My phone is buried in my purse, and I pause in the hallway of the history wing to dig it out. “Shit,” I mutter as two pens clatter to the floor. I seize my phone—I really need to downsize my purse—and crouch to grab my pens.
A pair of scuffed sneakers stop in front of me, stepping on my favorite red pen.
“Excuse me,” I grumble reaching for it and a husky laugh jerks my gaze up.
Atticus Grimes is standing in front of me, his eyes amused. He’s wearing faded jeans and a tight fitting FFDP t-shirt, his hair hanging in his eyes.
He looks like a sexy frat brother instead of a professor. Hell, if Brian looked half this good, I would have slept with him months ago.
“You gonna stay down there forever?” he asks, amusement lacing his rough voice.
I flush, and rise. “What are you doing here?”
Grimes’ eyebrows go up. “I work here, remember?”
Like I could forget. He’d asked if it was a problem, that he was a professor. And I’d said no. It could be all in my head—the flash of interest I saw in his eyes could be my imagination. It had to be, because that was totally not happening.
Nazarea Andrews 