Rylie Ferguson survived the unthinkable to claw her way back to reclaim her life and pursue her education. But one thing now stands between her and her future: Professor Braeden Hurley.
Braeden Hurley guards his own wounded past with ferocious privacy, but now an attraction to a beautiful student threatens to unravel his carefully constructed world.
But finding the strength to move forward can be a choice, one with challenges, one with hope, but also one with danger...
“So, you’re upset because I don’t give you a pat on the head and a cookie every week?”
I took a deep breath. “No, I’m upset because you’re an arsehole.”
“Sometimes assholes are made.” He lowered his voice. “Do you want to keep this up, or should we work on your thesis?”
His condescending tone made me snap. It felt like piano wire pulled to its limit and released with violent recoil. In that moment, I really wanted to hurt him. I was too small to be any threat physically, but I could spit venom well when provoked. “What makes you so special, Professor Braeden Hurley?”
He didn’t respond, other than to slip from behind the safety of his desk, face stoic. I expected he would soon just boot me out.
“Do you speak to all your students like their brains are at half-mast? Somehow, I doubt it. What’s so special about me that you feel compelled to treat me like an annoying afterthought? Seriously. What right do you have? Because I’m pretty sure the whole ‘I teach because I can’t actually do’ is fucking prevalent here.”
He moved quickly into my face. He didn’t hurt me, but he did startle me. I was too angry to be scared. I jutted my jaw upward, hearing echoes of past accusations of newly acquired obstinance. “Isn’t that usually the truth, Braeden? Isn’t it?”
The man moved closer, until bare inches separated us. He glared down, fury heating his body and sending shimmers into mine. I smelled cinnamon coffee, soap, and a subtle fragrance of aftershave when he leaned down and growled into my face. Despite everything, to my irritation, my body trembled, and it wasn’t from fear. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? I’ve never heard of you, and I’m pretty damned familiar with artists from just about anywhere. Basquiat, Rosanna Dean, Diego Rivera, William Kentridge, Nguyen Phan Chanh, Eduardo Arroyo, Marc Chagall, should I go on?” In anger, I was pretty sure my pronunciations were less than stelar, but I couldn’t dwell on my disrespect at that particular moment. He winced and the room seemed to shrink with tension.
I knew I was being a complete bitch, compounded when I thought I saw a flicker of hurt in his eyes. His body coiled in that moment and I felt sure he would pull back and hit me. Some sick part of me considered that I may have provoked him. With disgust, I recognized the thought from who I was before. But Hurley did neither. His voice softened a notch from gruff to painfully scratchy. “You be the judge.”
I stared at him, the angry passion of the moment leaving in a tide of fatigue. “What?”
Hurley shook his head, as if reconsidering his words, then took hold of my shoulders to move me aside. “Lock the door when you leave.”
He stalked from his office, head down and hands deep in his front pockets, while my unvoiced borderline apology floated around me.
Guilt flared when I considered one thing. After the hurtful shit I’d laid on him, I deserved to be thrown across the room, well, metaphorically. Instead, his touch had been gentle. Too gentle.
I was now officially confused.
