3. Elle
Chapter 3
Elle
I woke to a blistering headache, enveloped in a cocoon of white sheets as soft as a cloud. Underneath the fresh, clean scent of the fabric was a hint of masculine cologne—barely detectable, like smoky tobacco, old books, and caramel-sweet bourbon.
Why did that cologne seem so familiar? Where had I smelled it before?
Slowly, I opened my eyes to a room I didn’t recognize. My dorm was bland, generic, with plain white walls, and very little in the way of stylized architecture. This room had a classy, old-fashioned air to it, with rustic brick walls, and wide windows, shadowed by dark curtains. A few pieces of art decorated the room—a sketch of the Notre Dame Cathedral rendered in bold strokes of charcoal; a black and white photograph of the university's library with book-lined shelves on every wall, two stories high.
I sat up, clutching my throbbing head.
“Where the hell am I?”
The events of last night were a hazy blur in my mind. I remembered dancing until I could barely breathe, music so loud that I could feel it thumping through my bones. I remembered alcohol—lots and lots of alcohol. And then I woke up here.
I glanced down at myself to see I still wore the same camisole and mini skirt from last night. My shoes and jacket were nowhere in sight. Neither was my phone, or my purse.
The shuffle of movement echoed on the other side of the door.
I wasn’t alone. Fuck.
My mouth felt like it was coated in dry cotton. I touched my hair, trying to gauge what I looked like. When my fingers met a rat’s nest of tangles, I grimaced. Definitely not fit for human company.
Besides, relationships weren’t my style. I preferred one-night-stands where I slipped out the back door before they were awake, so I didn’t stick around for coffee, breakfast, and when can I see you again?
As soon as a guy found out I was actually Giselle Roche, daughter of multi-millionaire tycoon Daniel R. Roche, they had expectations—wealth, class, and access to the upper echelons of society.
Until they realized I was the fuck up. The disappointment swept under the proverbial rug of the impeccable Roche reputation. So, I didn’t do relationships. It was bad enough enduring the disappointment of my family. I didn’t need to endure it from a boyfriend, too.
For a split second, I entertained the idea of climbing out the window. My hangover would make that dangerous though. Splitting headache, wobbly legs, shitty balance. Nope, the window was not an option.
Easing the door open, I found myself at the end of a hallway, with a bathroom on my right. The sharp scent of coffee rose in the air. Silverware tinkled softly. All I had to do was get cleaned up really quick, then make my excuses for a hasty exit, dodging the dreaded pleasantries over breakfast. With no purse or phone, and no clue where I was, I didn’t know how I would find my way back to my dorm, but I’d figure out that pesky little detail later.
Tiptoeing into the bathroom, I grimaced when I got a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Smudged mascara, rumpled and stained clothes, faded lipstick. And to think I’d hooked up with someone looking like this…
Next to the sink was a stack of toiletries—a folded towel, a bottle of water, painkillers, a new toothbrush still in the package, a men’s gray t-shirt, and a pair of men’s sweatpants. I rifled through the items, hoping for an identifying note.
Nothing.
At least I could make myself presentable, even if I didn’t remember who I’d slept with last night.
After washing my face and finger combing my hair back into a ponytail, I popped a few of the painkillers, and got dressed. The clothes were far too big on my frame, but they were soft, with a hint of that caramel-bourbon-cologne scent I’d smelled on the sheets when I woke up.
It was driving me crazy that I couldn’t put my finger on why it was so familiar…
With a bracing breath, I reluctantly emerged from the bathroom and prepared to face the music. I followed the scent of coffee until I found the kitchen. A man stood by the stove, his back turned to the room. Despite my desire to get the hell out of here as soon as possible, I couldn’t help spending a few precious seconds admiring the view. His white t-shirt was a perfectly snug fit on his broad shoulders and trim torso. The sweatpants he wore couldn’t hide his tight, firm ass that made my palms itch with the urge to squeeze it.
Maybe I could get a second round of sex before I left—as a parting gift. Now that I was sober, I would appreciate it more, and I wanted to remember getting my hands all over this guy...whoever he was.
Then he turned around. And my stomach dropped.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Roche. I was just about to wake you. Good morning.”
Holy shit. I slept with Professor Stonebridge? That must have been the hottest sex of my life. And I had no memory of it.
“Hi,” I said hesitantly.
My plan to bail as quickly as possible was in shambles. My flings were usually guys my age who fell into one of two categories—fuck boys with commitment issues, or hopeless romantics who got clingy and were practically frothing at the mouth to call me wife after spending the night together.
But I’d never slept with an older man before, let alone a professor. Should I make a break for the door like I usually did?
Deep down, I had to admit I secretly liked the idea of having Professor Stonebridge all to myself.
I tugged at the hem of my borrowed t-shirt, prickly hot all over with self-consciousness. He was just so…gorgeous. And put-together. Even his bed head looked artfully tousled.
I felt like I’d been through a meat grinder in comparison.
Wow, Elle, you really are a fuck up, aren’t you?
Stonebridge offered a plate to me with a picture-perfect golden omelet, ruby red strawberries on the side, and sausage links still sizzling from the pan.
“You should eat something,” he said. “It will help ward off that hangover.”
What I should be doing is leaving, but I accepted the plate anyway. Stonebridge pulled out a chair and gestured to the table.
“Please, sit.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled, lowering myself stiffly into the seat. Picking up my fork, I speared a chunk of strawberry. “So…last night.”
Stonebridge turned away as he poured two cups of coffee. I studied the breadth of his back, the tight stretch of fabric over his muscles when he moved. I always knew the professor was in good shape underneath those stuffy suits and starched shirts, but seeing him like this was a feast for the eyes everywhere I looked.
