Chapter 6
ASHER
She smells like vanilla and lavender, but also like apples—those goddamn apple martinis.
Would she taste like apples?
I remember the tart sweetness of the drink she’d given me, and it takes everything in me not to pull over and plaster my mouth to hers to see if she tastes just like the drink.
As I drive toward her apartment, her leg won’t stop bouncing up and down. Is it a sign of nerves or impatience? Either way, it’s making me anxious.
Without thinking, I put my hand on her leg to get her to stop shaking it.
We both freeze.
My hand is on her thigh. Her bare thigh.
These goddamn skirts.
Her skin is soft and warm.
I practically rip my hand away and clear my throat, hands clenching the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
Her hand tugs at the hem of her skirt, but she doesn’t say anything. The silence is tense and uncomfortable. She chews on her bottom lip as the streets pass by.
I should not have offered to drive her home.
Would I do this for any other student? Or just her?
The part of me that wants to make excuses for my actions wants to argue that I’m just being a good Samaritan and that I would’ve done this for anyone, not just Summer.
But the self-loathing part of me thinks that’s not true.
I hate that I’m attracted to her. I hate that I think about her when we’re not in class.
I hate that I couldn’t tell her to leave me alone at the bar.
I hate that I couldn’t just leave her out on the street on her own.
I hate that the idea of calling her a cab or Uber myself and then leaving didn’t even cross my mind. I hate that I want her.
I have never in my career thought anything even remotely inappropriate about a student until now. I don’t know what about her makes me want to disregard my code of ethics. Why her?
I glance over at her as if the answers will be written on her skin.
She’s beautiful; anyone can see that. She has thick blonde hair that I want to wrap around my fist, delicate freckles that I want to map with my lips, and perfectly pouty lips that I want wrapped around my—
No. Absolutely not.
I can’t think about her like that. Not now. Not while she’s sitting so close to me that I can smell her perfume, and I can see the goose bumps on her legs. Not when she might feel like she’d have to consent to any move I make on her out of fear that I’d tank her grade in retaliation. Not ever.
I turn a corner and pull up to a seedy-looking apartment building. “You live here?” I ask, craning my neck to look up at the red brick structure.
“Yup,” she says, popping the p. “Do you know how expensive Seattle is?” she adds incredulously. “It’s honestly getting out of control.” She pushes the door open and steps out, promptly stumbling on her injured ankle. “Thanks for the ride!” She waves before quickly slamming the door.
I watch her stiff spine as she tries to walk to the apartment complex with as much dignity as her sprained ankle allows.
The ankle gives out when she steps over the curb.
“Dammit,” I mutter before darting after her, making sure to lock my car before jogging to catch up to her.
I grab her arm to steady her as I open the door and lead her inside.
She limps along beside me, and a pink blush heats her cheeks. She pulls her keys out of her bag when we stop in front of the elevator. She leans against me, taking all the weight off her ankle as she rests, and I resist the urge to wrap my arm around her.
“What floor?” I ask gently.
Her cheeks flame brighter. “The elevator’s broken,” she responds meekly.
Okay, I can do this. I can help her up the stairs.
“What floor?” I ask again.
I have never escorted a student home. I have never known where one of them lives. This is extremely inappropriate. But I can’t just leave her alone to fend for herself when she can barely walk.
“The ninth floor,” she says feebly, as if too embarrassed to admit she needs the help.
She points me to the stairwell, and without thinking, I swoop her up in my arms. We both freeze as my hand lands on her bare thighs, and her back rests against my arm.
“Sorry,” I mumble, but I don’t set her down. “I just thought this might be easier.” I start to make my way up the stairs.
“Thanks for taking me home,” she says quietly. “And for carrying me up nine flights of stairs to my door. Very chivalrous.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “My pleasure,” I respond without thinking.
The blush has now spread down her neck and chest.
I spend the next eight flights mentally kicking myself for making this weird. Couldn’t I have said anything else?
She helps open the stairwell door as we make it to the ninth floor, where she directs me toward her apartment. She awkwardly sticks the keys in the lock while still in my arms. I know I should put her down, that I shouldn’t walk into her apartment. But I don’t want to leave her yet.
