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He knocked on the door but didn’t open it. I swallowed roughly and looked around, not exactly sure what I was searching for.
“Grace?” His voice was deep and clear, coming through the door and having my body reacting instantly.
I shivered and cleared my throat, telling myself to grow up and get myself under control.
“Come in.” My voice was high-pitched, and I cleared my throat again. He pushed the door open, and I swore time stood still.
Of course, he was put together and looking sexy as hell. He wore a pair of dark slacks and a white button-down dress shirt tucked into the waistband of his pants. His dark belt was cinched around his waist, showing how lean he was yet muscular at the same time. His shirt was formfitting enough that I could see the outline of his biceps, even the definition of his pectoral muscles.
God, he looked incredible, and I probably looked like I’d crawled out of a grave.
For a second we just stood there, neither one of us speaking, the awkwardness strong within me. I had to give him credit; he didn’t look at me like I was insane wrapped up in a blanket.
I tightened my hands on the blanket, pulling the material around me even more. “I woke up with no pants on,” I blurted out. It wasn’t an accusation, more out of curiosity on what the hell had happened.
He lifted a dark brow, and the corner of his mouth kicked up. “You were fully clothed when I put you to bed.”
I felt my cheeks heat after he spoke. I looked around the room again, my gaze darting to the floor. And then I finally saw my pants tossed in the corner in a heap of material.
“Do you always shed certain pieces of clothing when you’ve been drinking?” There was amusement in his voice.
My face was on fire, and I glanced at him but quickly looked at the floor, humiliated. “Apparently.”
He didn’t say anything for long moments, and when I looked back at him, his face was stoic once more. “Well, if you get dressed and come into the kitchen, I’ll make you some breakfast.”
The very thought of eating turned my stomach, but he looked like he was unwilling to budge on this.
I nodded once, feeling his gaze on me even though I wasn’t looking at him. After a moment I heard him leave, shutting the door behind him. I exhaled slowly.
I didn’t know what in the hell I’d gotten myself into, but this was quite possibly the worst situation I’d ever been in, not to mention highly inappropriate.
He was my professor. I was his student.
But then again, I was also in love with him.
10
Grace
Twenty minutes later I was dressed, had found the bathroom and washed my face, rinsed out my mouth, and attempted to finger comb my hair into a semblance of control.
I made my way into the kitchen, the sound of dishes clanging together seeming overly loud for my hungover state.
I rounded the corner and stopped when I saw him standing by the stove. He had his shirtsleeves pushed up, his toned, tanned forearms on display. I clenched my thighs together as desire pooled between them.
Rubbing my hands down my legs, I felt so nervous, so awkward, and definitely out of place. As if he sensed me, he looked over his shoulder and smiled.
“Have a seat, Grace.”
The way he said my name, all deep and husky-like, shouldn’t have had me instantly aroused.
I pulled the chair out, the feet scraping along the floor, causing me to wince at how awkwardly loud it was. I sat and looked at the spread.
The table was set for two, with a bowl of fresh fruit in the center, a carafe of orange juice beside it, an empty coffee mug in front of me, a full one at the other place setting, and a gleaming silver fork placed on a pristine white linen napkin to my left.
This all seemed so … domestic.
“Professor Goode, I want to apologize. This is really embarrassing for me—”
“Call me Lucian.” He turned from the stove and walked over to me, holding a frying pan in one hand and a wooden spatula in the other. He scooped out the omelet and set it on the plate in front of me. I watched as he moved back to the stove and made another one.
For long minutes I just sat there, not sure how to act.
I swallowed, my throat so dry, my stomach tightening. I really wasn’t hungry, yet when I looked up at him, about to say that, the expression he gave me had me keeping that thought to myself.
He looked stern, as if he dared me to tell him I wasn’t eating.
Once he had his omelet plated and the pan back on the stove, he grabbed a glass from the cupboard. He filled it with water, came back to the table, and set the glass in front of me. My throat was so dry.
