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“What are you thinking?”
I lift my gaze and lower the mug back to the tray. I force myself to keep eye contact with him. “Earlier today, I was missing my mom.”
He winces.
“And now I’m thinking about my parents again.”
“In what way?”
“I just…” Okay, eye contact is a little too hard when I’m trying to be honest. I fiddle with the hem of the robe. “My dad is in prison. Mom died while I was… wherever I was.”
He takes my hand. “And…”
“I hope I had a good childhood, but I have a feeling I didn’t.”
Gut instinct.
And by the way his hand tightens on mine, I think I’m right.
“Close your eyes.”
I watch him for a moment, but then I do. He gets up, and there’s rustling, and then a cold breeze sweeps into the room. I shiver, goosebumps appearing on the backs of my arms, and I fight to keep from hugging myself.
“Open,” he says softly, right in front of me. “Think of a snowstorm. Of me.”
I part my lips, and the rim of the mug touches my mouth. He has me drink just a sip, barely a taste, and I try to think of that. I imagine a blizzard, the aching coldness of snow. Jacob smirking at me. There’s the squirt of the whipped cream can. It bursts across my tongue, my lips, getting flecks everywhere.
He’s kissing me before I can process it. Licking away the whipped cream.
“What else is there about you, songbird?” he asks in a throaty whisper.
Something cracks.
“Why do you call me that?”
I know I’ve asked. I open my eyes and stare at him. Before he can say anything, I’m answering myself.
“‘Your voice is a wet dream personified.’” I cover my mouth. That didn’t come from me. I didn’t make that up.
He smiles. “In your lectures, it made me want to stab every other guy in the room in the ears.”
I hear him say it now, but I hear him say it then, too. Sitting in his house.Cold. A mug of hot chocolate in my hands, cradled close as I… as I what? Contemplated doing something with my student?
“Songbird,” Jacob says softly, moving to kneel in front of me. His hands rub my knees, up the outside of my thighs. “Talk to me.”
It was wrong of me then, and it feels wrong of me now.
The situation is so different, so abstract, I can’t wrap my brain around it. But I have to face what past-me has done so I can move on. Because I—
“Did I groom you?”
He scowls. “I was twenty-one, Melody. I pursued you.”
I laugh. “Yeah, right. There’s still the power imbalance.”
“The first time we spoke alone, I asked if you’d get on your knees. And you slapped me.”
My face heats, but I’m nodding. I can understand that. The shock, the disrespect of his words, maybe paired with a cocky smile.
