Hannah

I scowl at the sexy jerk of a professor blocking the exit and my escape. I'm not sure how I survived a full hour of his deep, sexy voice talking about the different ways to boil an egg—boring as it was.

Hopefully, the rest of his lectures will be a little more exciting because fantasizing about him while he talks about adding vinegar to the water while boiling eggs isn't very sexy. As practical as it is to make it easier to peel the eggs, it's still not that interesting.

How the rest of the class made it out of the room before me is a mystery. It wasn't like I intentionally stayed back, hoping to be alone with Professor Grumpy Pants.

"You're not what I was expecting," he says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his shoulder on the door frame, continuing to block my escape.

Like I have time for this. I have to get to the café for my shift—not stand here and debate why I'm not what he expected. But the little devil on my shoulder wants me to see where this is going.

"And what were you expecting, Professor?"

He raises an eyebrow as his gaze roams over my body in a slow appraisal before finally landing on my face, "Certainly not this." The heat of his stare has my body humming with need.

Has it been so long since I've had any sexual contact that I would be lusting after this jerk?

After I caught my ex-fiancé, Jeff, with his secretary six months ago in our bed in the apartment we shared, I swore off men, especially since I was working as an accountant for his family's firm when the bastard cheated on me.

Losing your fiancé, your apartment, and your job all in one day pretty much sucks. So when my friend Grace offered me a place to stay and suggested I go back to school for a culinary degree at her husband's college, I jumped at the chance.

I don't need some arrogant professor, who obviously doesn't like his job, trying to derail all my well-set plans for my future.

"Would you care to elaborate?" Mimicking his stance, I lean against the wall and wait for his response.

"For starters, you're a lot older than the rest of your classmates."

A gasp escapes my lips, and I push myself off the wall, uncrossing my arms, "Rude. You're at least five years older than me."

"It's not a bad thing, Little Spitfire. It's just an observation that puzzles me. I would think at your age you would be settled in a career—maybe married with a couple of kids. Not enrolled in first-year culinary classes."

"How do you know I'm not married?" I cross my arms over my chest again, pissed that he would assume anything about my life.

"Because if my woman was looking at a man the way you've been looking at me all day, I'd be pissed as hell. I would do whatever it took to win my woman back."

"Why, you arrogant son of a bitch." My hand itches to slap the smug look off his face. How I ever thought he was handsome is beyond me.

"You might want to calm down, Spitfire, or I'll begin to think you like me."

"You wish." This jerk has me so flustered that I can't even think of a good comeback.

"Oh, I wish for a lot of things, Spitfire." he runs his hand across my cheek, and I inhale sharply as my panties damp from just one little touch.

Needing to regain even the slightest bit of control, I take a step back and say, "Stop calling me Spitfire. You're my professor—and I'm your student. I'm pretty sure there are some rules against fraternizing."

"Rules are meant to be broken. Don't you think Spitfire?" Damn him and that little dimple in his cheek. Dimples on a man are my weakness—that and chest hair.

I wonder if Professor Carter has chest hair or if he's bare.

My eyes lower to his chest, trying to decide if there's chest hair hiding beneath his dress shirt. My clit picks that moment to pulse with need causing me to gasp, which snaps me out of the trance.

"Is everything okay, ?" The genuine concern in his voice and the way he uses my real name instead of that stupid nickname makes my heart beat faster.

Stop it, ; you can't let anyone stand in the way of your goals.

"Everything is fine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get to work. I'll see you tomorrow in the culinary lab." I push past him, needing to put some distance between us before my panties spontaneously combust.

I was wrong—he's not Professor Grumpy Pants. He's got me so hot and bothered—he's more like Professor Spicy Pants.

Now, if only I can keep my hands off this spicy professor and focus on my education.