Page 53 of Lunar Crest University

I’m growing more impatient by the second at her nagging questions, and that only fuels the anger lying dormant in my blood. Even my skin is warm. Anger issues are nothing new to me, but the last thing I want to do is explode from annoyance and freak everyone in a ten-foot radius out. My fingers flex on my thigh as I focus on breathing in and out calmly.

Luckily, the waiter returns with our food, interrupting Genevieve’s persistence. I watch as he sets down a simple salmon dish in front of Finley, cocking my head slightly as her eyes meet mine. Her and that childlike palate. I know the same thought flickers through her head, taking us back to that night in her apartment when she sat on my face, because I can see the way her nipples harden beneath her thin dress.

No fucking bra.

My jaw clenches so hard, I swear, a molar could crack.

For a moment, I can’t fathom that she would’ve had an inkling to do that on purpose, because I’m just a fucking unhinged guy who needs to get laid, but then, the toe of her boot slides up my calf slowly. She even orders another glass of wineas she does it, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to clamor across this table and take her right here.

I need to get my shit together. Right fucking now.

“What are you both majoring in?” I clear my throat into my fist after I speak, looking down at my plate and taking a bite in an attempt to compose myself.

Of course, Genevieve answers first. “I’m getting my bachelor’s in English. I plan on going into sports journalism.”

I nod, chewing my food before looking up at Finley.

“I, uh…” She trails off, licking her lips. “I’m majoring in English, but I don’t really know what I want to do with it, I guess.”

Her revelation is surprising—as much as she tries to be so put together all the time, I would’ve guessed her career path was set in stone. There is nothing wrong with feeling indecisive about the future, but it’s also not my place to speak on it. I’m a former hitman, for fuck’s sake. My life is a complete shit show.

“Don’t you only have this year left?” Genevieve counters.

“Yes.”

Genevieve raises a single brow before sipping her wine.

“Still time to decide.” Finley shrugs, picking at her food. And there she goes again, her confidence faltering as her demeanor changes.

“Nothing wrong with that,” I say coolly.

“What about you?” Genevieve directs the attention onto me, and from the way she twists in her chair to face me, her knee brushing mine, she’s been itching for it all night. “Was it your lifelong dream to become a British Lit professor?”

“No.”

The word leaves my mouth abruptly—a clear sentiment I won’t be continuing this conversation or entertaining her minuscule advances. Her knee withdraws from my space as I hear her suck in a deep breath before pushing back from thetable. Bundling up her cloth napkin, she tosses it next to her still-full plate as she excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

Thank fucking God.

“I feel like I’m third wheeling on a date,” Finley says, swirling her wine glass in her hand before setting it down on the table.

My chest heaves as I stare over at her. The tension is palpable despite the open dining room. “I thought you didn’t have a problem with her?”

“Idon’t.”

I hum skeptically.

Her pink cheeks are flushed a deep crimson now as her nostrils flare, and I think that’s my new favorite color. As flustered as she appears, due to a mixture of her anger and the alcohol in her system, I can still see the hardened pebbles beneath her dress. It’s nowhere near cold in this restaurant. A smirk flitters along my lips because she’s turned on, and the thought of her being angry at me makes my cock strain against my slacks.

“I have a problem with feeling like I don’t exist when I’m sitting righthere.” She pushes up from the table, the chair scraping against the floor loudly.

“Finley—”

“I’m going back to the hotel.”

I scoff. “Not by yourself.”

“Yes,” she grumbles. “By myself. Goodnight, Professor Serrano.”

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