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At least this class isn’t for the transcript. It’s the one thing I signed up for because I wanted a creative escape, full stop. When I walk in June, I’m taking the little bit of money she left me to backpack in Europe. I plan to visit every place she circled in her travel diary and never got to see.

Then I’ll go to law school, if it still wants me.

I walk in the back door. Fuck. The room’s packed. There’s only one seat open and because the universe never takes pity on me, it’s next to a guy with longish, silvery hair.

Ugh. Just what I need. Some blow-hard would-be poet.

As I approach, it’s confirmed he’s definitely not sad-professor older. More like silver-fox romance-novel dude. The gray is threaded through dirty-blond hair, which is shoved off his face like he lost a fight with a comb. Gray-dabbled stubble surrounds full lips. He glances up briefly giving me a glimpse of sea-blue eyes. Hmmm…

Hey there, Daddy.

Sliding in next to him, I give him a better look. He wears a soft henley pushed to the elbows, and his forearms are all corded muscle and ink. His big hands sport a few silver rings, though there’s nothing on his left ring finger. He smells like fresh linen.

He’s kind of yummy, if I’m honest. I swear he looks familiar, but I can’t place him.

Maybe it’s time to date mega-older. Every guy who makes it past the third date treats me like cracked glass. Like they’re afraid my bouts of well-deserved sadness might rub off on them. I bet a guy with experience would understand.

I’ve never been attracted to a man this old before, but it could be a good distraction, considering I’m not looking for anything serious. All I want is someone who’s good at sex and won’t need me to show him where my goddamn clit is.

A fuck buddy.

This one looks like he was built in a lab for the job.

I lean over before the responsible part of me can object. “The parking situation out there was giving Hunger Games.”

He doesn’t react right away. When he looks over, his expression is lazy and sensual and drags across my face before fixing on my eyes.

“You survived. Congratulations.” His voice is deep, throaty. Sends shivers to my private parts.

Annnnndddd, I’m wet.

“Barely. Had to trade a freshman to get here.” I bat my eyes dramatically, trying not to squirm in my seat.

“Cold.” The corner of his mouth moves.

Inexplicably, I lightly touch his wrist. “Survival is cold.”

Who the heck am I?

The spell is broken when Professor Halvorsen launches into the syllabus. I retain none of it, because the hot man next to me murmurs wry observations out the side of his mouth. Low enough so that nobody but me catches them, forcing me to keep swallowing a laugh as we flick our glances back and forth between each other and the front of the room.

When she calls the class “a brave space,” he says without moving his lips, “So brave,” and I nearly break apart.

Hot daddy isn’t fueling the flirt fire with me so much as humoring himself. I get the impression he thinks it’s cute for me to be a little gaga over him. Like he’s used to the attention and enjoys the game. Plays it well.

This guy is way outta my league.

Ten minutes before the end of class, Halvorsen drops a real bomb. One assignment will be worth the whole grade. Each of us is expected to write a biography. Not our own. A partner’s. We’ll interview them all term, find an interesting story they don’t expect and present it to the room the last week of class.

Suddenly, people start pairing off with the friends they walked in with. I look over at hot daddy who seems to be lost in thought. He’s not bothered about finding a partner. He seems like the kind of cool guy who’ll let the whole room sort itself out and then figure out a way to work alone.

Fuck it. I don’t know anyone else in this class.

“Partner?” It’s out before the smart part of my brain can file an objection.

Unhurried, he turns his head and glances at me like he’s weighing something a lot bigger than a group project.

Then, with a wide smile, he holds out his hand. “Beau.”