Page 43 of To Professor, With Love (Forbidden Men 2)

I soaked in his phone number he’d scribbled in at the bottom of the page, memorizing it even as I commanded my eyes to look away.

But, oh wow, he’d left me a sweet, considerate letter. And his words actually worked. The panic I’d been experiencing a split second after waking up unwillingly drained from my system.

We hadn’t done anything that bad after all. Or had we and he just wanted to sugarcoat it? Shit, I couldn’t remember much of what had happened, but Noel seemed to think we were still in the clear, so I refused to get worried.

Except all day long, little puzzle pieces of my memory kept returning, reminding me of some of the things I’d said to him. I seriously couldn’t believe I’d squeezed his arm at the bar and asked if women liked to clutch his muscles while he had sex with them. No, I must’ve dreamed that one up. I don’t care how wasted I’d been, I would never say—

Oh, God. I had, hadn’t I? This was so horrifying. How was I supposed to show my face in class again? How could I even step foot on campus?

As Sunday progressed, I kept biting my fingernails and glancing at the phone, just knowing some university administrator was going to call and fire me.

Then another memory would plague me, like the one where Noel Gamble had picked me up, and I’d wound my legs around his waist while he’d kissed me senseless against a wall. Or when he’d rubbed me through my panties. My stomach heated and thighs turned rubbery. Even as vague and blurry as the memories were, they had the power to stir me until I was a hot, wanton mess.

I knew I should be utterly embarrassed and scandalized. I’d just thrown my code of ethics and morals out the window, and I’d chosen one of the biggest playboys on campus to do it with. I was appalled at myself. Kind of. All the flattery kept choking out my honorable thoughts, though, because I was utterly thrilled that Noel Gamble, the guy who turned me on like no one else, the man who’d charmed me with his literature essay and entrusted me with his biggest secrets had actually wanted me. He could have any girl on campus—prettier, younger, and more fashionable with a personality much more lively than mine.

Wait. Noel Gamble could have any girl he wanted. So why had he chosen me? I wasn’t all that and a bag of potato chips.

With a dreaded gulp, I pressed my hand to my chest and tried to combat the sinking feeling dropping heavily into my gut. This didn’t have anything to do with that essay he’d written, did it? Because he now had insurance that I would never spill his secret to university administration. I’d be fired for sure if anyone found out I’d fooled around with a student. There wasn’t any such regulation for students. Just for faculty. If I even thought about telling anyone about his false high school GPA, he could wave this in my face; it would get me kicked out of Ellamore just as surely as if I’d had sex with him.

And smart Gamble, he hadn’t even had to lower himself to go all the way with me.

God, was that messed-up thinking or what? Was I honestly insulted because he hadn’t taken complete advantage of me in my inebriation? What was wrong with me?

Probably that note. He hadn’t sounded like some conniving bastard who only wanted to cover his bases. He had sounded like he cared. That note had been sweet and concerned, trying to help me through my guilt. He knew exactly how I felt, and I loved that.

But crap, wouldn’t any guy who wanted to play into my good graces, say something sweet and seemingly concerned like that?

Okay, I had to stop thinking about this. It was driving me crazy. And all it was, was speculation. There were no good, hard facts to prove any part of last night had been genuine. Or false.

But thinking about them just being an act was depressing because the parts I remembered had been so amazing. I’d gone to that bar hoping to connect with someone, have a decent conversation, and if my stars aligned right, maybe have a decent make-out session. And I had. I’d gotten all of that.

It’d just been with the wrong guy.

Speaking of which, Philip didn’t call all day Sunday. The jerk. But that didn’t even faze me. In fact, it was a relief. I was a little too freaked out about my worrying whether I’d still have a job the next day to bum out over the fact I’d been stood up last night.

The universe must’ve thought I hadn’t had enough to worry about, though, because I did receive a call before the day was over. My parents’ housekeeper, Rita, rang me. She knew my mother was currently giving me the silent treatment; she’d had to field calls the few times I’d tried to contact either of my parents. So it made perfect sense when she said, “I’d probably get fired for calling you if anyone found out, but I thought you should know. Your father’s developed a nasty case of pneumonia. His doctor admitted him to the hospital this morning.”

I’d always had an iron stomach, but all the alcohol I drank the night before suddenly tried to make a reappearance. Nausea rising, I slapped my hand over my mouth before lowering it to demand, “How bad is it? What hospital? I think I can make it there by nightfall. Are they letting in visitors?”

“No, no. Please don’t come. If you show up, they’ll know I called you.”

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. My instincts were screaming at me to hop into my car and see how my father was. But I didn’t want Rita to lose her job. She’d always been the mother I’d wished I had. She’d been kind, or at least as kind as she could be without risking her own neck in the process. She had slipped me food when they’d locked me in my room for too long, but that was as far as she’d go. She’d been widowed with three children of her own to take care of. She couldn’t put too much effort into caring for me. And I understood that.

“I’ll let you know if anything changes.” Rita’s hushed voice filled my ear before the line clicked, going dead.

I nodded but didn’t lower my phone as I stood there. What if my father died before I ever saw him again? What if he died before telling me he loved me?

What if he didn’t love me?

; Though I knew it was a fruitless effort, I called the hospital. They could tell me nothing, except that Richard Kavanagh was indeed checked in as a patient. I debated calling my mother, but she’d probably catch on that I knew, and Rita would get into trouble, so I slept badly, checking my call history every hour to make sure I hadn’t missed any incoming messages in between stressing about how long it’d be before I was fired from my job.

I felt worse when the alarm woke me Monday morning than I’d felt from my hangover the morning before that. My father’s heath, my employment uncertainty, and Noel Gamble were going to give me an ulcer; I just knew it.

But not a single wrinkle marred my work outfit. My suit jacket was loose enough to hide my girlish frame, and my skirt was long enough to be staid and professional. I looked the same as I had every morning I left before work. My mirror could detect nothing out of the ordinary. I’d even amazed myself by successfully covering the bags under my eyes with makeup. But I still had an uneasy sense as I walked from my car to the English building that I was making the walk of shame.

Everyone who looked at me would know exactly where I’d had my mouth only two nights ago. They’d glance into my eyes and see me slipping my hands over Noel’s biceps and into his hair. I’d open my mouth and my voice would reflect all my guilt and shame. I had kissed a student and taken him to my room, into my bed. Just thinking that in my head felt so bizarre and unreal. I was not that person. I would never do that.