He braces his hands against his desk. “Ms. Anderson, how much exactly do you know about Fury Hill?”
“As little as possible.”
“Because knowledge means responsibility?”
Blood rushes between my ears as I stare at him. The air expresses instantly from my lungs, and I clasp my hands together, squeezing tight. He watches the movement but says nothing.
It’s unnerving how good he is at seeing right fucking through me. He probably doesn’t even realize how transparent I really am, which would be comforting ifIdidn’t know.
All my life, I’ve worn my heart on my sleeve. Once upon a time, I thought it was safe there so long as I played whatever role people wanted me to—any role I could get my hands on.
But sometimes you can do everything right, play every part, and still wind up used and discarded.
“If this is how you treat all your students, I’m surprised your class was so highly recommended.”
“It’s highly recommended because I’m a good teacher.”
“Just a bad liar then?”
Pure, unadulterated fury burns in his gaze. His chest rises and falls rapidly, matching the urgency of my own breathing. “Are you implying I somehow tricked you?”
“I’m just saying. Why didn’t you mention working here? You said you were a director, and you made it seem like the other night was…”
I trail off, heat bleeding into my pores. No way am I admitting that for a few moments, our little tryst in his car feltspecial.
A man has to earn that right.
“Had I known you were a student, I certainly would not have engaged. My behavior was incredibly inappropriate, and I apologize.”
“What is that?” I ask. “A PR apology? I don’t remember requesting your regret over kissing me.”
“I didn’t say I regretted it.” His eyes flash, and a muscle in his jaw thumps. “I said I was sorry.”
“How is that different?”
“Regret implies I wouldn’t do it again.”
Oh.
He sighs, letting his chin drop. I take a moment to look around, noting a few dying plants in the windowsill, a large bookcase next to it filled with various works of famous playwrights like Wilde, Aristophanes, and Euripides, and even some Behn and Kalidasa.
It’s the collection of someone who not only enjoys acting but wants to fully understand the medium and its worldly history. Someone who takes theaterseriously.
My heart thumps a little faster in my chest, but I ignore it.
A well-read man is attractive. Even more so when he’s well-read on things that interest me. But that’s not what I’m here for.
No matter how badly I might ache to learn more.
Beyond the books, a single filing cabinet sits beneath the window, holding a bust of Shakespeare and several cartridges of fountain pens. The cement walls are painted a forest green, a fewshades darker than his eyes, and they remind me of the woods surrounding this school.
I shiver. All the more reason for me to leave without pursuing anything more.
“There was a fire at the dean’s house,” he says, glancing above my head. “Any chance you had something to do with it?”
“That’s what you want to know?”
Slowly, he drags his gaze to mine. “I’m asking if it was you, Elle. Is that what you needed the lighter for?”
