Page 45 of Damaged Professor

I don’t want to talk about that.

It’s the last thing that I want to talk about, actually.

I shake my head, and tell him, “Look, I was hoping that I could get a shower? I can’t make you drive me home while I smell this much like a hangover.”

He looks startled. “Aren’t you hungry?”

I am. But it’s hitting me that if I sit here and have breakfast with him, then I’m going to end up having to talk about the email. And even worse, I’m going to have to talk about the fact that our relationship has to come to an end.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Schooling my expression into something more normal, I make one last bacon and egg scoop, and then tell him, “It’s amazing, Dylan. Really. But my stomach’s just—” I stick out my tongue. “You know how it is the morning after.”

“Greasy food has always helped settle my hangovers,” says Dylan, sounding and looking a little put out.

Over my shoulder, I call out to him, “I won’t be long!”

He doesn’t answer. Damn, I hope that he’s not too hurt. I feel terrible. If I hadn’t gotten wasted last night and texted him like an idiot, then I wouldn’t be crushing him this morning. We would just be—it would all be—everything would be fine.

Well, not fine at all.

But at least I wouldn’t have to break up with him face to face in his own house.

As soon as I get up to the bedroom, I strip out of my clothes, carrying them into the bathroom with me. I’m lamenting the loss of one of my nice bras. I wonder if Nichole thought to grab it for me. If not, hopefully some lucky gal gained a new piece of clothing. I’ve got too much pride to walk back into that bar again and ask if my bra is still there.

I lay my clothes out on the counter and then flick on the water in the shower, standing at the edge of it while it pounds against the floor and starts to heat up. Everything that Dylan owns is so nice. One of the perks of having a lot of money, it seems, is that you’re able to get anything that you want. Like a hot water heater that takes almost no time at all to start spitting out blessedly hot water.

Stepping into the heavy spray, I give a groan. The door slides shut behind me. I reach up, adjusting the rain shower head so that it hits me more fully, even as I lean against the tile wall on the far side. The water hits my skin, splashing onto my face, and running over my breasts.

I close my eyes, as I try to let the heat and the sound of the water hitting the porcelain help sort out my thoughts, and my headache.

I don’t want to lose him.

The indecision is crippling. I start to sink down the length of the wall, only to freeze and hitch where I’m slumped over when I hear a strange sound. Is that someone in the bedroom? Not wanting Dylan to peek in and see me sitting on the floor like a sad lump, I jump back straight onto my feet. I use one hand to clear the fog from the glass of the doors, leaning close to it.

The sound again. A footstep, and then another one. I crack open the sliding door to the shower, peeking out. Cold air slams into my face, making me shudder. “Dylan?”

“It's just me,” says Dylan. “Don’t worry. There aren’t any creepers lurking around here.”

I let out a relieved sigh and close the door. Rationally, I figure that he’s just come up to get dressed for the day. Turning to grab one of the shampoo options from the corner shelf, I use my thumb to pop open the top of it. The scent of coconut mixes with the heavy fog in the air, curling together in a way that’s almost dizzying.

My eyes slip shut. I’ve only just started lathering my hair when there’s another sound behind me. I don’t want to open my eyes and get soap in them, so I tilt my head back, starting to rinse the soap out early. I ask again, “Dylan, is that you?”

“Just me,” says Dylan, much closer this time. He’s in the bathroom with me. I can hear the slap of bare feet against the tile floor, and then the shower door slides open. Dylan steps into the enclosed space with me.

I jerk a little bit, cracking my eyes open.

The doors slide shut again, letting the heat fill the shower once more. Dylan plants one hand on my side and tells me, “It’s me, Abby. Relax. I just really, really wanted to come and join you.”

His touch on my side is protective and strong. It’s amazing how the physical connection with him is truly grounding. It makes me feel so safe.

And it’s his house, so who am I to disagree?

Chapter twenty-six

Dylan

Thewaterishotwhen it crashes against my back. It runs down the slope of my neck and soaks me in a matter of seconds. Abby finishes washing her hair out and then turns to face me. The moment that she does, I curl one hand against her cheek, brushing my thumb beneath the curve of her eye. I keep the touch light. She’s never been this jumpy around me before. Sara’s going to pay for this.

I drop one of my arms down to her waist and the other to her shoulder, pulling her in for a hug. The warm water washes down around us, and I find myself pressing gentle kisses to the corner of her mouth moving up to the side of her temple.

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