Page 62 of Forbidden Lessons

“Domus mea, domus tua,” she says.

“Gesundheit.”

“It means, my house is your house. In Latin. You know, because we’re a Greek sorority?” When I just keep staring at her, she rolls her eyes. “Wine or beer or shots?”

I laugh, but now she’s just staring at me, waiting. “Uh…soda?”

She chuckles dryly. “Right. ‘Cos it’s so bad for us.”

When she realizes I’m being serious, she murmurs, “God, really?”

She sighs as she struts away.

Am I the only student around here who doesn’t drink?

I perch on the edge of the quilted bed, scanning the room.

Gun to my head, I’d pick Basti—ProfessorRooke’s Fortress of Solitude to this patterned nightmare. There’s a pattern on everything. The wallpaper, the carpet, the quilted bedspreads.

Why is there a rugon top ofthe carpet?

Was the carpet not thick enough? Warm enough? Colorful enough?

I remember I have an unread message and pull my phone out to check.

@rooke.bastian

Thank you for your submission.

Mercy, how professional of him.

I’m sneering as I shove the phone back in my tote bag.

Why wouldn’t he be professional, Haven? He’s your teacher, for heaven’s sake.

Because he put bourbon in my cocoa?

Because he keeps prying into my private life?

Because he’s so fucking gorgeous that all I can think about when I’m with him is what it would feel like to have those strong, expressive hands sliding down my body?

I take my phone out again, stare at the message.

Hesitate.

I should apologize. He went out of his way for me today.

I spend minutes agonizing about what I should say before finally typing out a message. Then another. And another.

@bastian.rooke

Thank you for your submission.

@lee.haven

Sorry about today.

Thx for the book.

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