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I take a step back, forcing myself away from the radiating warmth and allure of this stalker-turned-altruist. “Actually, as your professor, we should keep our interactions limited to the classroom.”
Even if he wasn’t my student, I wouldn’t agree to a date. I have no interest in men beyond sex, so there’s no point in getting to know each other. I swore off relationships a long time ago, and even a man this gorgeous and charming can’t sway me.
“I hardly think your job will be at risk over an innocent coffee and a public conversation.” Oh great. A man who doesn’t like to take no for an answer. He steps toward me again, a devilish smirk twisting his lips that weaves my stomach into a knot. “Unless you’re concerned about what you may want to do together in public.”
I choke on my own saliva for a second before squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin. “No concerns at all. I just hate coffee.” That is, I hate the absolute chokehold it has on me. I can’t make it out the door without downing two cups of the nectar of the gods. “Any conversations you’d like to have with me can happen in the classroom.”
Saint nods, taking the rejection shockingly well for a man who’s likely never been rejected in his life. A man probably born into wealth, handed everything he’s ever wanted as the singular male heir to some old-money fortune. A man with the kind of leisurely life that allows him to drop tens of thousands of dollars on one of the most expensive MFA programs in the country and still not pay attention in class. A man I have exactly nothing in common with other than a concern for books left behind by their forgetful owners.
“Very well. See you in class then, Briar.”
My spine stiffens. “It’s Miss Shea—I mean, Dr. Shea.” Even with a PhD I’ve worked nine years for under my belt, the title still doesn’t feel right.
He flashes that frustratingly beautiful smile. “Dr. Shea,” he corrects, dipping his head like someone pulled him straight out of a freaking Regency novel.
When he turns and heads in the opposite direction, I beeline for my car, certain I’m crimson at the sultry wayDr. Shealeft his mouth.
That gorgeous, perfect, erotic mouth.
I freeze with my key fob out and swing my gaze back over my shoulder. But he’s disappeared into the crowd of students and faculty ambling across campus.
I never told him my first name.
CHAPTER TWO
SAINT
Some writers askGoogle how to kill their characters. I, however, possess hands-on experience.
Too bad my research is doing me little good now.
No matter how long I stare at this wretched screen, no matter how many walks I take or books I read, desperate for inspiration, the words never come. The word processor before me remains blank.
The professor running this godforsaken fiction writing class is entirely full of shit. Every bit of “wisdom” he spouts is pulled straight from his ass. Not a single mention of prose or character arcs or story structure in his five-page syllabus. Worse, all twelve of us in this room know he’s going to brush off the entire instruction of this course onto his assistant professor.
Briar Shea wants to fuck me. Why else would she be showing off her amazing tits in that low-cut top and wearing that suck-you-off red lipstick? Her long, mahogany hair falls down to her waist in loose spirals, big blue eyes framed with thick lashes, top cinched in at the waist, barely meeting her dark slacks and riding up to show off a sliver of her soft belly. I want to nip myway across, chin scraping the waistband of her slacks as my lips brush her soft skin from one hip bone to the other.
Before I swiped her favorite book from her bag and gallantly returned it, she came to class in shredded jeans and a frumpy top that didn’t do her an ounce of justice.
No, my biggest fan has a body that deserves to be immortalized in fiction.
She’s not wearing that outfit to entice the professor, that's for damn sure. She grimaces every time she catches his gaze lingering on her. Every time he makes some flimsy excuse to touch her.
Each brush of his skin against hers makes me want to pluck his eyes from his head before I set him on fire.
No. I can’t afford to get embroiled in her life. I’m here to write a book. This renowned MFA program is my last attempt at getting another manuscript in my agent’s waiting hands.
Admittedly, Briar is the reason I chose the Auburn Institute. Her five-star reviews dominate the retailer pages for every one of my books, all of them claiming the title of S.T. Nicholson’s biggest fan.
I tracked her reviews to a social media profile, where she’d been leaving flirtatious comments on my assistant-run account along with half of my audience. My readers are primarily women with a passion for books and masked men, and Briar is no exception.
From there, it was almost horrifyingly easy to discover where she lives and works. How convenient—my biggest fan a newly minted assistant professor at a prestigious creative writing MFA program, exactly the sort of program I hope will give me the inspiration I need to write more words.
Listening to her evangelize about my work nearly had me collapsing to my knees before her. Hers were the first positivewords to break through the cacophony of negativity consuming my brain since I read the notorious review five months ago.
My fingers move on autopilot across my keyboard, pulling up the review I’ve bookmarked for convenient self-immolation.
A scathing one-star assessment in which the reviewer laments his inability to assign zero stars to my book.
