Page 35 of The Professor's Wife

“Of course.”

I yawned. “I’m exhausted. I probably look like roadkill.”

“No, Daisy. Roadkill is looking after twenty three-year-olds and still coming home with glitter in places glitter should never be.” She gave me a thoughtful once-over. “You’re still the most beautiful girl I know.”

I pulled an ugly face at her, and she laughed into her hand so she wouldn’t wake Rowe.

Then her expression softened. “I’m serious. Don’t push yourself too hard, Daisy. You’ll spiral.”

“I’m not trying to.” I looked down at Rowe, tracing the round curve of his cheek. “I just want him to have that race-car bed.”

“He loves sleeping with you.”

“He’s getting too big.”

“He’s really not.”

June rested her head against my shoulder, and we caught up on the ridiculous romance show we had missed, whispering terrible predictions about who would sleep with whom next.

I almost told her about Professor Black.

But that would have been getting ahead of myself. It had only been coffee. A few ordinary questions about my classes, Rowe, and the life I was trying to build.

Still, long after the show ended, I kept thinking about the way he had looked at me.

Like there was something about me that drew his attention.

The memory made me lightheaded all over again.

CHAPTER SIX

It was early morning when I hung my dress and bra over the bathroom rail. Then I cleaned myself up as best as I could without a change of clothes.

There was a bar of soap in its box, though it came out looking and feeling like chalk. A little towel had been folded and left ready for use, but it was hardly longer than my arm. I didn’t mind. Something about its rough, gritty texture brought me back to my younger years, and that comforted me in a way I hadn’t expected.

I stepped into the shower and gave my body a quick wash. The water was cool, and the showerhead was decent. My hair was up in a bun, but it still got soaked.

Rest in peace, straight hair.

It was going to curl and frizz, and I wouldn’t look half as put-together as I had last night.

I washed my face, closing my eyes as the water ran over my heated cheeks.

When I stepped out, I blinked at myself in the mirror. My cheeks were pink. My lips were red and raw. There was a glow in my eyes that I didn’t recognize.

I stared at myself for some time, trying to recognize the woman I’d been. The woman I was running from. But this morning, my chest wasn’t tight. I wasn’t breathing through a straw. I expected a backlash. A wave of regret. Something ugly to destroy the euphoria of the past few hours.

But nothing came.

That was when I knew what I’d done was right.

It hadn’t been logical, maybe not even safe by many people’s standards, but…it felt right.

Had I stayed in that house, surrounded by swirling, toxic emotions, I might have drowned.

I dried myself with the tiny towel, then pulled the same dress back over my damp skin. The bra stayed hanging over the rail. I couldn’t bear the thought of wrestling it back on.

I opened the bathroom door quietly and leaned against the frame, my gaze landing on the form sprawled across the duvet—naked and dead asleep.