[English] AROUSE

Arouse
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I can feel the awe radiating from Allie as he approaches, and frankly I get a little tingly myself. The man not only looks gorgeous, he has a commanding presence that exudes both authority and *** appeal.

He sets the tray on the counter and addresses Allie.

“More than occasionally,” he assures her, “do I like to have fun.”

She smiles. “I don’t doubt it.”

He extends a hand. “Dean West.”

“Allie Lyons. Welcome to The Happy Booker.”

“I brought you both coffee, but had to guess what you’d like.” He pulls a cup out and hands it to her. “Two mochas with whipped cream.”

“Perfect.” Allie leans toward me and announces in a stage whisper, “I love him.”

I grin at Dean. “He’s okay.”

He winks at me and hands me the second cup. “You’re here all day?”

“No, just for the morning so Allie can show me the ropes. I’m volunteering at the library this afternoon. I’ll pick up something for dinner on the way home.”

“Call if you need me.” Dean glances around the area in front of the cash register and buys two magazines, a bar of gourmet chocolate, and a hardcover history of the Civil War.

After handing him the bag, Allie cranes her neck to watch him leave. I do too because the back of Dean is as appealing a sight as the front of him.

“I mean it,” Allie says. “I love him. Where’d you meet?”

“Madison. I was going to the UW.” I twist my wedding ring around on my finger. “He’s a professor at King’s. Medieval Studies.”

“No kidding? Like romances of knights in armor and courtly love and all that? Wow.” She gives a dreamy sigh.

I decide not to burst her bubble by explaining that Dean is more interested in the concentric fortification of a castle. There was a time, however, when romances of knights captured his imagination. And courtly love… he is quite the expert on that.

I rub my arms against a shudder, remembering our hot encounter last weekend. Another tingle sweeps through me, and I’m already anticipating getting home to him tonight.

I started my period two days after I took the test, so I’m definitely not pregnant. And even though I’ve been unsettled by the pregnancy scare (why is it called a scare?), my new job and Dean’s work routine have settled things back to normal.

I think.

When Allie disappears into the backroom with instructions to “holler” if I need help, I make my way to the health section. Two shelves are filled with books about pregnancy and birth, while the shelf below is dedicated to child-rearing. I leaf through a couple of the I Want to Get Pregnant and I Am Pregnant—Now What? titles.

Then with a mutter of irritation, I push the books back onto the shelf and return to the front counter.

“A Miss Spider tea party!” Allie bounds out of the backroom, shoving her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Isn’t that a great idea? The kids can come dressed as their favorite insect and we can serve juice in tea cups and, like, bee-shaped cookies and gummy worms. Oh, and we can get some of that Halloween cobweb stuff for decorations.”

“Do you have kids, Allie?” I ask.

The suddenness of the question makes her stop. “Kids? No, not yet. Why?”

“Just curious. You’re really good at all this kids’ stuff.”

“Oh, yeah, I love thinking up things like this. My mom and I always had these elaborate birthday parties when I was growing up. My favorite was our Alice in Wonderland party when I turned ten. We had little cups with ‘Drink Me’ on them and a Red Queen cake. We played croquet, of course, and my uncle dressed up as the Mad Hatter. My dad even built this rabbit hole out of plywood and shrubbery, and the kids had to go through it to get to the party in the backyard.”

“Sounds nice.” It sounded more than nice. It sounded like a freaking Disney movie.

The memory of my own tenth birthday stabs the back of my head. I suppress a tide of nausea and focus on straightening the piles of bookmarks on the counter.

“Do you and Dean have kids?” Allie asks.

“No.” I’m not sure whether I should add not yet. “No kids.”

“Pity. You really need to ensure the propagation of your gene pool.”

Although she’s teasing, I think about what she said for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe that’s all it is, this weird preoccupation I have now. Maybe I just have a sudden urge to propagate Dean’s and my lineage.

When I get home, I set the table for dinner and divide portions of a store-bought roasted chicken and a green salad from the deli.

Dean comes home around seven and drops his briefcase and keys on the counter. He sheds his suit jacket, loosens his tie, and drags a hand through his hair.

He’s got that rumpled, “I have been thinking very, very hard about something esoteric” look to him. It’s a look he wears extremely well.

As self-possessed as he is, when he’s tired from working too hard, his whole demeanor softens with vulnerability… which makes me want to tuck him right beneath my heart and hold on tight.

The way he has always done with me.

He crosses to the kitchen and curves one arm around me, pressing a warm kiss to my temple. He pulls a glass from the cupboard and pours a couple fingers of scotch—his one vice, and only when he’s beat.

“How was your day?” I ask.

“Long. Yours? Bookstore job was good?”

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I nod. “I like Allie a lot, despite the massive crush she has on my husband.”

“A crush, huh? She has good taste.” He winks at me and tilts his head back to take a drink. I watch the column of his throat as he swallows, the ripple of scotch sliding to his chest.

“She does, indeed,” I murmur.

Heat simmers through me, though I tamp it down because Dean and I need to talk first. I occupy myself with cleaning the living room and give him an hour or so to wind down before we have dinner.

As I spoon out a portion of seasoned rice, I glance across the table at him. “So I gave Dr. Nolan a call.”

A frown creases his forehead. “About what?”

“My period being late. Just because I’m usually so regular.”

“Did she think it was a reason for concern?”

“No. She said to keep track of my cycles and let her know if the irregularity continues. She said she could put me on birth control pills to regulate them, if it becomes an issue.”

