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CHAPTER ONE
BRIAR
My student is stalking me.
I knew I should’ve gone into book publishing. But no, I had to fall for this beautiful, brick campus and college life. For the promise of what an education and an MFA from somewhere like the Auburn Institute of Fine Arts in the heart of Maine could offer its students.
Now, a student with a hard-on is trailing me like a puppy.
For a stalker, he’s impossible to miss. While the other students slumped into class in sweats and hoodies, he strode in donning a crisp button-up and slacks, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his glorious forearms prominently on display. His classmates are all burnt-out twenty-somethings with Starbucks addictions, but he’s clearly older. At least early thirties.
He spent the entire class glowering at his laptop screen, his dark, thick brows furrowed and pouty lips pursed. During the two-hour lecture in which Dr. Barrett droned on about how much our students will be expected to read and write for this course, my gaze was continually drawn back to his dark eyes and chiseled jawline, mesmerized. I thought the most gorgeous manI’ve ever seen had barely even registered my existence at the front of the room, diligently and uncomfortably standing at Dr. Barrett’s side.
Apparently, I was wrong.
I stand my ground before I cross into the parking lot, shielding my eyes against the sun’s rays that somehow do little to warm the brisk September air. If he thinks he’s dragging me into his kidnapper van, he picked the wrong woman.
“Are you following me?” I speak loud enough that anyone passing by will hear. We’re on a university campus, for god’s sake. Does he really think no one’s going to witness him stalking me?
As he approaches, a lopsided smirk crawls across his lips. I mentally kick myself for not remembering his name. How the hell will Mack solve my murder if I can’t even text her the name of my kidnapper?
“I am following you,” he concedes. His low, rumbling baritone dances down my spine. My god, I’m getting turned on by a man’s voice. By the voice of a man who literally just admitted he’s stalking me. I seriously need to get laid. And run in the other direction. “But I’m only trying to be a gentleman.”
He holds out a thick tome with a black, minimalist cover and a distressed bookmark shoved inside. My copy ofThis Book Will Haunt Youby my favorite author, S.T. Nicholson. If my house was on fire, I would save my cat and then I would save this book.
I snatch it from his hands, face warming. I can’t believe I didn’t notice my bag was about five pounds lighter. If I had gotten home and realized my copy was missing, I literally would have cried. A first edition of S.T. Nicholson’s bestselling book, before he blew up and hit the New York Times Bestseller list. My reminder that I’ve been his biggest fan from the beginning.
I'm an idiot for actually believing my student would have any interest in following me around campus. Too many true crimedocumentaries for my caffeine-addled brain. Even if he wasn’t my student, what interest would a man like him have in me? I’m no slouch, but I’m woman enough to admit that a man like him would only settle for the Megan Foxes of the world. I can pull them when I want to, but my dry-shampoo hair and bare face are hardly a step up from my students’ pajamas and unbrushed hair.
A relieved breath escapes my chest as I squeeze the book close. “Oh my god, thank you!”
His lips spread into a genuine smile this time, flashing a glimpse of perfect, dazzling white teeth. But it’s his eyes that make my heart stutter—the coal-black irises glinting with renewed interest. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone display that much enthusiasm for a book.”
“This is my favorite book. By my favorite author.” I stuff it back into my bag before I lose it again.
He tilts his head in a way that makes me want to shove him and flee before I fall madly in love with him. If I was capable of that. “And what is it about this author that you like so much?”
I can’t remember the last time anyone asked me about my favorite books. Maybe Trevor. He actually had the audacity to ask to borrow my copy ofThis Book Will Haunt Youafter he saw me lugging it around campus. I told him he could buy it online or borrow it from the library like the rest of us. He hasn’t said a word to me about the book since, so I doubt he ever read it.
“So many things,” I admit, the words already bubbling up and eager to escape. “I’m on the edge of my seat from page one. He’s the master of writing a creepy Gothic setting, and all of his books are deliciously dark. He writes murder so vividly, I swear to god if I found out he was an actual murderer, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
My student quirks a dark brow and lets out a surprised laugh. A sound that brings a lump to my throat. “Wow. That’s quite the praise.”
“Oh, I’m nowhere near done.” I’m on a roll now. Once someone gets me talking about S.T. Nicholson, it’s impossible to get me to stop. “He writes in a way that makes me feel...understood. Like in a way no one else in the world ever has. Not even my mom or my best friend, and they basically know everything about me. I know it sounds crazy, and it’s probably just me projecting on a parasocial relationship, but S.T. Nicholson feels like a kindred spirit. Like if we met, we would just...get each other.”
Even though I’m babbling now, my student’s smile hasn’t faltered. I’m amazed his eyes aren’t darting around, seeking an excuse to get the hell away from me. In fact, he’s somehow totally enraptured by my fangirling over an author he’s never heard of.
“He wears a mask to all his book signings too. He’s so committed to his anonymity that he never takes it off because he wants readers to judge his books solely based on his words. And he writes the best smut I’ve ever read from a male author.”
Another stunned laugh. “A glowing recommendation if I’ve ever heard one.”
He doesn’t even talk like an MFA student. Where the hell did this guy come from? Possesses model good looks, rescues lost books, and actually listens to a woman when she’s speaking. Too bad I’m his professor—assistantprofessor—or I’d invite him back to my place for a wild, passionate one-night stand right now.
“Sorry, what was your name again?” I ask.
“Saint de Haas.” That smirk tells me he’s anything but a saint. He steps closer with the confidence of a man who always gets exactly what he wants. “Maybe you could tell me more about this author and his books over coffee sometime.”
Shit. He can’t be asking me out. I can’t say no to a face that’s practically begging me to sit on it.
