Page 10 of Filthy Professor

Me: Sounds good. I’ll make the peanut-butter sandwiches.

That comment got a “LOL” from my sister before I pulled out of the parking ramp and headed back toward the freeway. How had this day gotten so messed up and so amazing at the same time? I turned up the Elvis station as “Bossa Nova Baby” came through the speakers. They sure were pulling out the more obscure Elvis songs today, which I could appreciate. I bounced along, some of my worries dissipating as I listened to the King. A night with my sister was just what I needed to think through this situation with Harrison. I needed to call him, at the very least, so I could still write my story. The feelings that bubbled to the surface so quickly made me run. I was too overcome with emotion and got out of there to clear my head. His presence was intoxicating, and I couldn’t trust myself to make a rational decision if I stayed.

I sighed. Did I want to be rational? No, but I needed to. Elvis broke through my thoughts, crooning about how there was no time for a drink and no time to think. I snorted, realizing I was overthinking. Instead of continuing to analyze, I lost myself in the music and sang along until I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building.

I headed up quickly as my phone buzzed in my pocket. A smile crossed my face—it was probably Emma asking what booze would go best with a PB&B (peanut butter and banana sandwich). After setting my stuff down, I unlocked my phone to see it was a text from a number I didn’t recognize but had a Chicago area code.

Unknown: Hey, Kat. It’s Harrison. I got your number from your editor. Thought I’d make it easier on you to finish the interview since you ran out so quickly.

I flopped down on a stool at my kitchen island, my mind going into overdrive again as I reread the last sentence. Was he pissed I ran out? Quickly, I saved him as a contact in my phone, and another message came in.

Harrison: I hope you made it back okay.

Guilt flooded through me as I blew out a breath.

Me: I just got back. Thank you for reaching out. Can you chat at nine tomorrow to finish the interview?

Biting my lip, I wondered if I should say more. At least reference how fun the sex was, but that felt super awkward. I already missed the easy flirting we’d had before having sex. Now it was like we weren’t sure what to say.

Harrison: Yes, I can. Talk to you then.

My face fell at the professional, fun-less response. I wasn’t sure whether to look forward to that call or dread it. There wasn’t time to think about it, though, as a knock came at my door. I went and opened it to my sister, Emma, wearing her Elvis pajama pants and holding a bottle of peanut-butter whiskey. “I figured this would pair well?”

I snorted and stepped back to let her in. “I better go change. My outfit is all wrong for this.”

She pointed a finger at me before heading over and setting the bottle on the island. “Damn straight. I didn’t get us matching pj’s for them to go to waste. Go quick. I’ll pour you a shot for when you return.” She spun toward the cabinets, her reddish-brown hair spinning with her. Although hers was a shade darker than mine, it was also wavy and bounced against her shoulders.

“Be right back,” I said, making my way to my bedroom to change into my matching pajama pants, complete with the King’s face and banana peels against a yellow background. After pulling on a purple T-shirt, I joined my sister at the kitchen island and laughed when I saw the Elvis shot glasses she’d bought me were set out with the amber liquid already poured into them.

As Emma slid one toward me, she said, “Okay, spill, and I don’t mean the whiskey.”

I pursed my lips before we took the shot. Setting the glass back down, I met her eyes, which reflected my own green, but with flecks of brown—our Dad’s eyes. “I would argue about why you think something is going on, but . . .”

“It’d be a waste of breath. I know you, Kat. Something happened today to rock your world. Now, what was it?”

I snorted. “Literally had my world rocked.”

Her mouth dropped open. “What? You slept with the professor? Lord, how old is he, like 60?”

“Shut up! More like 40.”

“Oh, that’s not old at all. So what’s the matter? He was good, it sounds like?”

“Holy hell. You have no idea.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Okay, so what’s wrong then?”

I rolled my eyes. “I was supposed to be there interviewing him, learning more about him, and—”

“Sounds like you did.”

“But sleeping with my subjects isn’t the point of the assignment,” I grumbled.

Emma poured us another round of shots. “First of all, it wasn’t subjects, unless you’re leaving out that you had a threesome, and second, still better than banging your editor.”

I glared at her.

“What? You know I’m right.” Emma threw back her shot. “So, why did you sleep with him?”

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