I lean forward to open the door, and I get another whiff of her perfume. I hold my breath and push into the studio apartment.
“Okay,” I huff, kicking the door shut behind us as I turn her toward the interior of her apartment. “I can set you down somewhere—”
“Here is fine,” she says, cutting me off.
I try to guide her toward the bed so that I’m not just dropping her onto her ankle.
Before I can set her down, she flails just a bit, offsetting my balance and dragging me down with her.
I land halfway on top of her, and her breath catches, and she turns her head so that our faces aren’t so close together.
Her maddening scent of lavender and vanilla assaults my senses, and it takes everything in me not to bury my face in her exposed neck and inhale deeply.
I can feel every inch of her pressed against me as she lies beneath me, and I grit my teeth, begging my body not to react.
“Um,” she starts as she turns her head back toward me, her nose brushing mine, and I suck in a desperate breath.
Her lips are so close, all it would take is me leaning forward just an inch…
She shifts again, her hips pushing up against mine, and my cock twitches in response. Her body stiffens beneath mine.
Fuck.
I push off her and try to straighten my shirt while looking anywhere but down at her.
“Well,” I clear my throat. “Now that you’re home safe, I should get going.
” She sits up, looking mortified as her cheeks turn an unbelievable shade of red.
She doesn’t respond, so I take a step toward the door and ask, “You’re all right to lock the door behind me, right? ”
She nods, but remains quiet.
I look down at her purpling ankle and decide I can help get her settled before high-tailing it out of here.
“Here, let me help with that,” I murmur as I crouch down on my knees before her.
“No, that’s okay—” her voice cracks as my fingers grab her calf to gently pull her leg toward me.
I gingerly remove her shoes, trying not to think about how soft her legs are or jostle her injured ankle.
I look up at her, and she stops breathing. Her golden-amber eyes meet mine, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
“Summer,” I say. “Are you going to be okay without anyone here? Is there someone I can call?”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she scoffs, shrugging as if her tumble earlier was nothing. But I look at the quickly darkening bruise dubiously.
Summer refuses to meet my eyes, so I can’t help but look around her small studio apartment.
She wasn’t kidding when she said this place was barely big enough for her.
The queen bed she’s currently lying in takes up most of the space.
There’s a TV on the floor; the kitchen is only big enough to cook one thing at a time, and there’s no microwave.
It has a sink just large enough to wash your hands in.
The walls are all made of brick; there are only two windows in the apartment, both by her bed, and what little light they let in is dominated by plants.
The nicest thing in the apartment is the wood floor, and even that is covered in scratches from past tenants.
No wonder she’s at the bar so often. Anyone would feel claustrophobic spending too much time here.
She groans as she tries to roll her ankle back and forth, and I make the quick decision to try to prevent any reason for her to have to stand up and walk around.
“You don’t have to do that,” she protests as I grab a glass from her kitchen and fill it with water. I manage to find off-brand painkillers in her medicine cabinet, which I place on the small bedside table beside her.
“Do you have a first aid kit?” I ask, ignoring her protests.
She sighs but points toward one of the kitchen cupboards. I quickly find a bandage wrap and make my way back to her. I kneel in front of her again, and she’s back to refusing to look at me as I tightly bind her ankle. She flinches a bit but doesn’t make a sound.
I grab one of the pillows off the bed and put it next to her. “You should probably keep your ankle elevated,” I explain, and she nods.
I know I’m stalling. I don’t want to leave. But at this point, I’ve done everything I can and more to help her. Way more than is appropriate for a teacher to do for their student.
She turns her head, and a strand of blonde hair falls across her cheek. It takes every ounce of willpower not to brush the strand behind her ear.
A small orange tabby jumps up on her bed and glares at me with yellow, judgmental eyes. “I’m going,” I say, holding my hands up.
Summer finally cracks a smile as she scratches behind the feline’s ears.
“Thank you, Asher,” I hear her say quietly as I close the door behind me.
By the time I get back to my apartment, it’s late, but I shoot off a text to my sister anyway. She has a two-year-old who likes to keep her on her toes, and I can usually count on her being awake at all hours of the day.