Page 144 of Teacher's Pet

“Annoyed,” I snap, my fingers tightening around my shot glass. “Because you’re talking to me about it. You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Noah left-”

“Why does that sound like you blame me for him leaving?” Elijah scoffs, setting his glass down with a sharp clink. “He was using you-”

“I’m done talking about it,” I cut him off, swallowing down the fresh sting of memories—the look in Noah’s eyes, the scars I barely had time to process. “I don’t have anything left to say.”

But the question lingers, unwanted and relentless.

What the hell could Noah have done to earn scars like that?

He mentioned his brother was visiting, but I didn’t even know he had any connection to his family. Now that I think about it, I don’t know anything about Noah’s past.

“Fine,” Elijah huffs, exhaling sharply. “How’s your dad?”

I narrow my eyes. He gets the hint.

“Or,” he pivots, dragging out the word, “we can just ask Meg-” He turns, scanning the bar.

“Where did she go?”

“Fucking three down, bitches!” Meg’s drunken war cry echoes from across the room.

I follow Elijah’s gaze just in time to see her at the pool table, pointing dramatically at some poor frat guy as she challenges him to a drinking contest. She’s swaying on her feet, a red Solo cup clutched in her hand like a weapon.

With an exaggerated sigh, Elijah crushes his empty cup and moves without a word, already prepared to catch her before she inevitably face-plants.

Smiling at her drunken foolishness, I wave down the bartender, tapping the counter for another shot.

Thank God for fake IDs.

“Throw her drink on my tab,” a deep, husky voice cuts in, smooth and confident.

I glance up, and for the second time tonight, I feel the ground shift beneath me.

He’s handsome, really fucking handsome. Not as good-looking as Noah, but pretty damn close. His light brown eyes gleam under the dim bar lights, framed by a head of tousled, dark curls that look just messy enough to be intentional. When his lips pull into a smirk, I find myself glaring at his perfectly straight teeth, almost annoyed at how flawless they are. The only imperfection, if you can even call it that, is the thin scar slashing across his cheek. It should make him look rougher, less put together, but instead, it does the opposite. It makes my pulse skip in a way that’s more thrilling than it is curious.

“Care if I sit?” His voice is smooth, edged with confidence, the kind that comes naturally to men who know they always get what they want. His clothes scream money, tailored to perfection, expensive fabrics that don’t belong in a place like this.

I glance around for Elijah, but he’s already deep into a drinking game with Meg, laughing as he tosses back another shot.

“Be my guest.” I pat the empty seat next to me, flashing a coy smile.

As he settles in, he snaps his fingers at the bartender with an effortless authority that makes the poor guy jump to attention.

“Get her a shot of the good stuff. Top shelf.” He grins, his voice dripping with amusement.

The bartender nods without question and excuses himself to fulfill the request, not even bothering to ask for a card.

“The good stuff?” I arch a brow, turning to him with a smirk. “You know that shit is, like, eighty bucks a shot, right?”

“Is it?” He feigns surprise, lifting his glass to his lips. “Guess that means you’ll have to sit here and talk to me to make up for it.”

I’m well aware of how I look tonight. This dress leaves little to the imagination. Tight, black, and clinging to every curve like it was made for me. I opted to ditch most of my undergarments, leaving only a pair of panties beneath the fabric, a decision I don’t regret as I notice his not-so-subtle glances at my chest. Let him look. If it keeps the expensive tequila flowing, who am I to complain?

The bartender returns, setting the shot glass in front of me with careful precision. I pick it up, tilting my head as I study my new drinking companion.

“Anastasia Burns.” I introduce myself before tossing the shot back effortlessly, the smooth burn sliding down my throat.

He watches me, amused. “Jake Antonov.” He sips his bourbon, eyes never leaving mine.

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