Page 217 of The Professor's Wife

“Do you mind?” he suddenly asked, redirecting my attention to him.

I felt a zap of satisfaction that he was talking to me. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth and had raised the lighter at me in question.

“I do, actually,” I said, thinking briefly of the cancer that stole my mother. More importantly, I didn’t want Oliver’s favorite dress to smell like cigarette smoke and then to be lectured about it for hours like it was my fault.

He stilled, brows shooting up in surprise.

Then, to my own surprise, he lit his cigarette anyway.

My mouth fell open, and annoyance flared through me. “Wow,” I muttered.

“Bet you’re not used to that,” he returned, giving me a lopsided smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Not used to people doing what they want even when they ask if it’s all right? Well, usually people are a lot more considerate.”

He snorted softly. “Yeah. People like to stay on your good side.”

“Why would anyone want to stay on my good side?”

He flicked his gaze over me, slow and unreadable. “Look at you.”

Even though I knew what he meant, I glanced down at myself. “What am I looking at specifically?”

“You’re…kept.”

That felt like a rough word. Not an insult, but not quite a compliment, either.

“I like to dress well.”

He took a drag, jaw flexing. “Men probably trip over themselves around you.”

“Do they?”

His angry eyes met mine. “You’re so beautiful, it fucking hurts looking at you.”

He definitely said that in an insulting way, but heat licked my skin. My cheeks burned, and my heart was racing. I no longer felt tired. Woken up by this man’s crazy words, I glanced quickly at Oliver once more before replying.

“You don’t know anything about me. Just because you’re sad and angry at the world because your heart got broken and you sing about it to anyone who will listen doesn’t mean you can pretend to have me figured out, either.”

He looked away from me first, the movement fast, like I’d physically slapped him with my words. I should have liked that, but I didn’t.

I took this moment to look him over. Broad-shouldered, his arms were thick, his biceps straining. I looked back at his hands, his fingers long, the nails clipped short and neat.

A sudden vision of his hands on my body swept through me. One hand twisted into my hair, the other spanning my breast as his mouth crushed mine—

He took one more drag, then abruptly crushed the cigarette against the garden bed wall.

If that was his way of apologizing, he didn’t confirm it with words, but his eyes swung my way again. My heart spiked as our eyes connected.

I looked away from him, bouncing from foot to foot now, aroused by the strange images firing through me. I could practically taste his mouth, the thoughts were so vivid. Despite my cloudy head, the air began to clear. I could smell only the food from the restaurant and his mild cologne drifting my way.

I should have left him alone, but I was so hyperaware of this man, it actually hurt not to look at him. I didn’t recognize myself or understand why I was still standing there, hanging on to his presence and hoping for him to speak to me.

He wasn’t nice.

He wasn’t trying to be charming.

He was mean to me. Calling me pampered like he knew anything about me, but I hadn’t responded any better.