“About that,” Stonebridge said. “We should keep it between us.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to hide a smile. Of course we should. Everyone in class would want to know what the straitlaced professor was like in the sack, and now I had the details…if only I could remember them.
Not that I intended to brag about sleeping with my professor. I’m sure I would make a slew of enemies with an announcement like that—banging the hot teacher everyone was drooling over. And I didn’t even do it to boost my grades.
I preferred to keep a low profile for a reason. That’s why I went by Elle. As soon as people found out I was the Giselle Roche, they jumped to the conclusion that I was a snobby, spoiled rich girl, skating through life on Daddy’s money.
I knew I came from a privileged background, opening doors that other people would never have access to as long as they lived. But it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows behind the scenes either. At this rate, I would be disowned and disinherited by the time I was twenty-five. Attracting attention to myself was the last thing I wanted right now.
“Makes sense,” I replied. “There are rules about these things.”
Stonebridge returned to the table with a tray that contained two cups of coffee, creamer, and a sugar bowl.
“We both know nothing happened,” he said. “But rumors tend to get out of hand in the mouths of college students.”
I froze mid-chew. Wait a second. If nothing happened between us…how did I end up here, in the professor’s house? Eating breakfast with him? Goddamn it, I wish I could remember something—anything—about last night.
Stonebridge sipped his coffee, looking calm, serene, and implacable. I clenched my fork so tightly that I couldn’t believe the metal didn’t bend under the force of my grip.
“Right,” I said after a long pause.
Fuck, this was awkward. And confusing.
“Look, Professor.” I pushed my chair back and rose to my feet. “I should be heading back to campus.”
Stonebridge’s gaze followed my movements even though he didn’t budge an inch. Pinned with his unwavering stare and steady dark brown eyes made me feel like I was practically naked, instead of swimming in masculine clothes—his clothes, smelling of his cologne.
We both know nothing happened.
Did I believe him? Was he lying?
Before I could come to a conclusion, Stonebridge spoke.
“You don’t remember much, do you?”
The air punched out of me and I sagged with defeat.
“No. Just drinking, dancing, music so loud that I’m surprised I didn’t rupture my ear drums.”
He hummed with a nod of agreement.
“And then you stumbled into me.”
I rubbed my forehead with a grimace. A vague memory took shape in the back of my mind—cold pavement, vomiting into the street, the weight and warmth of the professor’s coat draped around my body.
“I called you Professor Hot Stuff,” I said with a groan.
“Yes, you did.”
“Oh, God.”
“I took you back to your dorm, but you were asleep,” Stonebridge said. “I brought you back here and set you up in my guest room. Alone. I offered to call your sister, but you didn’t seem keen on that idea.”
Nausea rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down. If Helene had seen me last night, she would run straight to my father like the tattle-tale she is. I would never hear the end of it.
“So…” I hedged. “Nothing happened. Really.”
“And my recommendation still stands,” Stonebridge replied. “It should stay between us. Otherwise, people will draw conclusions and make accusations. You don’t need that hassle.”
I nodded, torn between disappointment that I hadn’t slept with my professor after all, and relief I hadn’t crossed that line at least. Then again, I still embarrassed myself with this whole fiasco in the first place.
A heartbeat of unbearable silence filled the room. I wanted nothing more than to disappear off the face of the planet.
Stonebridge’s phone buzzed from somewhere on the counter.
“Right on time. That will be your cab. I called one for you earlier.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to—”
“It’s best this way, Miss Roche.”
I ducked my head, mortified. Logically, I knew we couldn’t be seen together, especially when I showed up at my dorm wearing men’s clothes after staying out all night. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d created a terrible lasting impression I would never recover from in the professor’s eyes.
And I hated that.
This man had been…kind. Looking after me when I was drunk. Protecting my public reputation. Giving me his own clothes to wear and making breakfast for me. He hadn’t scolded me. Not once.
My father would have yelled until he turned purple with rage.
I really needed to stop comparing him with Professor Stonebridge. They were completely different people.
After grabbing my clothes from last night, Stonebridge led me outside with the warm weight of his palm resting lightly on my back. He opened the cab door and gestured me inside.
“I hope this has proven to be a valuable lesson.”
“Believe me, I won’t be forgetting it any time soon,” I replied.
As I moved toward the cab, Stonebridge caught my elbow and turned me to face him. My heart lodged in my throat as I realized how close we were. His posture was soft and loose, instead of the straight-backed, proper professor I knew from class.
I fantasized about closing the few inches between us and sliding my hands under the hem of his shirt, mapping his warm skin and muscles.
“We all make mistakes, Miss Roche,” Stonebridge said. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I blinked in surprise. Why didn’t he reprimand me for being stupid? Why didn’t he scold me for drinking until I passed out? Why didn’t he give me a pep talk about the importance of putting my studies first?
I didn’t deserve to be spoken to like this—softly, with a reassuring touch. I’d screwed up. Badly. And I was well on my way to flunking out of college entirely.
Standing there in front of Professor Stonebridge, I almost felt like I could pull myself together and get back on my feet. Make something of myself. I almost felt like I actually mattered to someone.
Before I realized what I was doing, I rose up on tiptoe and pressed my lips to his.
For a split second, I could have sworn he kissed me back. A flick of his tongue against mine. A faint rumble of desire deep in his chest.
Then he grasped me by the shoulders and pushed me away to a safe distance. He scraped his teeth over his lower lip and turned his head away, dragging a hand over his mouth.
“Good day, Miss Roche.”
He wouldn’t look at me. And his voice was rough, gravelly.
My lips burned with what I’d done. Shame heated my cheeks. I clutched my bundle of clothes to my chest and ducked into the cab.
Congratulations, Elle, I thought. You screwed up. Again.