4

“You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced mind-blowing sex,” Professor Hilversum said, his deep voice rumbling in a way that sent a shiver down my spine.

I leaned in slightly, drawn to the sound. “Then I guess I haven’t lived,” I replied, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably. The words felt heavier than I intended, especially as I shifted a fraction closer to him. Close enough to catch the faint flecks of gold in his eyes and notice the small patch of stubble where he’d missed shaving. Without thinking, my fingers brushed over it lightly.

His body froze at my touch, and the realization of what I’d done hit me like a freight train. I jerked my hand back as if I’d been burned, my face heating like molten lava.

“It’s a shame,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It would be my pleasure to change that, but, unfortunately, it’s strictly forbidden.”

“Too bad,” I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. My pulse raced as I forced myself to hold his gaze. “I’m sure you’re an exceptional teacher… in every sense.”

His lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Oh, I am,” he said smoothly, brushing a strand of hair off my shoulder. His thumb lingered for just a moment, grazing the edge of my shirt at the curve of my neck. “And having you in my class is going to be torture. Knowing I’ve said all this, that it can never go beyond this room… it’s going to haunt me tonight. Thinking of you.”

Arrogant. Overconfident. And yet, impossibly alluring. What did it say about me that I found his words maddeningly intoxicating?

“I have to go,” I managed to say, my voice shaking slightly. Turning away from him felt like trying to escape a magnetic pull, but I forced myself to do it. My footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as my mind replayed his words.

Holy hell. Professor Hilversum had just hinted—no, outright implied—that he wanted me. Me. And as much as the thought sent my pulse skittering, it was impossible. Completely off-limits. Relationships between professors and students weren’t just frowned upon; they were strictly prohibited.

I fanned my heated face as I made my way to my next class, where Professor Timothy’s sharp features and captivating lectures awaited. Concentrating was nearly impossible, though. My mind kept drifting back to Hilversum’s words, his smirk, the way he’d brushed his fingers against my skin. By the time I clocked in for my shift at the coffee shop, my brain felt like mush.

Silvy, my coworker and friend, took one look at me and handed over an iced coffee swirled with mocha. “What happened to you?” she teased, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “You’re all flushed. Don’t tell me you just had a… moment?”

“What? No!” I sputtered, nearly choking on my first sip.

Silvy raised an eyebrow, leaning on the counter. “Uh-huh. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you just hooked up with someone.”

“Silvy!” My cheeks burned even hotter as I reached for a towel to wipe up the bit of coffee I’d spilled.

She grinned mischievously. “Okay, fine. But seriously, what’s got you all wound up?”

I considered telling her about Hilversum, but the thought of saying it out loud made it feel too real. And maybe I’d misread the whole situation. Surely, I was overthinking it.

Before I could answer, she handed me a can of whipped cream and a paper cup. “Here. Watch this. I’m going to start making pup cups for you to take home to Falcon.”

“Falcon can’t have whipped cream,” I pointed out, my lips twitching at her enthusiasm. “It messes with his stomach.”

The words barely left my mouth before the canister sputtered and hissed, spraying whipped cream in every direction. Silvy squealed as white foam splattered across her head, arms, and the counter.

I doubled over laughing, tears streaming as my sides ached. Silvy always had a way of lightening even the most chaotic days.

The door chime rang, and I straightened, still catching my breath. My laughter faded as I took in the figure that entered—a man with broad shoulders, muscular calves visible beneath athletic shorts, and a sweat-dampened T-shirt clinging to his chest.

Silvy let out a low whistle, completely unbothered by subtlety.

As my gaze traveled upward, I finally saw his face—a chiseled jawline with a touch of scruff, sharp cheekbones, and gray streaks at his temples that gave him an air of rugged distinction. He looked like he’d stepped out of a movie scene.

“I’m looking for Becca ,” he said, his deep voice commanding attention.

Silvy nudged me with her elbow. “You’re one lucky woman,” she whispered, grinning.

“I’m Becca ,” I said, stepping forward. My heart nearly stopped when I saw what—or rather, who—he was holding. “Falcon?”

My tiny Pomeranian dangled in the man’s strong hands, his little legs swinging lazily. Falcon, my usually energetic furball, looked perfectly content being cradled by a stranger.

The man’s intense gaze met mine as he explained, “I found him wandering the neighborhood. I called the number on his tag, but it went to voicemail. So, I took him to the vet and had his microchip scanned. This address was on file.”

I froze, my mind spinning. It had seemed like a good idea at the time to list the coffee shop’s address on Falcon’s chip instead of my home. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

Silvy, ever the instigator, gave me another nudge. “Say thank you,” she whispered, practically shoving me forward.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper as I took Falcon into my arms. But even as I held my dog close, my eyes kept darting to the man who’d brought him back.

Who was he?