Chapter 14

My mind is a scramble of sadness and embarrassment, my breathing quickening into short bursts. My vision is blurry, the tears welling up rapidly, and I bite my inner cheek in a last-ditch effort to halt my inevitable meltdown.

I don't want to break down in front of him. This cold man. This oxymoron. A man who makes me feel so warm with a simple gaze.

But why am I falling apart in front of him…after holding everything in all these years?

A thousand thoughts skate through my consciousness as I give up the fight and wipe my sleeve over my wet cheeks.

"I-I'm sorry, Professor," I stammer, my voice thick. "This is inappro—"

Suddenly, a solid wall of heat appears in front of me, the enticing scent of the forest and citrus enveloping me completely, almost like a tender embrace. I stare at his chest, his heaving chest, like he, too, is struggling to breathe and make sense of this. His muscles flex under his crisp shirt and tailored vest, and he lets out a ragged exhale.

The sound is rough. Anguished. Completely masculine.

My body shakes. I don't know if it's from the emotions of the day or from everything I've bottled inside me for so long.

Or perhaps it's from him. This fortress of a man who can make me feel so out of control just from his mere presence.

Wordlessly, he lifts his hand and brushes his thumb gently over my cheek, wiping away the tears there. My eyes flutter shut of their own accord, my skin blooming under his caress. I lean into his palm, relishing the slightly rough scrape of his skin against mine, and his warmth against my chilled skin.

I whisper, my voice shaky, "I grew up poor, so poor we were barely keeping the electricity on. All our money went to Mom's health care when she was diagnosed with lymphoma. At first, the doctors were optimistic, but I remember so little of that time. I was too young. Then, she went into remission. And for a while there, we were happy again. There was laughter and dancing in the house, trips to the park, and cookies for breakfast. I got snuggles and bedtime stories."

I don't know why I'm telling him this, but the cork bottling it all, forcing me to be the responsible, cheerful person for the people around me, has finally popped, and everything comes tumbling out.

Perhaps it's because he's silent, offering nothing except for his heated presence radiating with so much intensity, standing a mere inch away from me. His large hand is still cupping my cheek, his thumb smoothing soft circles, igniting a flurry of sparks at the light contact.

I continue, "Then, I remember one day, Mom's eyes were red when she picked me up from school. When we got back home, she gave me a tight hug before locking herself inside her bedroom. I heard her sobs. Gut-wrenching sobs. They weren't something a seven-year-old would ever forget. From that moment on, we were sad again. It turned out the cancer came back."

More tears slip out and he carefully wipes them away, still not saying a word, still a mountain of knotted tightness in front of me. He feels like a haven, blocking the storm raging around me.

"The battle was hard fought, but we lost her in the end," I choke out the next words. "My family moved to New York afterward, but we were barely holding on, you see. But a teacher saw me. He looked after me and saved me when I was drowning in pain."

My hand slowly lifts from my side, my fingers unbiddenly reach for the buttons on his vest. I don't know why I'm doing this, but I want to touch him, to let him feel an ounce of what he's making me feel right now. The silent comfort is akin to carefully wrapping bandages around my bleeding heart.

I hear his sharp inhale, a ragged half-breath. I feel the slight rippling of his muscular chest from my touch. All man. Every inch of him.

I still don't look up as I whisper in this startling intimacy, "I wanted to become a teacher then. To make a difference in someone else's life like the way he made a difference in mine. You see, it's the ultimate way I can honor my mom…to make something out of a tragic situation."

My exhales are loud in the office, which seems smaller than before, or maybe the man in front of me has a presence filling the entire room. Unable to stop myself, I continue to fiddle with his buttons—little elegant squares of tortoise pattern rimmed with gold—they look expensive, unattainable, unapproachable, just like the rest of him. What am I even doing? But I can't stop myself. I want to lean on him, on this pillar of quiet strength.

I'm tired and he looks like he can be my respite. My oasis in the desert.

The silence stretches on, the tension thickening with each second. The tingles on my cheek where his hand is grazing me spread south to the rest of my body, the warmth chasing away the chill inside me.

A magical elixir.

"I lost my mom when I was young too." His deep, raspy voice pierces the silence, like he's talking to a lover in the dark. "I know the pain, the hole inside your chest that can never be filled."

My breath freezes as I listen to his quiet words.

"She'd sit with me in our rose garden and read me parables inherent with life lessons. Back then, I didn't understand them. They were just interesting stories with happily-ever-afters for a six-year-old." He chuckles and my eyes flutter shut as I imagine the little boy he once was.

"She had a way with words and could explain difficult topics in a way I could understand. I'd fall asleep with the sound of her voice in my ears, the warm breeze on my face, the taste of the sweet grapes on my tongue. And later, I'd repeat the stories to my brothers, watching their eyes light up with curiosity."

