His eyes meet mine, and his jaw tightens. Just a little, but I see it.
“Milo’s just a guy looking out for a friend.” He pauses. “Rooke…if Rooke wants something, he gets it. No one ever gets in his way.”
My breath catches.
“So yeah,” Kai continues, his voice dropping. “I’m jealous of Rooke. I’m jealous of every second you spend with him when I’m not there. I’m jealous of the way you look at him, the way you fuckingmeltwhen he calls you ‘sweet girl.’” His hand slides higher up my thigh. “But some random guy with a food truck? Nah.”
I don’t know whether to be touched or insulted on Milo’s behalf.
I settle for kissing Kai again because it’s easier than processing whatever the hell I’m feeling. Kai’s hand cups my jaw, angling my head so he can deepen the kiss.
But I can’t stop thinking about Milo’s voice note. He’s not the kind of guy to overreact. And yeah, sure, Bastian was a dick to him. But that’s not a good enough reason for Milo to call me out of the blue and warn me about him.
Unless…
Maybe that afternoon of the Rain Dance, when me and Bastian went to his food truck, wasn’t the only encounter Milo had with our professor.
It’s not just this message that’s plaguing my mind. Ever since we buried that body under the maple tree, something’s been gnawing at the back of my mind. Almost like one of Lenny’s meth-roaches escaped his grave and burrowed its way into my brain.
Bastian was just so…calm. While he was butchering the dealer, while he was putting him in the trunk, while we were burying him.
…Like he’d done it before.
Just like me.
Wasthatwhy he was so quick to come to my defense?
“Hold on,” I mumble against Kai’s mouth before breaking off our kiss.
I pull out my phone, typing a quick message to Milo.
@lee.haven
Hey. Got your message.
What do you mean he’s dangerous?
Then I shove the phone away and give Kai my full attention.
We’re still making out—his tongue in my mouth, his hand creeping under my skirt—when a shadow falls over our table.
“Ah. Young love.”
I jerk back from Kai so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
Bastian stands at the edge of our booth, coffee cup in one hand, sandwich in the other, looking down at us with an expression of mild distaste. He’s in full professor getup—charcoal slacks, white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His dark hair is neat, no shadows under his eyes.
He looks annoyingly, infuriatingly tasty.
“Professor,” I say, like I wasn’t just shoving my tongue down my boyfriend’s throat. “Hi.”
“Miss Lee.” His gaze flicks to Kai. “Mr. Jordan.”
Kai doesn’t bother pretending. He keeps his hand on my thigh, his posture relaxed, a challenge in his eyes.
“Professor Rooke.”
Bastian’s jaw ticks, and there’s the faintest hint of a smile on his mouth before he thins it into a stern line. When he speaks, his voice is loud enough to carry to the booth beside ours. “I thought this booth was unoccupied. Clearly, it’s not.”
