Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“I...” My mouth has gone completely dry. “The power dynamics are...interesting from a psychological perspective.”
“The power dynamics,” he repeats, and the way his mouth curves around the words makes something in my stomach clench. “You mean the way he corners her? The way he makes her admit what she wants?”
I should maintain professional distance. Should remember that this man is my student’s brother, that we’re in my office, that everything about this situation crosses approximately seventeen ethical boundaries.
“Mr. Steele—”
“Patrizio,” he corrects, and somehow his first name feels even more dangerous than ‘darling’ did.
“Mr. Steele,” I repeat firmly, “I think we’re getting off track. You came here with concerns about Annie’s academic work.”
“And I’ve discovered something far more interesting.” He finally steps back, giving me room to breathe, but somehow that’s almost worse. “You’re exactly like the women in my sister’s case studies. Brilliant, controlled, and desperate for someone to see through the facade.”
“That’s not—”
“Isn’t it?” He tucks my Kindle into his jacket pocket, and I’m too stunned to protest. “I think we both know it is.”
“Give me back my Kindle.” I find my voice, fueled by indignation and the absolute certainty that I cannot let him leave with evidence of my reading habits.
“I will.” His smile is all predatory satisfaction. “When you’re ready to have an honest conversation about what you really want.”
“What I want is for you to leave my office. Now.”
“As you wish, Dr. Stuart.” He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “I’ll be back tomorrow. We have more to discuss about Annie’s academic future.”
And then he’s gone, taking my Kindle—and with it, any pretense that I’m just a serious academic with purely professional interests—with him.
I sink into my chair, heart racing, face burning, and the horrible certainty that Patrizio Steele has seen straight through every defense I’ve ever constructed.
All because I couldn’t resist reading one more chapter about fictional motorcycle club presidents and the women who love them.
Only Patrizio Steele isn’t fictional. And based on the way my body responded to his presence, my attraction to his type is dangerously real.
Rule #2: Don’t let him see what you really read.
HE HAS MY KINDLE.
The thought jolts me awake at 3:17 AM, heart pounding like I’ve just realized I’ve left a toddler at the grocery store rather than an electronic device in the hands of my student’s terrifyingly attractive brother.
Except it’s worse than just leaving my Kindle. Because my Kindle contains my entire reading history.
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.”