Page 7 of Tempting the President
Every motorcycle club romance I’ve ever downloaded.
Every billionaire-claims-innocent-academic fantasy I’ve ever highlighted.
Every spicy scene I’ve bookmarked and returned to, sometimes multiple times in one night.
And now Patrizio Steele has access to all of it.
I roll over, burying my face in my pillow with a groan that would be more appropriate for someone facing an IRS audit than a literature exposure. But the humiliation feels just as intense.
I spend the entire night replaying yesterday’s disaster in excruciating detail.
Which is exactly what any sane, professional woman would do after having her secret romance novel addiction exposed by the most gorgeous man she’s ever met in real life. Obviously.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Patrizio Steele’s knowing smile.
I remember the moment when he picked up my Kindle like he’d just discovered my entire internet search history.
Remember the way he said my name like he had every right to use it and I was powerless to stop him.
Which, let’s be honest, I was.
The rational part of my brain—the part with the PhD in psychology—knows that there’s nothing technically wrong with a grown woman reading romance novels. Millions of women do it. It’s a billion-dollar industry. Nobody cares.
Except I care. Because I’ve spent years building a reputation as a serious academic. Someone who publishes in peer-reviewed journals and gives presentations at international conferences and definitely doesn’t secretly fantasize about being cornered in hallways by dangerous men with commanding voices.
And now the one person who absolutely shouldn’t know about this part of me—the older brother of my student, a man who already thinks I’m influencing his sister’s research interests—knows exactly what I read when nobody’s watching.
By the time my alarm goes off at 6:30, I’ve managed approximately forty-seven minutes of actual sleep and have developed a comprehensive plan to:
a) Call in sick to all my classes
b) Change my name
c) Move to another country, preferably one without extradition
Instead, I drag myself into the shower, where I stand under water hot enough to turn my skin pink while I try to formulate a more realistic strategy for facing Patrizio Steele today.
Because he said he’d be back. With more of Annie’s work. And now armed with intimate knowledge of exactly what kinds of books I find “academically stimulating.”
“It’s fine,” I tell my reflection as I apply mascara with hands that aren’t quite steady. “You’re a professional. This is just a minor embarrassment. People have survived worse.”
My reflection doesn’t look convinced.
I dress with extra care, choosing a charcoal pencil skirt and crisp white blouse that practically screams “serious academic professional who definitely doesn’t read smutty romance novels.” My hair goes into a tight bun, my makeup remains minimal, and I even swap my usual small gold hoops for pearl studs.
Armor, all of it. Defense against a man who’s already seen through every layer.
My office hours don’t officially start until 10:00, but I’m at my desk by 8:15, surrounded by neatly stacked journal articles and academic texts. Professional. Serious. Completely uninterested in fictional motorcycle club presidents.
The knock comes at 9:07.
Not a tentative, “excuse me, professor” student knock.
Not a collegial “hey, got a minute?” faculty knock.
Or an “I’m about to tell you something bad” kind of knock that Kassie likes to use, when she thinks I need to be forewarned to be forearmed.
This knock is none of those. Rather, it’s the kind that suggests the person on the other side knows exactly who they are, expects immediate acknowledgment, and causesmyown knees to knock against each other instead.
