3. Nobody Wants That
Chapter Three
Nobody Wants That
Neve
The Night at the Bar
Iwait until we reach the outer door of my apartment near the bridge before I turn and face him—ready to shoot my shot. If you don’t try, you’ll never know, right?
“If I told you I wasn’t ready to go inside just yet,” I say, keeping my voice low, “would you kiss me? Or would you give me some line about ethics and age gaps?”
Grant blinks. I’m near certain he didn’t expect me to be so straightforward, but my sister and I are very different people. His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “How old are you?”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip, and I bounce on the balls of my feet. “That mean you’re considering it?”
“No,” he says flatly. “I just want to know how long I’ll go to jail for.”
I scoff. “I’m twenty-six, not sixteen.”
Grant leans a shoulder to the wall. “I’m forty-two, Neve.”
Oof. My name in his low drawl makes the lava in my belly sing. He’s all lit up under the streetlight spill, green eyes gone mossy and dark under the frowning slice of his brows.
“I don’t care about that.” I step forward and lay a hand on his chest. A ripple of movement rolls through him, but he doesn’t back away. I can feel his heartbeat tattooing its rhythm against my palm.
His eyes flick to my mouth. I play into it, tongue darting out to wet my lips.
But just when I think he might give in, he catches my wrist. It’s gentle and firm at once, but a definite warning shot. When I look up, his gaze catches mine and pins me in place.
“I do care.” His voice is carefully impassive, but I’m better at reading people than that. He’s rattled, I can tell. His eyes dip to my mouth again.
He’s also clearly very disciplined, because that’s the moment he steps back, dropping my hand and tipping his head in an almost gentlemanly nod. I frown; I don’t want gentlemanly.
“Goodnight, Neve,” he says over his shoulder as he goes. I make absolutely no attempt not to check out his ass (hot) as he walks away.
A long, sizzling silence hangs in the air, like the static before a lightning strike. My shoulders deflate, and I turn to walk into my apartment, feeling both defeated and triumphant. Sure, he didn’t kiss me, but he definitely wanted to.
This should be interesting.
I’ve known since that night at the bar, when I lured Grant King into walking me home, that he wants me like I want him, even if he won’t let himself act on it without a little push.
I don’t want to push too hard, of course—but he’s hot, smart, funny, and clearly kind and caring. My sister would never put up with him as a friend or a colleague otherwise.
Does the age gap bother me? No. Does the fact that he has a kid bother me? No. Does the fact that he’s a professor and I’m a student—sometimes in his classes—bother me? Nope, I’m capable of compartmentalizing.
Will I walk away if any of those things bother him? Absolutely. I’m not an asshole.
I have something of a plan, but first, I’m going to try this the old-fashioned way.
I’ve been sitting out in the quad for an hour, soaking up the sun and intermittently reading up on my Intro to Therapeutic Intervention for Sex and Relationships Counseling class, all while checking the psych building door, waiting for Grant to step out.
I’m wearing red again—it wasn’t lost on me how that affected him last week.
I cross and uncross my legs, flicking my gaze up again to check the doors. Nothing. I go back to focusing on the page, making notes as I go. Pink pen scrawls the paper as I summarize behavioral interventions.
Two types of behavioral interventions: Structured behavioral assignments for patient(s) between sessions vs. experimental modulated behavioral experiments to determine negative effects of sexual encounters.
The door swings open as I’m dotting a period at the end of the sentence, and I look up to catch the pretty green gaze of Professor Daddy Grant King. I pop up so quickly I almost knock over my coffee cup, placed right by my thigh in a pink to-go cup. “Doctor King!”
His shoulders roll, drop, then rise ever so slightly—he can’t help his automatic response, but he’s an expert at maintaining a facade. He’s good at that, and I can understand how people could see him as intimidating as a result—but not me.
“Miss Hart,” he greets me evenly, coming to stand by the central fountain wall where my books are stacked.
“Please, Miss Hart?” I say with a light laugh. “You can call me Neve, okay? So… I was wondering if you wanted to get a coffee?”
His brow furrows, and he glances at my stuff—pink binder, pink pen, pink coffee cup—then back at me. “You already have coffee,” he points out.
“It’s decaf,” I say brightly. “In case you’re worried about over-caffeinating me.”
“I’m not.”
I roll my eyes. “Still got that bug up your butt, I see.”
Grant’s lips roll in, and he averts his gaze for a moment, looking over my head. “Why do you want to get coffee with me?” he asks, and he sounds genuine.
I blink. “Because I like you.”
His eyes snap back to my face, and his mouth parts. “What?”
I shrug. I don’t see why it surprises him that I’m direct—until I realize maybe that’s not what surprises him at all, but the fact in and of itself that I want him.
“I want you,” I say, then I clear my throat loudly when I realize I misspoke. “I mean—shit, sorry, I mean I like you.”
