Page 66 of The Late Hit
“Don’t apologize,” he says. He brings his hand to my cheek before sliding it down and gripping the back of my neck, pulling me into a hug.
I’m temporarily frozen by what has just happened, and it takes me a minute to react. Placing my arms around his middle, I return his hug. Quinton gives the best hugs. They’re warm and comforting. He makes me feel strong when I feel weak. He makes me feel safe when I’m scared. Grounding me when the darkness creeps in.
Quinton Boyd feels like home. A home I’ve been searching for since I lost my brother.
Kissing the top of my head, he releases me. “See ya later, B.”
And with that, Quinton leaves my room, leaving me feeling confused and aroused.
“Miss Wilder, can I see you in my office?” Professor Peters asks before he dismisses the class.
Cody and I exchange a glance. I knew that my outburst last week wasn’t going to go unnoticed, but I was hoping Prof. Peters would be cool about it and just let it go.
“Want me to wait?” Cody whispers as he gathers up his stuff.
Putting my laptop away, I look over at him. “No, I’ll see you in the Union for lunch.”
The rest of the students look in my direction. I can see jealousy written all over the girls' faces. They wish they were me and were being asked to have a private conversation in Professor Peters’s office. And yeah, there was a time that I wanted that too, but I don’t want that anymore.
The idea of having a fling with a professor has lost its appeal. After this morning, I just want to get to the Union and have lunch with my favorite people. Quinton has been radio silent since he left my room this morning. I texted him a couple of times, but he just read them without responding. Which is annoying. Like, don’t even read the messages if you’re just going to ignore someone.
Tossing my backpack on my back, I make my way down the steps toward the bottom of the lecture hall and out the side exit toward the hallway that houses some of the professors’ offices. Professor Peters’s is the last one. The door is open, waiting for me. Knocking first, I step into his office. It’s a decent size space with a desk, filing cabinets, and a small couch against the opposite wall from the desk. His walls are decorated with diplomas and motivational quotes. Honestly, I didn’t expect Peters to be so stereotypical and have motivational quotes. It just seems so basic. One thing that Peters isn’t.
“Ahh, Miss Wilder, please have a seat.”
He gestures to the soft chair that faces his desk. And that’s exactly what I do. I take a seat across from my professor.
“I’m really sorry for my outburst last week,” I spit out, body slumping against the chair, once again, internally smacking my head.
Professor Peters just smiles at me as I watch his eyes rake over my body. Austin is still really warm, even though we are well into fall and approaching November. Today I threw on a distressed denim skirt and an alternative rock band tank top. Peters stares at my crossed legs where my skirt has risen from sitting down. If we’re being completely honest, three weeks ago, I would’ve jumped at the excuse to be alone with him. Yeah, he might be my professor, but when you look this damn good, it doesn’t matter. He’s throwing forbidden romance vibes my way. Gosh, I sound like Chloe and one of her romance novels.
Placing both elbows on the desk, Peters leans forward.
“I should be the one apologizing,” he says, looking up at me. “I’m going to be blunt with you, Brinley. I’ve heard about you. Hell, most of the professors at CTU know about you. Your reputation precedes you. They know about your wild ways, and you’re notorious for showing up to classes hungover.”
He pauses, a smirk coming over his face.
And I can’t help but start to feel a little uncomfortable. His words are a shock to my system. I didn’t think my out-of-class activities would pique so many professors’ interests. Do I party? Yes. Do I enjoy guys? It’s college. Do I have fun? Hell, yes. But what I do outside of my classes should have no reflection of what I do inside the classroom. Especially when I’ve maintained a 3.5 grade-point average.
Before I have a chance to interrupt, he gets up from his side of the desk, sauntering toward my side. Leaning his lower half against the front of his desk, Peters crosses his outstretched legs at the ankles, and rests his arms across his chest which makes his muscles flex. Quinton flashes into my mind and how he used his muscles to brace himself over me. Moisture gathers at my center at the memory.
Once again, his eyes pursue my body.
“It was unfair of me to judge you and put you on the spot like that. I let your reputation get the best of me and, for that, I’m sorry.”
“It’s no problem,” I respond quickly. Wariness spreads through my body. “Let’s call it water under the bridge.”
I smile up at him, hoping this conversation gets over quickly.
He doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he leans a little closer to me, his legs brushing my bare ones. I quickly remove them from his touch.
“Each semester, professors are allowed to ask a student to become their office assistant. After hearing your story and seeing how serious you are about getting your degree, I thought you’d beperfectto provideassistancewhenever I need something. Would this be something you’d be interested in?”
And my stomach drops at the way he saidassist. If I’m not mistaken, Professor Peters is interested in me providing assistance outside of the classroom. And that makes my skin crawl.
“Oh, um, I—” I try to sputter out a response, feeling extremely uneasy.
“It’d be a wonderful opportunity for you to learn one-on-one outside of the classroom. I have some colleagues I could introduce you to who would offer you some more experience and get you set up post-college.”
