Page 25 of I Want to Know What Love Is

It’s those lapses that are well worth remembering. My mind wanders there while my eyes wander back to her nipples. She stops talking and I venture a look at her face. She wears an expectant expression, so I rattle off the answer. She opens her mouth but doesn’t speak for a second, then squints her eyes at me.

“You knew the answer the whole time, didn’t you?”

I nod and smirk because it’s who I am.

She slams her palm down.

“Then what the hell are we doing here?”

“I suspect I’ll need help with the last part of the semester.” It’s true. “I missed the sections on the DuPont equation and the AFN—additional funds needed—equation.” Her examination of me makes me feel like a pinned butterfly when I’d rather feel like a slab of juicy steak to her, if I’m honest. Her brows furrow like she’s puzzled.

“Explain why Coach Radz felt a need to ask—no assign—me to tutor you in finance as if you were in danger of flunking off the team?” I keep my eyes off the nipples showing clearly through her T-shirt so I can answer her. Hell, I’m lucky if I can speak at all. I clear my throat and concentrate on her face. Her gorgeous face, soft and strong and sexy and determined.

“I got a D- in finance last semester because I missed two weeks of class just before the finals and couldn’t finish my part of the group project. Unfortunately for me the rest of students in the group were all seniors and insisted they couldn’t take an incomplete because they were all starting big jobs.”

“Didn’t you appeal the decision? Seems harsh.” I appreciate the fact that she didn’t ask me why I missed two weeks. It was my grandfather’s funeral. I clear my throat and move on.

“I did appeal. Dean Lassiter turned me down. He refused to allow an incomplete but he said I could repeat the class. Coach Radz was on board with that option. So here I am. I need to get a B+ or better.” I don’t mention Lassiter’s recent threat about my scholarship because it seems a step too far into TMI territory. My grades are one thing, but my family’s money problem is a whole other stratosphere of intimacy.

“Bad deal. Not surprised. I’ve met Dean Lassiter. Harsh guy. Good at his job though. But I got the feeling he doesn’t like me.”

“I get the same feeling from him.” I know exactly why, but I’m not explaining that to her.

She shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t like jocks. I’ve seen it before. He’s small and skinny, probably has a pencil dick and got bullied by jocks as a kid. Now he’s in a position for full-frontal payback.” I snicker at the pencil dick reference because I can’t say I haven’t speculated the same thing.

“Full frontal?” I shouldn’t call her on her use of that particular phrase as an adjective, but the trouble-maker in me doesn’t quit. Like everything else in me. Especially my dick which is far from a pencil right now—more like a sausage—imagining her full-frontal right now and perking up to its full jumbo size.

She rolls her eyes, glances down at in the direction of my crotch and says, “Keep it down. Don’t make me regret being honest. I shouldn’t disparage a fellow staff member, but for some god-only-knows-why reason I think you’re trustworthy.”

“For sure I’m no gossip.” As far as the rest of what being trustworthy is about, I should warn her not to trust me because I’m having a hard time. Pun intended. We go over a few more examples and she keeps nodding as I rattle off the correct answers.

“Maybe you don’t need a tutor after all,” she says. I shrug as my gut sinks because I want her to tutor me more than I want to throw a record-breaking seven-touchdown game right now.

“I’m not sure if Coach Radz has the same faith in me as you do. Besides, I want to get an A, not a B+, in this class to make a statement to Dean Lassiter.”

“That statement being fuck you?” She allows a stingy lift of one corner of her mouth. My heart goes boom, pounds hard and crazy for a second, before I get control and calm it the fuck down.

“Then I guess we’ll pick up where we left off next week.” Damn, does everything she say have a double-dirty meaning or is it me? I pick up my tablet and slide it into my backpack.

Then I remember.

“I can’t make Monday night next week. Can we reschedule to another night?”

“I’ll check my calendar.” She flips out her phone and scrolls through some screens, taking her damn time and I wonder if she’s toying with me or if she really is super busy with a crazy-ass complicated schedule. “Yes. Tuesday. Eight p.m. Here.” She looks up at me. “If that works for you.”

“Absolutely.” I have no idea if it does, but I’ll make it work.

“What happened to next Monday?” She surprises me with the question and I don’t have a ready answer, so I shrug. She arches her brow and folds her arms across her magnificent chest, as punishment, I imagine, because I’d bet my right nut she knows I’ve been copping stares at her nipples the whole time.

“I have a dinner meeting with an alumnus next Monday.” When in doubt, the truth wins. Besides, what’s the big deal? It’s business as usual as far as she knows. She doesn’t have to know it’s about money.

“You got money problems?”

Fuck. I’m not slick enough or quick enough to stop my jaw from dropping at her read.

“No. It’s not like that.”

“You’re not much of a liar. But I consider that a good thing.” There’s a heat in my belly that runs up into my chest because her approval for any reason surprises me and sends way too many heady vibes racing through my body and my mind. Not good. It doesn’t matter much what she thinks of me. Or it shouldn’t.