Page 44 of Damaged Professor

But that’s the only thing that I’m willing to give her. “Not until we’re home,” I say, backing up and urging her to sit properly in her own seat. “I’m not going to get a ticket on the way home.” The only thing I’m actually going to do when I get Abby home is clean her up and get her to bed. But I’m not in the business of pissing off drunk ladies, so I’m willing to let her think she’ll be getting whatever she wants. And I’m flattered that it’s me.

Abby’s unhappy about my response, but she does sink back into her seat and lets the words settle around us. I flip the car radio on, so it doesn’t get too quiet on the way back home. Abby keeps it together on the drive and doesn’t try to make any more advances.

It’s not until I’m slowed down to pull onto my own road that I glance over and realize it’s because Abby’s gone to sleep in her seat. She’s slouched against the passenger door, her face flushed with liquor, and the sweetest expression settled there.

I smile at her, promising her sleeping form, “We’re going to work something out, Abby. I promise,” and then I get us pulled into the driveway. My focus is on getting Abby bundled up and moved into the house.

And I know that this is one promise that I have to keep.

Ashton was right... The issue is with me. Not Abby, or the college, or even Sara. I’m scared of opening up. I'm the one who instilled the fear in Abby of us getting caught and what it would mean for me. But really that's not the holdup. I guess my brother does know me better than I give him credit for.

I love her and that’s all that matters. I can’t risk losing Abby. She’s quickly come to mean far, far too much to me for that to happen.

Chapter twenty-five

Abby

Ugh.

Waking up with a hangover is a shit experience, and an instantly recognizable one. Before I even open my eyes, I know that I had way too much to drink. I vaguely remember going to the bar with Nichole last night. Clearly, I got absolutely wasted. And now I’ve got a headache the size of the Rio Grande, raging behind my eyes.

I roll onto my side without opening them again, pressing my face into the pillow and groaning. I dig my fingers into the pillow, pulling it up against my chest. I lay like that for a long time before finally managing to pull myself up into a sitting position and opening my eyes.

I’m not in my own house. I’m not in Nichole’s room. I’m not in a stranger’s room. It just takes a quick look around to tell that I’ve been brought into Dylan’s room. The ending of last night is more than a little bit foggy, but I manage to get my head on straight enough that, despite the headache, I can sort of remember Dylan showing up at the bar.

Standing up, I note that I’m still wearing the original outfit from yesterday. My bra is gone, but I’m pretty sure that got left in the sink at Cowboy’s Stand.

That’s right. A light bulb goes off in my mind about what a gentleman Dylan had been last night. I remember a kiss, but that’s it. And it doesn’t look like he slept in here, either.

A quick check of the master bathroom proves that he’s not in there either. I walk over to the door, opening it just a crack. The scent of bacon cooking fills the air, making my mouth water and my stomach growl. I step into the hallway, barefoot—he took my shoes and socks off before getting me into bed—my feet padding over the hardwood floor.

I pause in the entrance to the kitchen, just so I can take in the view for a moment. The stove is busily cooking away, Dylan is standing next to it manning the pans. There’s a plate on one of the marble countertops that’s already filled up with scrambled eggs and another that he’s filling up with bacon. The sound of it sizzling floods through the air, and I suddenly find myself starving despite my headache.

He doesn’t seem to notice that I’m standing here. Dylan has his back to me and is seemingly super focused on the task at hand. He’s wearing a pair of dark blue sweatpants that hang slightly down on the curve of his hips. There’s no shirt on though, just bare broad skin that’s a true treat to look at.

I know that this isn’t going to happen again. Getting drunk isn’t the way that I normally deal with my problems. I recall texting Dylan, which is no doubt why he came to pick me up.

I stand there a few minutes longer than I probably should, and I just take in the way that he looks, making sure to lock the image in my mind. Just then, he turns around to grab something and catches me in his vision. A smile splits over his face. “There you are. I was wondering if the smell of bacon would rouse you.”

I crack a smile at him. “I do love your cooking.”

“Come steal a piece, and then head on to the table. I have coffee on the table for you and some aspirin. I’ll be in with the rest in just a sec.” Dylan gestures at the pan. “This is my last batch.”

Smiling back at him, I snag a strip off the plate at his side. It’s cooked perfectly, crisp but not burned at the edges, with the right amount of grease left shimmering on each piece. I think that there must be a trick to it, but it’s certainly not one that I’ve ever seen before. It would be easy to love a man who can cook bacon like this forever.

Whatever it is, the salty meat crunches between my back molars as I make my way to the table. I pour myself a cup of coffee and add cream. It almost smells better than the bacon. I wash down the aspirin that Dylan has set out for me with my first drink. It doesn’t take long before he has joined me in the dining room with the plates of food, and soon there are scrambled eggs and bacon, both of them perfectly cooked, sitting in front of me.

I use the bacon to scoop up the eggs and spend a few moments just filling my stomach. The best cure to a hangover is a greasy breakfast—this whole meal was clearly made with me in mind. Speaking of hangovers, a wave of embarrassment washes through me.

I take a pause from inhaling my food to say, “I want to apologize for yesterday.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” says Dylan. “Nothing happened, and I got to see you more than we had originally planned.”

“I know,” I insist. “But I’m sorry. You had to drive out there, and I made a fool out of myself—”

“Stop it,” says Dylan, a little more firmly than I’m used to. “You didn’t make a fool out of yourself. I didn’t mind coming and getting you. I’m sorry that you were upset. I spoke with Nichole. She told me about the email that you got. I know you were—”

The email.

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