Slowly, he drags his hand to my neck, his touch still barely above a graze, but feels like a searing brand. I let out a gasp and his fingers squeeze ever so slightly before releasing. It's almost like he wants to feel my vitality, to see how I'll react.

I feel a pulsing heat in my lower belly. He trails his fingers to my chin, the sensitive scraping eliciting a shiver in me, and tilts my head up.

My lips part on an exhale as my eyes finally meet his. Mesmerizing slate, rimmed with dark blue, the hue so imperceptible, it's almost black. They're the color of the turbulent skies. His brows are angry slashes on his forehead, completely at odds with the gentleness of his fingers. He looks furious at himself.

"It's why I'm a professor now." He swallows before his thumb lightly touches my bottom lip, like he's testing the texture. "It was her dream to become a tenured professor…and now, mine."

His last words are wistful, as though he can never live to see his dream come true. It makes no sense.

"Are you going for tenure?" I want to ask him more, but he distracts me by lightly caressing my lip once more.

"No, sometimes, dreams remain what they are…dreams. They'll never be reality. And I'm needed elsewhere." He scoffs, a low, rumbly sound drawing me closer. "These dreams are not for someone like me."

"Why?" I whisper.

His thumb is still on my lip and his gaze darkens as he drags his eyes up to meet mine. "Because my actions affect others. Because I can't be so selfish."

"It's not selfish to want something for yourself." I swallow. "You owe it to yourself to live for you. After all, we both know how short and unpredictable life can be."

His nostrils flare, and his thumb resumes the seductive motions against my lips. Teasing. Grazing. Dipping slightly, just the tip, into my mouth.

A bolt of heat travels to my core. A faint voice in the back of my mind says, this is wrong. But everything feels decidedly right.

The thick tension in the room changes nature and turns sultry, heady…or perhaps, the elements were there all along, simmering in the background and today is a match to the gasoline.

Tentatively, I close my lips around his thick digit and press a soft kiss on his thumb. The room swirls around me, this invisible dance of seduction making me drunk. My heart pounds against my rib cage.

"You're a fighter too, and I see you." My quiet words are uttered on an exhale, but they come straight from the burgeoning flames inside my chest.

His eyes dart to my lips, which are still parted, to the way his thumb is swiping the lower lip like it's the answer to his problems, the problems no one has ever seen.

Until now.

Kindred spirits. Kismet. Fate.

Our breaths mingle and seduce, and he leans in ever so slightly. His hand travels to the back of my neck, his fingers digging into the nape. My eyes flutter close.

Riiiing.

We jolt apart, the pulsing in my chest an earthquake within me. He pants heavily, his eyes fevered, darting around the office, shock making a late appearance. I clasp my hand over my heart. Everything feels so hot, so sensitive, so everything. I want more.

He strides back to the desk and picks up the phone. My body feels bereft without his heat and touch.

"Anderson here. Yes, I'll be at the meeting in half an hour." Professor Anderson stares at me as he speaks on the phone, his voice even and calm, completely at odds with the sharp intensity on his face.

Letting out a breath, I quickly pick up my things, my fingers trembling from the residual jittery energy. A sudden crash of pens on the wooden desk forces me to look at him again. He empties the mug he has been using as a penholder.

"If he has a problem, he can come to me himself," he replies while he walks around the desk and slowly kneels before me, his strong back muscles straining against his shirt and vest as he bends down to the floor.

I frown. What is he doing?

"I stand by my decision. There's no room for cheaters in my class." He deftly picks up the daffodils scattered across the floor and puts them in the mug, then he scoops up the larger chunks of potting soil and arranges them in the cup as well.

He's restoring my flowers for me.Fixing all the broken pieces. The thumping in my heart intensifies, no longer satisfied with running sprints, and is full on free-falling off the cliff.

He hands me the flowers and returns to his seat. I quickly make my escape, eager to leave this room, my insides churning with many tumultuous emotions and inappropriate feelings.

My body feels feverish. Scorching. Completely opposite from the chilled state I was in when I walked in here fifteen minutes ago.

I twist the doorknob, desperate to take a deep breath of fresh air, to make sense of the riot of sensations inside me right now.

"I'll write you a recommendation."

I turn around, finding him staring at me, his eyes dark and stern, still glittering with unsaid sentiments. His hand covers the receiver on his phone. He swallows, the Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

Wordlessly, I nod and offer a small smile.

He looks away, the icy mask of indifference slipping back on his face, as if the last fifteen minutes of interaction didn't happen at all.

I shut the door, leaning against the cool oak for support. Anything to help me regain my senses. Turning around, I look at the silver placard on the door. Professor Ryland Anderson.

"Ryland." I test out the name under my breath, the wings flapping wildly in my stomach and I realize I've never called him by his first name before.

A strong name. Just like him.

Ryland.