my sandwich and drain the glass of water.
I’m not shaking anymore. Rand was right about the need for protein and hydration.
I’m too tired to be annoyed at his controlling actions. I feel better because of them, so staying prickly about it is stupid.
We walk to the exit, and he holds the door for me like a perfect gentleman. I’m so close to him that I feel his body heat as I slip past.
I’m grateful for the contrast of the cool air outdoors. Light rain is falling, little more than heavy mist that kisses my cheeks.
“Sorry, I don’t have an umbrella,” Rand apologizes.
I tip my head back and welcome more of the cooling rain to fall on my face. “I don’t mind. It feels good.”
“Let’s get you home,” he prompts. “You’ll catch a chill if you stay out here in the rain.”
I sigh. “I’ve decided you’re not an asshole, but you’re still controlling.”
“I’ll take that as a win,” he says blandly. “Practically a ringing endorsement.”
He falls into step beside me as we begin to walk towards my place.
“Don’t let it go to your head, Professor.”
“Too late.”
A minute of silence passes, so I decide to ease some of the awkwardness with friendly conversation. I want him to keep talking to me, even though it’s not healthy to like the sound of his voice so much.
“Where are you from originally?” I ask. “I can’t place your accent.”
He keeps his gaze directed forward rather than looking at me. “My family home is in Yorkshire, about a half hour drive outside of town.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from Yorkshire,” I press.
His eyes flick to me and away again, as though he’s more interested in the ancient architecture than he is in me.
Or maybe he just doesn’t like sharing personal information with one of his students.
“I studied in the States,” he explains. “I think the years at Notre Dame softened my accent.”
I nod. “I thought you sounded weirdly American sometimes.”
He doesn’t offer any follow up.
“Does your family still live around here?” I ask, twirling the end of my ponytail in a slightly anxious gesture.
I don’t like this distance between us.
“No. My parents died years ago. I don’t have extended family.”
My heart tugs toward his as though we’re tethered by an invisible cord.
“My parents died when I was young, too,” I confess. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He shrugs. “Like I said, my dad wasn’t a good man. It’s hardly a loss.”
I purse my lips to hold in questions about his mom. He clearly isn’t keen to share.
“But I’m sorry for what you went through,” he adds, more gently. “That must’ve been difficult. How old were you when they passed?”
“Twelve.”
I never talk about this to anyone. Telling the truth about my old life before I was Lena Williams is risky. I have to prevent myself from revealing more.
“You miss them,” he remarks instead of asking about the circumstances of their deaths.
“Yes,” I admit softly. “I miss them.”
I toss my hair over my shoulder, shrugging off the painful past. “That was a long time ago. I’m fine now.”
“You don’t have to lie to me. I would prefer if you didn’t.”
Of course I have to lie. Even though I’m aching to tell him all about my anguish, that’s completely unreasonable.
Lena Williams’ parents didn’t die in a flash flood. In fact, there’s very little about her past if you look her up online. Most of my digital footprint starts with my fake ID’s social media five years ago, and there are some articles on my university’s website about my academic achievements.