To Professor, with Love (Forbidden Men #2)(42)

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.

Yet I had.

I fully understood all the paranoia was just that, junk in my brain I couldn’t shove out. But when Dr. Frenetti popped his head into my office first thing before I’d even taught my first class, I squeaked out my alarm and nearly peed my pants as I leapt to my feet.

“I just checked Gamble’s current grade online. Looks like he’s doing better already.”

Hearing Noel’s name right out of the gate like that didn’t help my anxiety. Heartbeat whooshing loudly through my ears, I could barely hear myself answer after I cleared my throat. “Y-yes, he...he did very well on the make-up paper I let him turn in.”

The dean lifted an eyebrow. “And he actually earned it?”

I blinked. What the hell kind of question was that? “Of course.”

Smile a little gloating, Frenetti gave a knowing nod. “That’s what I thought. He just needed a little time to warm up to the curriculum. I glanced over your syllabus, and it did look pretty strenuous.”

I turned my attention to my computer to keep from rolling my eyes. “Yes, well...it took a pretty intensive one-on-one session to finally get through to him.”

My face heated as soon as the words left my mouth. God, did that sound like a sexual innuendo or what? All I could think about was the intensive one-on-one session we’d had Saturday night. In my bedroom. But my supervisor didn’t seem to notice any naughty meaning behind my words. He nodded, pleased. “Good to hear it.” Then he disappeared before I had to bumble my way through any more mortifying dialogue.

Beyond grateful it wasn’t a Tuesday, so I wouldn’t be teaching his class, I skimmed over my lesson plans for the day until I was almost late to class. Yet still, I felt utterly exposed when I stepped in front of the room. Eyes turned to me, and I knew—just knew—they’d see everything. Know everything. Each time a pair of students leaned toward each other to whisper conspiringly, I knew they were talking about what I’d done. Every unexpected abrupt noise had me leaping out of my skin. And every dark-haired guy I saw had my insides jarring with an instant adrenaline rush.