Page 51 of Dear Mr. Brody

I shouldn’t have come.

“Mr. Brody?”

My head snapped up at the familiar voice, and my heart plummeted into my stomach. Having a student here was the last thing I needed.

“P-Parker? Hi... H-hello.”

“Hey.” He ran a hand over his short hair, his cheeks turning a deep shade of pink as his lips parted with a crooked smile.

“Are you here with friends?” I asked, trying to be polite as I looked around him toward the front door.

“Nah…” Without asking, he slid into the seat across from me. “I’m meeting someone.”

“Oh… That’s—”

Right then, a few obvious things clicked into place, and I’d forgotten what I was about to say.

His shirt. His jeans. Those fucking arms.

Parker’s smile widened as my eyes fell to his navy-blue shirt, the fabric stretching across the expansive muscles of his chest and shoulders. Images of his skin assaulted me, every dip and dent of his abs flickered like a perverted slide show. These things I shouldn’t be privy to. Not him. Not Parker. Holy fucking God, I’d sent my student a picture of my dick. Heat crawled up my neck, burning my face as everything hit me at once. I thought about leaving. I should stand up. I should get the hell out of here right now. I thought about walking through the front door and never looking back, but my legs wouldn’t move. All the things we’d shared...

“Breathe,” he said and reached for my hand across the table.

I moved it quickly to my lap and shook my head. Swallowing down all my regret, I attempted to put on a professional front to save us both from this nightmare.

“I had no idea,” I said, finding my voice. “You have to know that?”

He sat back, his crystal blue gaze penetrating right through me. “Neither did I.”

I wanted to believe him. But in some desperate attempt to salvage my pride, I snapped back. “Are you sure about that?”

“How the fuck would I have known it was you?” he asked, his smile long gone.

I scrubbed a palm down my face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Accuse me of catfishing a professor?” he asked, and I flinched at the word professor. “I’m just as shocked as you are… trust me.” His smile resurfaced, and I hated myself for noticing the dimple in his left cheek, or how handsome he looked at that very moment. “This doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Mr.—”

“God. Stop… don’t call me that.”

“What would you prefer I call you, then? James? Donovan…” He smirked and my stomach flipped. “Van?”

My name in his low, gruff whisper sent an electrical pulse down my spine. Every dirty word he’d sent sounded off in my head in that same deep timbre, and Jesus Christ, it turned me on. I gripped the edge of the table. This was wrong on so many levels.

“This can’t happen.”

“It already happened,” he said matter of fact. “Might as well enjoy ourselves.”

He reached for my beer from across the table, and I clenched my jaw, watching in a mix of shock and fascination as he lifted the bottle to his full lips. Lips I’d never get to taste.

“I need to go.”

“No one’s stopping you, Donovan.” He took another long sip of my beer, his smile confident as he called my bluff.

“You don’t get it…”

“Then, explain it to me,” he said and set my empty bottle on the table. “Because I don’t see a problem. We’re attracted to each other. So what?”

“You’re my student,” I hissed as quietly as possible. “You’re twenty-three years old, for Christ’s sake.”

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