Page 8 of Arrogant Professor

Until they realized I was the fuck up. The disappointment swept under the proverbial rug of the impeccable Roche reputation. So, I didn’t do relationships. It was bad enough enduring the disappointment of my family. I didn’t need to endure it from a boyfriend, too.

For a split second, I entertained the idea of climbing out the window. My hangover would make that dangerous though. Splitting headache, wobbly legs, shitty balance. Nope, the window was not an option.

Easing the door open, I found myself at the end of a hallway, with a bathroom on my right. The sharp scent of coffee rose in the air. Silverware tinkled softly. All I had to do was get cleaned up really quick, then make my excuses for a hasty exit, dodging the dreaded pleasantries over breakfast. With no purse or phone, and no clue where I was, I didn’t know how I would find my way back to my dorm, but I’d figure out that pesky little detail later.

Tiptoeing into the bathroom, I grimaced when I got a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Smudged mascara, rumpled and stained clothes, faded lipstick. And to think I’d hooked up with someone looking like this…

Next to the sink was a stack of toiletries—a folded towel, a bottle of water, painkillers, a new toothbrush still in the package, a men’s gray t-shirt, and a pair of men’s sweatpants. I rifled through the items, hoping for an identifying note.

Nothing.

At least I could make myself presentable, even if I didn’t remember who I’d slept with last night.

After washing my face and finger combing my hair back into a ponytail, I popped a few of the painkillers, and got dressed. The clothes were far too big on my frame, but they were soft, with a hint of that caramel-bourbon-cologne scent I’d smelled on the sheets when I woke up.

It was driving me crazy that I couldn’t put my finger on why it was so familiar…

With a bracing breath, I reluctantly emerged from the bathroom and prepared to face the music. I followed the scent of coffee until I found the kitchen. A man stood by the stove, his back turned to the room. Despite my desire to get the hell out of here as soon as possible, I couldn’t help spending a few precious seconds admiring the view. His white t-shirt was a perfectly snug fit on his broad shoulders and trim torso. The sweatpants he wore couldn’t hide his tight, firm ass that made my palms itch with the urge to squeeze it.

Maybe I could get a second round of sex before I left—as a parting gift. Now that I was sober, I would appreciate it more, and I wanted to remember getting my hands all over this guy...whoever he was.

Then he turned around. And my stomach dropped.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Roche. I was just about to wake you. Good morning.”

Holy shit. I slept with Professor Stonebridge? That must have been the hottest sex of my life. And I had no memory of it.

“Hi,” I said hesitantly.

My plan to bail as quickly as possible was in shambles. My flings were usually guys my age who fell into one of two categories—fuck boys with commitment issues, or hopeless romantics who got clingy and were practically frothing at the mouth to call me wife after spending the night together.

But I’d never slept with an older man before, let alone a professor. Should I make a break for the door like I usually did?

Deep down, I had to admit I secretly liked the idea of having Professor Stonebridge all to myself.

I tugged at the hem of my borrowed t-shirt, prickly hot all over with self-consciousness. He was just so…gorgeous. And put-together. Even his bed head looked artfully tousled.

I felt like I’d been through a meat grinder in comparison.

Wow, Elle, you really are a fuck up, aren’t you?

Stonebridge offered a plate to me with a picture-perfect golden omelet, ruby red strawberries on the side, and sausage links still sizzling from the pan.

“You should eat something,” he said. “It will help ward off that hangover.”

What I should be doing is leaving, but I accepted the plate anyway. Stonebridge pulled out a chair and gestured to the table.

“Please, sit.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled, lowering myself stiffly into the seat. Picking up my fork, I speared a chunk of strawberry. “So…last night.”

Stonebridge turned away as he poured two cups of coffee. I studied the breadth of his back, the tight stretch of fabric over his muscles when he moved. I always knew the professor was in good shape underneath those stuffy suits and starched shirts, but seeing him like this was a feast for the eyes everywhere I looked.

“About that,” Stonebridge said. “We should keep it between us.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to hide a smile. Of course we should. Everyone in class would want to know what the straitlaced professor was like in the sack, and now I had the details…if only I could remember them.

Not that I intended to brag about sleeping with my professor. I’m sure I would make a slew of enemies with an announcement like that—banging the hot teacher everyone was drooling over. And I didn’t even do it to boost my grades.

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