Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
It’s the same look I’ve been giving her for days—the one I have no business acting on, considering the circumstances.
“So…the essays?” she prompts, straightening her spine and crossing her arms over her chest.
“Yes,” I answer, clearing my throat. “I have them right here.” I nod toward the box on my desk and busy myself with a whole bunch of nothing on the bookshelf behind me. Normally, I would be a gentleman and hand them to her, but giving her a little privacy during the moment she discovers what’s inside the small box is a higher priority. I am definitely an asshole—but I’m not trying to upset her. I just have to see how long she’s willing to play it this way.
“Grading rubric is in there, too, by the way,” I add and silently count to ten in my head, hoping that’s more than enough time for Rachel to realize she can finally wave the white flag on her lies without any drama or a witness if she’ll just take them now.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
When I turn back around, though, the panties are still in play. Frankly, they’re in play in a big way.
With one hand, Rachel takes a pen off my desk, lifts her underwear out of the box, and drops them on top of a stack of papers beside my conference phone. The Post-it stays stuck to the delicate material until they reach their destination.
The entire time, she keeps her beautiful green eyes locked with mine.
The rush of adrenaline that floods my veins is nearly enough to knock me off my feet.
Goddamn, she is something else.
“Thank you, Professor,” she says, her voice confident and her chin raised high. “I appreciate you getting this together for me.”
“You’re welcome, Rachel,” I answer, not even trying to stop my smile. “Anything else you need? From me? From the office? Anything at all?”
“Nope.” She shakes her head, and a little tsk leaves her lips. “Pretty sure I have everything I need right here.” She lifts the box in her arms and smirks, one eyebrow climbing pointedly up her forehead.
“See you Monday, Professor,” she calls over her shoulder as she turns and exits the way she came, leaving me standing there with her panties on my desk and the kind of hard-on usually seen on pubescent boys or produced by little blue pills.
I grab it through my pants, squeezing at the base to cut off the blood supply and remind it of the rules.
This is a game—one I’ll let run its course because she’s a worthy opponent and a fascinating adversary.
But at the end of the day, that’s where it stops. Rachel Rose is off-limits, and when the panty tug-of-war ends, so will the rest of it.
I nod to myself.
Ty Winslow has finally found a line he won’t cross.
Right?
Friday, January 25th
Rachel
I’ve almost survived another full week of classes at NYU.
My master’s workload is certainly challenging, but it’s manageable. I feel like I’m fitting in enough shifts at Lydia and Lou’s bakery that I’m actually helping them out, and I’m not exactly minding sitting through Professor Winslow’s classes.
He is an entertaining guy. Kind of an asshole at times, but I think that’s what makes it interesting.
And I’ve only had to experience my panties appearing once this week. Before Tuesday’s ENG 101 class, he asked me to run out to his car and grab something he needed for class, and when I got there, surprise, surprise, my underwear was nicely folded up in his back seat, the Post-it note still present.
However, even that little note is starting to show the wear of this silent game we’re playing. Its edges are wrinkled, and the sticky adhesive is hanging on for dear life. The physical display of my persistence made me smile.
Obviously, I didn’t take them. If he wants to drive around with women’s underwear in his back seat, that’s his problem. Not mine.
While the ENG 101 students finish getting settled into their seats, I steal a quick glance at my phone. First, my calendar, noting what grad work I need to get done tonight after pulling a few hours at the bakery.
Next, I move to my messages, where one from my overprotective sister sits front and center.
Lydia: Are you sure you want to pick up a shift this evening?
She’s always asking me this question.
Me: Positive. I’ll pull the 6-9 shift so you and Lou can go grab dinner or something.
Lydia: That’s really sweet of you, Rae. Are you sure?
Me: Yes. And I won’t take no for an answer.
Truthfully, I could use those three hours to get grad schoolwork done, but Lydia and Lou are doing so much for me. I want to make sure I’m showing my thanks in some way, even if it means I have to occasionally burn the midnight oil. They’ve put so much effort into keeping their bakery open for after-office hours, working sixteen hours most days for years, I’m glad to be able to take away some of the burden.