Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(56)

I push out of my chair and cross the living room on unsteady legs, phone still in my hand. He stands on my back deck, wearing dress shoes, black pants, a gray button-down, and a black wool jacket—the kind someone would wear for a nice dinner out. He looks older. Refined. Not like a student.

He tucks one hand in his pocket and quirks a brow.

I hit send on the message:

Clover: Submitted.





He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and the right side of his mouth tips up in a questioning half grin that makes my stomach flutter. He taps the door handle, and I drop my phone on the dining room table and open it for him.

Snow swirls in the air, melting in his hair as he steps in out of the cold. “When did you submit them?”

“Ninety-seven minutes ago.” I try to smile, but my nerves make it feel strained. “And I had my TA grade your final, just like everything else.”

I won’t jeopardize his chances at a future, or my own. This tells me everything I need to know about where I am with him, even if I’ve been trying to weave a different narrative until now.

“So I’m not your student anymore.” He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair.

“You’re not my student anymore, but you’re still a student.” It’s a weak argument, but I’m struggling with what it means if I do this.

He tips his head fractionally. “You need to do this dance with me one more time?”

I bring my fingers to my lips and drop my head.

“It’s okay if you do.” He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. The contact is all too brief. “I’m only a student for one more semester. I looked into the guidelines. As long as I’m not your student, we can do whatever we want.”

I grab the sides of my cardigan and pull them over each other. I’ve been through the school’s code of ethics. I know it’s not grounds for termination for me to be involved with him at this point, but the optics are something else. “I’m thirty, and you’re twenty-one.”

“You’re twenty-nine, and I’ll be twenty-two soon enough.”

“I turn thirty first. You should be dating girls your own age. Students your age.”

He rubs his jaw. “I’ve never dated girls my own age, and I’m sure not going to start now. They’re not who I want. They’re not you.”

“Maverick.” It’s just his name, but I feel the weight of it in my heart. Because it’s not a plea or an admonishment, it’s filled with longing and desire. With need. With defeat. It’s been more than three months since we were together, and the memory of that night is as clear as if it were yesterday.

“Sitting in your class has been a torture I willingly endured. I’m not imagining that there’s something here.” He motions between us. “You wouldn’t have let me in if we weren’t on the same page. You keep saying it’s because I’m a student, but you didn’t have a problem with this back in August.”

“I didn’t know there was eight years between us then, and we were acting on attraction. Things are different now,” I whisper.

This is what I’ve been telling myself this entire semester. My role made it easier, not wanting the power dynamic to be unbalanced.

He lets me voice my fears before he continues, “I get that you were worried about the risks, but now that I’m not your student, there aren’t any. I understand that it’s complicated for you, being in the position you are. But it’s temporary. You’re going to move on after this year, and I’m going to get called up to the NHL.” He bites the corner of his lip. “No one has to know. This can just be ours.” He runs his hands down his face and brings them palm to palm, his index fingers touching his lips. “I know my being a student is a sticking point for you, but I’m so fucking old inside, Clover. No one my age gets what this is like, how the things I’ve been through have changed me. But I feel like maybe you do.”

I will my body not to react, but no matter what, when Maverick is close, I warm to his proximity. My heart rate quickens, my palms grow damp. It’s so much easier to ignore when he’s dressed in jeans and hoodies, looking the part of the student—harder when he’s dressed for business and looks very much like the man I know him to be.

“Clover. Look at me.” His voice is a gritty whisper.

I swallow and lift my gaze.

“Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll leave.”

“It won’t work between us,” I whisper.

“That’s not what I asked. And I’m not asking you for long-term anyway. I’m asking you for now. Tonight. A week. A month. Until your contract is up, or you get tired of me, whichever comes first. I can be your rebound. I’ll be the in-between guy until someone you can get serious with comes along. But if this is too much for you, all you have to do is tell me I’m alone in this, that my feelings are misplaced. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. I’ll go. I’ll walk away. I don’t deserve you anyway.”

It’s that final sentence that crumbles what’s left of my defenses.

I put my hand over his to stop him when he reaches for his coat. My action speaks louder than any words, but I say them anyway. “You’re not alone.”

He exhales slowly and flips his hand over, bringing us palm to palm. His fingers curl gently around mine. “I’m losing my mind over you. This semester has been fucking torture.”