The tips of his ears go red. I’m blushing too, but I don’t really care—that did a pretty good job of laying my cards on the table.
Grant shakes his head. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” I say with a shrug. “But I’d like to. Isn’t that how dating works?”
Grant huffs an incredulous laugh, glancing around the quad, though of course, nobody’s batting an eye at a student and a professor talking out in the open. “We can’t date, Neve,” he says, voice carefully lowered. “You’re a student. I’m a professor.”
“I know. I also know Talan is pretty cool about that.” I read up on it. Their policies are clear, but progressive. As long as a relationship is between two consenting adults and is fully disclosed in writing, it’s permitted.
“I’m sixteen years older than you,” Grant says. “I’ve got a daughter and an ex-wife who hates me. Doesn’t any of that bother you?”
“No,” I say easily. “But if it bothers you, that’s fine. Tell me, and I’ll be on my way.”
He seems confused by my response, and I tilt my head, studying him.
He’s trying to study me in return. I flash a smile, and I enjoy witnessing the full force of it hitting him. “I don’t play games, Doctor King—or, at least, not with boundaries. Please, if I’ve overstepped, tell me.”
He blinks down at me—he must be at least six two. I’m a slut for a size difference, and he’s huge. I’m five four, and although I’m not slim, he makes me feel tiny.
“You haven’t overstepped. I just…” He seems to struggle to find the right words. “Aren’t you—” He cuts himself off.
“Aren’t I what?”
He shakes his head. “You should just… be careful. You’re twenty-six, Neve.” Something lights up in me at his remembering my age when I know I’ve only told him once. “You’d be easy to take advantage of.”
I quirk a brow. “Threatening me with a good time already? We’ve not even had coffee yet.”
Grant soughs out a breath. “I’ve been reliably informed that I use my education and research to manipulate people—especially impressionable young women.”
Wow.
Someone really did a number on this guy.
Especially because even though he’s right—I don’t know him—I’m pretty certain there’s not a malicious bone in this man’s body. He’s not capable of manipulating someone in that way. I just don’t believe he has it in him.
“What makes you think I wouldn’t want that?” I say, teasing in my tone to lighten the mood.
His gaze drops. “Nobody wants that.”
All right—time for plan B.
I rub my hands together. “Okay, well… How about we level the playing field? We remove some of the cues. You’re an expert in readable body language, right?”
Grant searches my face, then says, very carefully, “Yes.”
“So… maybe we could agree to only communicate via text message and voice notes.”
“Voice is body,” Grant says quickly, his tone rough. It pours low and slow like honey, dripping into my belly, hot and sweet and pooling. “I can still read body language equivalency in your voice.”
I huff a laugh—I really can’t help it—then lean in slightly. Grant fights not to mirror the movement. “Stop it,” I say quietly. “Stop being so fucking sexy. I swear to God, I will bend you over right here in the quad.”
His lips part, drawing my eye, then his pupils dilate—no way he can hide that.
This poor man is fighting for his life. I take my chance to pull out the slip of paper in the pocket of my jeans, with my number already written on it in pink.
I know this means he’ll know I was planning to ambush him—but as I said to him, I don’t play mind games.
Only fun games, like this one.
“This is for you,” I tell him. “If you ever want to give up the whole gentleman act—which, for the record, I can’t wait to see—I bet you won’t be able to resist messaging me.”
Grant snorts a laugh, but it’s strained. “Yeah, because the whole bet thing worked out so well for Cade and your sister, right?”
I pop a shoulder in a shrug. “They’re getting married—aren’t they?”
His eyes flash in the midday sun. “Are you saying you want to marry me, Neve? You know, that definitely didn’t work out for me before.”
“Are you flirting with me, Doctor King?” I hold up the slip of paper. “I haven’t even given you this yet. Am I already winning?”
“No,” he deadpans.
I’m not sure which question he’s responding to, but it doesn’t really matter.
I step right into his space and slip the piece of paper into his pocket, letting my hand linger a little too long.
I can feel the heat of his body through the denim.
My knee brushes his leg, and that warmth spreads into me.
“I bet I’ll have you begging to see me in person—begging to touch me—in no time,” I whisper, still not retracting my hand.
“You’re touching me now,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t move away either.
“But you’re not touching me.” I affect a mock pout. “Am I tempting you?”
He opens his mouth to speak, then seems to think better of it.
He frowns down at me as I take my hand out of his pocket and pat the side of his thigh.
I bite my tongue, letting my gaze roam over him as I step back.
He’s hot as hell. Thick thighs, broad shoulders, wide chest, soft stomach.
I want to touch him all over—but I have to know he wants that, too.
“The ball is in your court, Doctor,” I sing-song, turning to gather my books and my coffee cup from the fountain wall. “But anybody who knows me knows that I always have an extra card up my sleeve.”