Chapter 4 #2
"I'm not dumb, Greg. I can design a collection in my sleep. I can spot a trend two years before it hits the runway. But this?" I gestured to the spreadsheet. "My brain doesn't work this way. And if I fail this, none of the rest of it matters."
Greg stared at me. He looked at the tears drying on my cheeks. He looked at the messy bun. He looked at the terror in my eyes.
He turned around and walked back to the stove.
He turned off the burner. He put the chicken onto a plate.
Then he turned back to me, leaning his hip against the counter. He crossed his arms again.
"I can help you," he said.
My heart skipped a beat. "What?"
"I can tutor you," he said. "I can get you ready for Friday. I can make sure you pass."
Hope, bright and dangerous, flared in my chest. "You would do that?"
"I didn't say I'd do it for free," he said.
I narrowed my eyes. "I can pay you. I have… well, technically I have my dad's money, but I can get cash."
"I don't want your money," Greg said, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. "I have plenty of money."
"Then what do you want?"
He pushed off the counter and walked toward me. He stopped on the other side of the table.
"I want peace," he said. "I want order."
"I don't follow."
"If I tutor you," he said, ticking points off on his fingers, "you agree to my rules. For the rest of the semester."
"Your rules?" I scoffed. "You mean the 'Prison Warden' handbook?"
"I mean the house rules," he said, his voice hard. "Quiet hours from 8 PM to 8 AM. No guests without twenty-four hours' notice. No leaving dishes in the sink. No blasting music that shakes the floorboards."
He leaned in, placing his hands on the table.
"And," he added, his eyes locking onto mine, "you do what I say. When I tell you to study, you study. When I tell you to eat, you eat. When I tell you to sleep, you sleep. No arguments. No bratty comebacks. You submit to the schedule."
My breath hitched. You submit.
The word hung in the air, heavy with subtext.
He wasn't talking about sex. I knew that. He was talking about discipline. About structure. But the way he said it… the way his eyes darkened… it sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
I should say no. I should throw my coffee at him and hire a professional tutor.
But a professional tutor wouldn't look at me like I was a challenge he was dying to conquer. A professional tutor wouldn't make me feel… safe.
"So," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "I become your… what? Your soldier?"
"My student," he corrected. "And in this house, I'm the Captain. I need the distraction level at zero. You give me zero distraction, and I give you an A in Finance."
He held out his hand. It was large, calloused, scarred. A hand that could crush or protect.
"Do we have a deal, Michelle?"
I looked at his hand. Then I looked at his face.
This was a trap. I knew it. Giving Greg Sterling control over my life was like handing a loaded gun to my enemy.
But looking at the determination in his eyes, I realized something. He didn't want to destroy me. He wanted to fix me. And God help me, part of me wanted to be fixed.
I stood up. I reached out.
My hand disappeared inside his. His grip was warm, firm, and dry.
"Deal," I whispered.
He didn't let go immediately. He squeezed my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. It was a small, intimate gesture that made my knees weak.
"Good," he said. "Sit down. We're starting now."
"Now?" I squeaked. "But… my coffee."
"Drink it while you work," he commanded. He walked around the table and pulled up a chair next to me. "Open a new tab. We're going to build a amortization schedule."
I sat down. I opened the tab.
Greg sat next to me. His thigh brushed against mine under the table. He didn't pull away.
"Column A," he instructed, his voice right next to my ear. "Loan Principal."
I typed it in.
"Column B," he continued. "Interest Rate."
I typed it in.
For the next two hours, the kitchen was quiet, save for the tapping of keys and the low rumble of his voice explaining concepts that had seemed impossible an hour ago.
He didn't yell. He didn't get frustrated when I asked stupid questions. He was patient. Relentless, but patient.
At one point, my hair fell into my face, obscuring the screen. My hands were typing furiously, trying to keep up with his dictation.
Without breaking his sentence, Greg reached out. His fingers brushed my temple, sending sparks skittering down my neck. He tucked the loose strand of hair behind my ear.
His fingers lingered there for a second—just a heartbeat—against the sensitive skin of my neck.
"Focus, Michelle," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs.
I turned my head slightly. He was looking at the screen, but his jaw was clenched tight. He felt it too. The pull. The danger.
He slowly pulled his hand away.
"Row 14," he said, his voice rougher than before. "Net Present Value."
I swallowed hard and typed.
Row 14.
We had a deal. I had just signed away my freedom for a passing grade.
And sitting there, with his heat seeping into my side and his scent filling my lungs, I had the terrifying realization that I might have just signed away my heart, too.
By 2:00 PM, my brain felt like mush, but the spreadsheet was green. All green. No errors.
Greg closed my laptop.
"That's enough for today," he said. "Your brain is full. You'll stop retaining information."
"I... I think I actually get it," I said, blinking in surprise. "It's just logic."
"It's just logic," he agreed. He stood up and stretched. His shirt rode up slightly, revealing a strip of tanned skin and a dusting of dark hair leading down into his waistband.
I forced my eyes to the ceiling.
"So," I said, clearing my throat. "The Rules. When do they start?"
"Immediately," he said. He walked to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. "Rule Number One: Nutrition. You didn't eat breakfast. You survived on caffeine and anxiety."
"I'm not hungry."
"Lie," he said calmly. "I can hear your stomach growling from here."
He opened a Tupperware container. Grilled chicken, roasted sweet potatoes, broccoli. He stuck it in the microwave.
"Eat," he said. "Then you're going to take a nap."
"A nap?" I laughed. "I haven't taken a nap since kindergarten. I have things to do. I have to go to the studio."
The microwave beeped. He pulled the food out, grabbed a fork, and set it in front of me.
"Eat," he repeated. "Your brain needs glucose to process what we just did. And you look exhausted. You're going to eat this, then you're going to sleep for ninety minutes. Then you can go to the studio."
I opened my mouth to argue. To tell him he couldn't order me around.
Then I remembered the deal. You do what I say.
And honestly? The food smelled amazing. And my eyes felt like they were filled with sand.
"Fine," I grumbled, picking up the fork. "But only because I'm starving."
"Good girl," he said softly.
My hand froze halfway to my mouth.
Good girl.
The praise hit me like a physical blow. It wasn't condescending. It was... approving. It triggered a rush of dopamine so intense I almost dropped the fork.
I looked up at him.
He was watching me, his eyes dark and unreadable. He knew exactly what he was doing.
I shoved a piece of sweet potato into my mouth to keep from saying something stupid.
"It's good," I mumbled, chewing.
"I know," he said. "I made it."
He grabbed his own meal and leaned against the counter, watching me eat.
It was the most domestic, bizarre, intimate moment of my life. Me, eating chicken out of Tupperware in a hockey house kitchen, while the Captain watched over me like a guardian gargoyle.
And for the first time since I arrived in Precipice Bay, I didn't feel cold.
I finished the food. Every bite.
" nap," he ordered, taking the empty container from me and putting it in the dishwasher.
"Yes, sir," I said, the sarcasm slipping out.
But as I walked up the stairs, my legs heavy with fatigue, I realized the sarcasm was a defense mechanism that was rapidly failing.
I went into my room. I didn't turn on the music. I didn't check my phone.
I curled up under the blankets—still clutching his tuxedo jacket under the pillow—and closed my eyes.
The silence in the house wasn't oppressive anymore. It felt heavy. Safe.
Greg was downstairs. He was guarding the door. He was managing the chaos.
I fell asleep in thirty seconds.
And I dreamed of numbers, and hockey tape, and a deep voice whispering Good girl in the dark.