Page 1 of Sinful Professor

One

I’m smiling as I turn down the hallway that will take me to the rear exit of the building, and also by the office of Dr. Brock Rush. He’s been teaching here for the last two years. And for the last six months, I’ve noticed that on Thursdays, when I normally knock off for the day, he’s always playing and singing. Either accompanying himself on the piano or the guitar. And it’s never been the same song twice. And never something I’ve heard before.

So, he must be writing the songs himself.

Of course, he teaches music theory and digital music production, so it makes sense. But for someone with no musical talent whatsoever, I find it completely unfathomable that he can create something so…beautiful.

As I approach, I hear the piano first. My steps slow and then I hear his gorgeous voice.

“Tell me you’ll want me forever…”

My heart flutters in my chest at the emotion I can hear in his voice. My breath stalls as I wait for the next words, but it’s just him humming the melody. He continues like this, bits and pieces of lyrics mixed with humming. As if the words aren’t coming to him this time. Although the melody is as beautiful as all the others I’ve heard.

I take a deep breath and look down at the paper in my hand. He was the first person I thought of when I opened the email. And while the dean of the School of Music approved the posting of the flyer, I knew right away that I wanted to make him aware of it personally. Even if he’s already aware of it, I want him to know that what he’s done so far has made an impression on me. And I think he has a very good chance of winning.

Roll With It, the city’s hometown multi-Grammy-winning band, is sponsoring a songwriting contest to support music education in public schools. It’s a three-tiered competition. The first submissions will be judged by a panel of volunteers, all of whom have some degree of musical experience. From there, they will narrow the pool down to twenty. The second submission will be judged by Roll With It, who will select the final four competitors. Then, after writing a third and final song, the winner will be decided by a nationwide vote.

The winner gets a quarter of a million in prize money, plus the chance to record their own album or write an albums’ worth of songs for other recording artists to use and they will earn a percentage of the royalties for each. The reason for the choice is because they don’t want any music educators to feel pressured into leaving their positions if they win. So, the option is there for them to continue teaching while also reaping the benefits of their talent.

In my mind, Dr. Brock Rush is already the winner. And in my darkest fantasy, he writes a song for me. The simple, nerdy, career-driven woman who’s too shy to put herself out there again. A woman so self-conscious about her appearance because of her last relationship that she usually blends into the background. Only seen and heard when necessary.

So, the fact that I’m actually standing outside his office door, desperate to knock and tell him why I’m here, is a miracle in and of itself. I take a deep breath and silently curse when I see that I’ve crumpled the flyer. Completely frazzled, I place the paper on his door and try to smooth it out.

Stupid.

I’m so focused on that; I never notice the music has stopped. But I do notice when the lock turns. I gasp in surprise, and the door is pulled open so quickly that I lose my balance. As I fall forward, he steps back in shock. Just far enough for me to face-plant in his crotch as he tries and fails to stop my forward progress.

What I feel pressed against my face is enough to send my mind to a very dark place. A low moan leaves me. Then his grip tightens on my shoulders as he starts to pull me upright. As I straighten my glasses with my free hand, I drag my eyes up his torso. His chest is heaving. And when I’m steady on my feet, my eyes lock with his as he steps almost close enough for his chest to brush mine. His are the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. And they’re almost hard as he stares down at me.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

“I’m not sure that I am,” he growls back.

I shudder. And a delightful smirk tickles the edges of his finely shaped lips. I run my tongue over my bottom lip. His eyes drop to follow the action, then he frowns and steps back until there’s at least foot of space between us. But he’s still gripping my shoulders.

“Are you okay?” he rasps.

“Yes,” I breathe. “Thank you for not letting me fall.”

He smirks at this. Then tilts his head as if he’s confused.

“I’ve never seen you before. Are you a student here?”

Heat flushes my face as I look down. Because I’m almost thirty. So, for him to think that I’m so young is a bit flattering.

“No,” I say slowly. “I’m the financial secretary for the School of Music.”

His hands grip me a little tighter. And I swear I hear him growl. Then he closes the distance between us again, forcing me to look up so I don’t smash my face in his chest. Not necessarily a bad thing, but there’s no need to get that personal with another part of him so soon.

Unfortunately.

This time, when our eyes meet, his expression has changed completely. His smile is what you would call panty-dropping. And if I were in a skirt, I believe mine would be on the floor. A soft breath leaves me, and I clench my hands into fists against his chest.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Sadie,” I breathe. “Sadie Smith.”

“Sadie,” he says in a low voice. “I’m Brock Rush.”

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