Page 22 of Damaged Professor

“It is,” I say. “No strings attached. Just so that you aren’t so distracted by me.”

He tilts his head back, looking up at the bright white lights above us for the moment. I want this to happen so badly, I lean forward and place both of my hands on his chest, and then I kiss him again, a little lower down on his face, and a third time, just on the curve of his jaw.

Dylan finally looks back at me. For a moment, his face is carefully blank. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. And then a smile splits across it, big and dazzling. “Alright. I think that I wouldn’t mind trying something like that.”

“Good,” I say, happy and relieved. “Good. Then—we should try that.”

“Yeah.” Dylan smiles at me. “We should.”

Chapter twelve

Dylan

Thesoundofthedoorbell ringing echoes through my house, and I hurry to get the door. Right before I pull it open, I pause, taking a moment to smooth the wrinkles out of the front of my burgundy button up. I know that this isn’t actually a date, but I’ve tried to make it seem, you know, like it’s not a booty call either. I want her to know that she’s the only person I’m sleeping with.

She’s the only one that I WANT to be sleeping with, too.

The doorbell rings again. I open the door, trying not to let the touch of nerves that I’m struggling with show on my face. “Abby. I’m glad you could make it.” I pause, as my mouth catches up with my eyes. “Wow, you look amazing.”

It’s true.

Abby is wearing a bright yellow blouse with a large dip in the front and long, off the shoulder sleeves, paired with a tight, black mini skirt. Her hair is pinned back with a series of pearl clips, and there’s just a touch of glitter in the gloss that she’s applied to her lips.

“Thanks.” Abby’s cheeks go a little pink. It’s late afternoon, and my street is busier than usual behind her. There’s a flash of something, and for a moment I have the irrational thought that someone has just taken our picture. Then I realize it’s just the way that the late afternoon sunlight is hitting the glass of a neighbor's windows across the street.

Still, it’s a strong reminder as to why we’re having dinner at my house instead of going out to eat. I want us to have a private moment, where we don’t need to worry about what anyone else is thinking, or who might be looking. We need to be careful and follow the rules we set for our—kind of relationship. That’s the only way this could work given the circumstances.

Ushering her inside, Abby tells me, “This is going to sound stupid. But have you ever seen the movie Double Shots?”

“No?” I close the door, locking it out of habit. “I’m not much for movies.”

“My—” Abby closes her mouth, thinks on whatever she’s saying and then tries it again. “Someone that I used to know was a huge movie buff. And there’s this old spy movie that he used to watch all the time. Double Shots. There was this romance between the lead spy and a double agent for the other side. And that’s all I can think about.”

I laugh. “What, sneaking off to my house to gather inlet? I’m so curious. Where do you think I’ve got my valuables hidden?”

She steps past me and into the kitchen, setting her purse down on the island counter before she turns and heads over to the paintings. Her fingers run over the glass of the frame, and then she taps her pointer against it. Her nail makes a sharp sound on impact—clack, clack, clack.

“Behind your prized artwork, clearly,” says Abby. And then, tilting her head back a little bit, “God, that smells incredible.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. It’s just about finished though.” I move over to the stove, pulling out the large glass baking dish. While the chicken sets—you never cut into meat right after it comes out, or else you’ll lose all of the juices and it’s just going to get dry on you—I get us each a glass of wine.

It’s so much like our first night together that it almost hurts.

I wonder if Abby is thinking the same thing; that we really had something special that night. Or maybe, she’s thinking about how we wouldn’t be forced into this song and dance if she just hadn’t come home with me.

I’ve never wanted to be able to read someone’s mind more than now. But I don’t get the chance to dwell on it either, because soon the plates are set and we’re both at the long glass top table in the dining room. It’s a large area with dark wooden beams up in the ceiling and more prints hung up and framed on the wall.

“Where did you learn to cook?” Abby asks, digging into her dinner. It’s bourbon basted chicken, served with mushrooms and green beans cooked in a brown butter sauce, with a swirl of garlic on the side.

“I was in Paris for a while when I was younger, and one of my friends was going through culinary school,” I explain. “It’s hard not to pick up a couple of things that way.”

She laughs. “Paris? Wow. That’s—that’s amazing. I went through a few countries in Europe but didn’t get as far as France. We were closer to Germany.”

“Do you know any German?”

“Only a few basic lines. You know, the tourist phrases.”

“I had to learn French, but let me tell you, everyone wished that I hadn’t. My accent’s atrocious,” I tell her. “Even now, it sounds more like I’m trying to gargle marbles. Just listen to the way this sounds. Je n'ai jamais pu trouver la bonne cadence."

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