Page 159 of Forbidden Lessons

I huff out a laugh as I pull into a parking spot inside the small strip mall just off Hollow Way. It’s only a short walk from here to the diner, and was one place I used to park my car overnight until I discovered Lookout Point.

I’m early.

And too nervous to wait in the car.

I climb out of the Land Rover, straightening my faded jeans and button up blouse. It’s old-fashioned, what with its pastel pink and green floral fabric, but it’s one of the nicer things I own.

I’m already heading for the taco stand before I clap a hand over my ass pocket of my jeans.

Shit, my money.

Time to get a wallet. But that will have to wait until I find the money for a pair of sturdy sandals to replace my disintegrating flip-flops.

I lean into the car, scraping my AHC tote bag toward me over the seat and rummaging around for my money.

Where the hell…?

I upend the tote on the driver’s seat, pawing through everything that falls out. A backpack might be a good idea, too. Something with pockets.

Oh. Right. Maybe Bastian saw the money and put it in the Land Rover’s console or something. I look around, see a notch in the plastic molding, and shove my hand in there.

“At least your punctuality has improved since you started college,” Bastian says behind me.

I jerk my hand out of the console, but it’s not because he gave me fright.

It’s because I stuck my hand into something wet and sticky and gross. It could be some kind of sixth sense thing, but as soon as I touch it, I know that it’s cum.

And I know it belongs to Kai.

That motherfucking psycho was in my car.

Bastian’s car.

The car Professor Rookeloanedme.

I spin around, shoving my hand into my back pocket and trying to wriggle it around in there to get all the cum off my fingers.

“Hi. Uh. Yeah. But, uh, you’re punctual also, so, uh, there’s that.” What the hell am I babbling about?

Professor Rooke lets out a dry chuckle, his hand going into his back pocket too.

Fuck me, he looks good. Light wash jeans, ripped at both knees. White sneakers and an olive green t-shirt made from such lightweight fabric, it drapes every muscle on his just-athletic-enough frame in just the right way.

And here I am in my granny blouse, my flip-flops one flop away from flipping off.

But Bastian doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he hasn’t evenlookedat my clothes. He’s been looking into my eyes with the same frank stare he always has around me.

Around everyone, I guess. I really have to stop thinking I’m different.

But I guess that’s what I’m trying to find out, isn’t it?

All this stuff he’s doing for me feels like way too much. But maybe that’s just who he is. If I had his kind of money, I’d be generous with it too. But my time? My attention? Maybe not so much.

Could be different for a teacher, though. His job is to care.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m ordering nachos and at least six tacos. You’re hungry too, right?”

My laugh sounds forced, but he doesn’t seem to pick up on it. He turns to the taco stand on the other side of the parking lot, beckoning me to follow when I hang back.

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