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My rag stills on the counter, and I look up at Sam. “Who’s here?”
Her blue eyes are wide, lips pressed together, as if barely able to contain her excitement. She’s still clutching my wrist, completely mute, which is a first for her.
A sick sort of feeling gathers in my stomach. I have a feeling I know who he is, given her reaction and the fact that I’ve just seen him in the lecture hall a half hour prior. To confirm my theory, I peek over the silver-plated espresso machine in front of me.
Then I suck in a sharp gasp, immediately wishing I hadn’t.
Chapter 5
Hungry Like the Wolf
Evan Kohl is sitting at one of the round wooden tables in the coffee shop where I work. He stands out like a timber wolf in a herd of sheep, relaxed and easy in his dark-gray, tailored suit and expensive shoes. On campus, the normal dress code is strictly California casual. This guy looks anything but casual. He is all class and sophistication, and I can’t pull my gaze away.
He looks up from his fancy phone and his gaze collides with mine, just as it had in the lecture hall. Like a coward, I immediately duck behind the espresso machine, like it’s a shield. Then I squeeze my eyes shut. The awkward situation in the lecture hall has just multiplied times ten.
Sam hauls me up by the elbow. “What the hell are you doing? Go talk to him. He’s obviously here for you.”
I roll my eyes. Sam has no idea he’d just been leading my seminar lecture. Had he followed me over here? Or was it just a weird coincidence—again?
“He’s not here for me. He’s probably here to meet with one of the professors…or something.”
Faculty have coffee meetings here all the time. It’s a regular occurrence. He’s probably here to discuss his presentation or funding for a research project or anything besides what Sam is thinking.
“Uh-huh. That’s why he’s staring at you like a hungry wolf.”
I scrunch my nose, mildly alarmed by her picking up an illusion that had just occurred to me, too. “A wolf, really?”
“What?” Her strawberry brow twitches. “Wolves are sexy.”
“They’re also predatory. They rip flesh from bone with their bare teeth. The last thing I need in my life is a hungry anything.” I push out a breath. “Can we just drop it? He isn’t here for me.”
She has a million questions written on her face, but she seems afraid of pushing me too far. She opens her mouth and then shuts it again.
“Yeah, sure…whatever.”
For thirty minutes, I tell myself he isn’t there anymore. He isn’t staring at me as I make coffee, watching my every move. My skin prickles with the thought of his eyes on me and my body flushes with the memory of his arm around me, holding me to him. Of him pushing his thumb into my mouth. Of that look in his eyes and that command. I want you on your knees. Despite myself, the memory of that encounter makes me ache. And every time that thought flashes into my mind, I force it out again by thinking of a difficult equation to block out everything else.
Finally, when I can’t take it any longer, I turn to Sam. “Will you go over there and ask him what he wants?”
By now it’s clear he’s not here to meet anyone. He hasn’t even ordered coffee. He is just staring, patiently waiting. For what, I don’t know.
She beams. “Sure.”
She walks over to him confidently, her long, slender legs peeking out from beneath her shorts and apron. She lowers herself onto the seat next to him and plasters on a flirty smile. When she bites her lip and flicks her red-golden hair twice, three times, I know she’s crushing on him. And why wouldn’t she? He is beautiful. I try not to notice how his suit jacket stretches across his broad chest, or how perfectly his hair is combed back from his angular face.
I go about my business wiping down the counter as they talk, trying to look casual and unaffected—all the while cataloging every gesture and facial expression. The wait is agonizing. I’m desperate to know what he wants and why he is here.
A few minutes later, Sam returns with a huge grin on her face.
“Well? What does he want?” I ask.
Her eyes light up. “He wants a double cappuccino.” She taps me on the nose. “And you.”
The breath sucks out of me at that little tidbit. Me? No way. I told him I wasn’t going to be a mistress—and I made it very clear how insulting I’d found it—and him. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll sue him for harassment or something, and he’s here to buy my silence. Rich guys do that. They shove money at everything, or withhold it like a parent with a forbidden toy. A tool of control. I should know about that, all too well.
“Fine, get him the cappuccino, but tell him I’m not for sale.”
Leaning against the counter, she flashes me a grin. “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
