Page 24 of I Want to Know What Love Is

“I get it.” I force a smile because she’s a good kid, young and pretty and a senior in college and this is her time. She deserves to have a crush on the star football player. “He’s the campus heartthrob.” Nothing I shouldn’t have guessed.

She smiles and nods and I wave as I leave her and head to my office. I hope I have enough time to at least change out of this sweaty shirt. I let myself into my office and close the door behind me, then flip the lock in one motion. I rush to the back corner of the small space where earlier I stowed my clothes in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. Pulling my shirt over my head, I realize my bra is soaked through, so I take that off too. I don’t have an extra and I weigh the pros and cons of being sweaty and smelly but trussed up versus being fresh and clean but with bouncy boobs. I decide I’m not going to do any bouncing, so going braless should work okay. I stuff the sweaty clothes into a bag. Then I stand to put on my clean shirt.

The door bangs open.

“Sorry I’m late, Coach, I—” He stops abruptly and stares.

Shit. Dylan fucking Jones stands on my threshold staring at my naked breasts with his mouth open because he stopped talking mid-sentence and his eyes are wide and glassing over, but not looking away. Then he shuts the door behind him. With him on this side of it.

“What the fuck.” I unfreeze and spin around. Fuck. “I thought that door was locked.” My hands are unsteady as I tug at the shirt twice to pull it over my now loudly protruding nipples. I can’t believe the lock didn’t work. He clears his throat.

“I’m sorry. Want me to leave?” His voice is gravelly and quiet and if I turn around and see that he has a boner I’m going to lose all hope of behaving like a professional. What the hell is wrong with me?

I’ve never in my life been so … out of control. I take a breath as I smooth my shirt down, realizing too late that the shirt is tighter than it should be and my nipples are showing. But hell—he’s already seen the whole show, hasn’t he? Straightening my shoulders, I turn around.

“It’s a little late for that.” I take another breath. “You don’t have to leave. It’s my fault for not locking the door correctly. Let’s just forget about it. We’re two grown adults. We can handle a little nudity and move on.” I can’t believe I just said those words, but I have no idea what else to say. I can’t yell at him for walking in because he’s exactly where he was supposed to be. Can’t pretend it didn’t happen. Can’t faint in a tizzy and cancel everything like a wimpy adolescent. What excuse would I give Coach Radz?

I’ll troop on and deal. And hope the flaming heat in my cheeks, the flush reaching down my neck and tingling all over, dissipates sooner than later. Taking my seat behind my desk, I point to the chair opposite.

“Sure,” he says, his face all unreadable and his accent—that Southern drawl mixed with French ennui—in full force. Maybe he’s nervous. Great.

“Let’s get on with the tutoring. Show me what you have.” His head jerks up and he meets my eyes, a slow smile forming on his face. Wrong thing to say. I wave a hand. “Hell. You know what I mean. Finance 101. Get out your tablet and show me your first assignment.” I snort a half-laugh. Some of the tension eases from my shoulders. Forget about your nipples showing, Mandy. He’s just a student who needs help with finance.

Sure he is. And if you believe that…

Chapter Eleven

Dylan

My only consolation is that we’re both having trouble getting past the elephant in the room. Namely my eyes seeing her breasts. The vision that won’t disappear—her bare-breasted and startled, so vulnerable and sexy as fuck—has my junk crowding the zipper of my pants. Thank fuck I’m not wearing gym shorts like I usually would for a team meeting, because they’d be tenting prominently and she’s not shy about checking my crotch.

Tonight I admit I dressed up for her and now my dick is begging to be undressed. Zeroing in on my backpack, which I’ve been using to hide my boner because even the confines of my jeans wouldn’t hide it from Amanda Lake, I slip the tablet out and open the link to the course material. This hair-trigger boner is crazy because it’s not like I haven’t seen my share of fantastic breasts. I have. On a fairly regular basis—at least until recently. And I don’t usually—as in never—overreact to nude women. Not since I was fourteen. Exposure to so many exposed gorgeous women has made me … I don’t know. Not exactly bored, but a hell of a lot less excitable. But not so tonight with Amanda fucking Lake.

I take my time sitting because I’m damn uncomfortable, but I don’t make it obvious or I know she’ll call me on it. She’s that kind of lady. No bullshit allowed. Except she’s not quite back on track and I slip a look at her face as I ease into the chair. The vulnerability is still there in her golden-brown eyes. I’ve never seen anything like them. The brown irises sparkle and flash like she’s shooting specks of gold from them.

She shifts the tablet around to face her and taps on the screen.

“According to the syllabus, your first assignment starts with some of the financial calculations that are essential to decision-making. Like the internal rate of return. Did you read this section?” I nod, mesmerized with her teaching persona. “Good. Tell me what the internal rate of return is and what it’s used for.”

“The IRR measures a company’s rate of return on a project or investment excluding external factors. It’s used to help decide whether to go with a project or investment. As long as the IRR exceeds the cost of capital, it’s viable. The higher the projected IRR on a project, the higher the net cash flows to the company.”

She nods and I don’t miss the flash of approval in her expression.

“Right on the money.”

“Thanks, Coach Lake—or should I call you Amanda? Seems like maybe we should be on a first name basis now.” My attempt at making light of our accidental intimacy fails fantastically if the depth of her scowl tells the score.

“Call me Coach.”

“Coach it is.” I know when not to push it. I shouldn’t contemplate pushing anything. We have no more than a strictly professional relationship. Except that vision of her…

She snaps her fingers.

“Jonesy. Focus. Finance. It’s the only reason you’re here and the only business we have with each other. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Fuck. I’m so far from that mindset I’m ashamed. But I sit up straight, drag my eyes from her, and look at the piece of paper she puts in front of me.

“Now let’s calculate the IRR for the sample company’s Project B.” She goes on, telling me what to write for each step with the explanation of why, and even though I’ve already calculated the rate in my head after step one because I know this shit cold, I don’t mind listening to her explanation because it’s clear and concise, no-nonsense like her. Like her most of the time.