Page 290 of The Winslow Brothers

I nod.

He looks down at his hand again and then back up at me, but this time, he steps forward and grips my elbow gently with his free hand. “And what are these supposed to mean?” he asks, his voice a delicious rasp against my skin.

Fuck, he’s tempting. I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit that fact.

But that’s why I know it’s time for me to go.

“For memories,” I say and gently place my lips against his cheek, but when I take a visible step back and start to turn away from him, he calls out to me.

“Wait…are you leaving?”

“I am.”

His expression is made up of a furrowed brow and confused eyes, and I only offer four final words over my shoulder.

“Thanks for the dance.”

And then, I move my ass through the crowd and right off that dance floor, far away from Mr. Temptation before I do something stupid like change my mind.

Monday, January 7th

Ty

A gust of icy air slaps me across the face, and I pick up the pace as I head toward the English building on Greene Street. Thankfully, we’re still in the middle of winter break at NYU, and I don’t have to jockey through crowds of students to get to my destination.

Though, in about a week’s time, that will all change. The campus will be bursting with energy again, the lecture rooms will be filled, and I’ll be back to spending the majority of my days teaching English Lit to college kids.

Damn, who would’ve thought Ty Winslow would be a tenured English professor at the age of thirty-nine? Ha. Sure as hell not meormy family.

If I’m being honest, when I was eighteen and just starting my first semester at Harvard, I had no idea I’d end up here. I had more interest in the social clubs—which is just a fancy way of hiding the fact that they were fraternities—and women. And boy oh boy, did I havea lotof interest in women. Truthfully, I fucked around for the majority of my freshman year and barely learned a thing.

It took me nearly a year into my undergrad before I declared my major and a year into graduate classes at NYU to actually call it a passion. A pivotal master’s-level class about nineteenth-century American literature with a professor by the name of Nathaniel Rose is what lit a fire under my ass.

He helped me realize my connection with literature and hone it into something I could craft a career out of. He guided me, verbally kicked me in the ass more than a few times when I needed it most, and ended up being one of my biggest mentors.

He’s also the reason I’m here before ten on a Monday morning during winter break.The early bird bastard.

As soon as I set foot inside, wiping the icy slush from the soles of my boots on the entry rug, I’m greeted by Alison, the department’s main receptionist. She’s otherwise known as “the Gatekeeper” and once had dinner with Tony Soprano. Or so I’ve heard. I always thought James Gandolfini was an alias to protect his true identity of Tony by wrapping it in a TV show and calling it made-up, so as far as I’m concerned, it could be true.

Here at NYU, she keeps track of all of the staff’s appointments and class schedules and, I’m sure, a whole bunch of other important shit that comes with the territory. A lot less exciting, sure, but pretty important if you ask me. Because of that, I try to stay on her good side. And if you’re me, the easiest tactic for doing that is flirting.

“Good morning, Professor Winslow,” she all but purrs from her spot behind the main desk, and I offer a friendly smile.

Alison never hesitates to shower me with attention, and I don’t mind it. It’s an innocent little exchange that helps both of us get through our days. I’m a man of few rules when it comes to life,but not fraternizing with my fellow NYU staff or my students is one of the only things I’ve managed to keep as a hard limit.

“Mornin’, Alison.”

I walk behind the reception desk to check my mailbox, and I can hear the metal of her chair squeak as she spins around to face me. “I missed you at the staff Christmas party.”

I glance up from the stack of mail in my hands to find her looking at me with a coquettish lift of one eyebrow. “C’mon, Alison, you know I never go to those things.”

“Well, you should. I would’ve loved to have a drink with you.”

It’s not that I don’t like parties, because, yeah, I do. I would just rather party with people of my choosing, rather than at a work-sanctioned event where the only reason for an invitation is your paycheck.

I slide the stack of mail from my inbox into the front pocket of my leather briefcase and walk back around the reception desk. Alison and her spinny chair follow me the entire way.

“Speaking of drinks…when are you going to take me out for one?”

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