Brock grabbed two chairs and flipped them easily onto a table. His muscles flexed under the thin black T-shirt he wore, and I tried not to stare.Triedbeing the operative word.
I moved to the opposite table and reached for one of the chairs. It wasn’t even that heavy. I’d lifted a million of these before, but the moment I swung it up, it slipped.
“Shit!”
Before it crashed to the floor, a strong hand grabbed its back, steadying it effortlessly. Brock’s chest brushed my shoulder as he leaned in. Neither of us dared move.
His skin was warm, fingers brushing mine as he adjusted his grip. I looked at our hands, stupidly transfixed by the contact, by the heat that shot up my arm as if someone had plugged me into a socket.
When I glanced up, he was watching me, quietly deciding whether he should lean in or not.
“Careful,” he said softly.
My voice didn’t work for a second, then, “Yeah. Sorry.”
His lips tilted in a faint smile, but he didn’t step back or move his hand from the chair.
Instead, he said, “I’m glad you’ve been coming here every Friday.”
“It’s not weird? Seeing me every single week at the bar?”
He shook his head slowly. “Not even close. It’s nice to see my professor outside of class. Or your office hours.”
My heart felt like it would pound clean out of my chest. I should’ve stepped back. I should’ve gone home like any responsible person with common sense would.
But I didn’t do either of those things.
He angled himself toward me slightly, the warmth of him surrounding me. Whether it was in my office, or behind the bar, Brock always took up space with his solid build. But this felt different. It felt like he wasn’t just close because he had to be, but like he was choosing to.
“You okay?” he asked, but I could see it in his eyes before he spoke, the way they darkened with knowing.
“I’m fine.” My laugh came out too soft. “Just, uh, clumsy today.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have made you that second drink.”
“No!” I blurted out. “I’m not drunk. I’ve always been clumsy. I must’ve broken a hundred glasses when I worked at Applebee’s.”
Brock’s eyes dropped to my lips, and it was as though I could feel his mouth on mine without any touching.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured.
The comment caught me off guard, piercing through all my armor and wrapping around my heart with a squeeze.
“Am I?” was all I could think of saying.
He leaned in another inch, barely brushing my hand with his thumb where it still rested on the chair.
The touch was tiny. Barely anything. Yet it felt like a match had struck in my chest, sparking a bonfire. The silence turned thick and electric. My breath felt too loud in my ears. His hand slid over mine, deliberately this time, slow and certain.
I’d imagined this before, or somethinglikethis. Late at night, in the quiet of my room, when no one could see. I’d pictured his hands on me, the way it might feel if he leaned closer, whispered my name. And now, with him here, it was as if every stolen fantasy had come to life.
“Keep looking at me like that, Professor Carrington, and I’m gonna forget you’re the one in charge,” he murmured.
The way he said my name made my stomach twist. “Call me Lila.”
My fingers curled around his without me meaning to. “I’m the worst professor in the history of academia.”
He used his free hand to tilt my chin up just slightly. He was gentle, testing. His touch was warm and careful, but his eyes… his eyes were all heat.