“The pills made you sick, remember?”

“Yeah, well, I… I was wondering if maybe you wanted to give it a go without any birth control at all.”

That didn’t come out quite the way I’d expected.

My heart is pounding hard as Dean looks up. That shutter descends over his face again, like a transparent shield that allows me to look at him without really seeing him. My insides twist.

“You want to try and have a baby?” he asks.

I haven’t even explicitly asked myself that question yet. I poke at a grain of rice.

“Liv.”

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“If you don’t want to use birth control, you should know.”

Of course he’s right. Silence stretches taut between us.

“Liv.” Dean reaches across the table and tilts my head up to look at him. “You told me before we got married that you didn’t want children.”

“That means I can’t change my mind?”

“Have you?”

“I don’t know.” For some inexplicable reason, tears spring to my eyes. I push away from the table and stalk to the living room, tension coiling through me. “What if I did?”

“Then we’d have a lot to discuss.” Dean follows me and stops in the doorway, his gaze level. “Is this all because your period was late?”

“It’s not all because of that.”

“Then what?”

“I just want to talk about it.” I turn to face him. “Haven’t you thought this might be a good time to consider starting a family?”

“No, because we’d never intended to have children.”

“But we’ve been married for three years, we’re settled here for the foreseeable future, you’re financially secure, you have a tenure-track job, and I—”

My voice breaks like a dry twig. I… what?

“You what?” Dean asks.

His question is low and quiet. I look at the floor.

I’d be a good mother? My doubts about my abilities are just one of the reasons I’ve never wanted children. I spent most of my own childhood yielding to my beautiful, self-centered mother, who was anything but nurturing.

“I was just thinking about it,” I mutter.

“Because you’re looking for something to do?”

I’m so shocked by this question that I can only stare at him. I can’t even speak. He continues looking at me, and worse than the actual words is the fact that he doesn’t try to apologize or take the question back—not that that would do any good.

“I’m…” My throat tightens. I force the words past the constriction. “That’s what you think?”

“I’m asking if that’s what you think.”

“No! No, of course not.” I can’t stop the rush of tears, the ache spreading through my entire being. “God, Dean, you think I brought up the idea of a baby just to give me something to do? What the hell?”

“You’ve never mentioned it before, Liv,” he says gently, but with annoying reason. “And I know you’ve been at loose ends, that you—”

“So I must think of a baby as a hobby? Something to pass the time in between soap operas and grocery shopping?” Anger erupts in me and I stride across the room to shove him in the chest. “I might not have an illustrious academic career, but I’m not an airhead, dammit. I’ve been thinking about a baby because I ****ing love you and I thought we had a good life, and it’d be something we could go through, you know, together—”

“Liv, you don’t go through having a baby. There’s no end to it.”

“I meant…” What the hell did I mean?

I take a breath. “Look, we’ve gone through a lot already, right? You and I? But we’re happy now. Secure. Isn’t this the next logical step?”

Dean shakes his head. “Liv, I don’t think of having a baby as a step in some process. A baby would change everything, change us, forever. If that’s what you want, then yes, we need to talk. But stopping birth control and leaving things up to chance is a lousy way of going about it.”

Of course he’s right again. That makes it no easier for me to contend with this sudden tangle of emotions.

“Liv, you need to be sure about what you want and why you want it,” Dean says, his voice softening as he approaches me. “But there’s no hurry. The timing’s bad anyway.”

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“Why is the timing bad?”

“I just started this job.”

“Almost two years ago.”

“Yeah, but I’m spearheading a whole new program with half-a-dozen other departments,” he says. “I’m organizing an international conference, I’ve got a book deadline, classes, journal e***ing. It’s a lot of work.”

“It’s not going to get easier, Dean,” I say, “if that’s what you think has to happen before we even consider having a baby. We’re settled here, right?”

“If the establishment of the Medieval Studies program goes well,” he replies. “If I’m not offered something better somewhere else. If I get tenure.”

“So we just put the idea on hold until you know the answers to all those ifs? That could take years.”

“It won’t take years.” He brushes my hair back from my forehead.

“Then how long?”

“I don’t know.”

That is not a phrase Professor Dean West often uses.

For a minute, we just look at each other. And then, because it seems like an earthquake is starting to tremble beneath our feet, I lean my forehead against his chest and spread my hand out to feel his heartbeat.

Ugly thoughts pop and blister in the back of my mind. A shudder splits my heart. I try to breathe. Dean tightens his arms hard around me.

“Okay?” he asks.

The word fine sticks in my throat. This time, I can’t respond.

CHAPTER FOUR

August 20

The promise of autumn is in the air. Breezes sweep from the surface of the lake, trees rustle, and ducks waddle along the beaches. The tourists are leaving town, and university students bustle around with their backpacks and laptops. Dean is mired in planning fall semester classes, advising, department meetings, committees. We talk, but not about anything important. Not about us.

I’ve agreed to work three days a week at The Happy Booker, and I volunteer for a few hours at the public library and the Mirror Lake Historical Museum. After an afternoon spent organizing an exhibition on colonial currency, I stop at a coffeehouse for a mocha. The scent of roasting coffee beans makes me think of my first few months with Dean.

I was twenty-four years old and had been accepted to the University of Wisconsin-Madison as a transfer student. I’d spent the previous three years in rural Wisconsin, working at a clothing store and taking night courses at a community college to earn transfer cre***s.

When my application was accepted at the UW, I’d packed up everything I owned and moved to Madison to start what I hoped would be a new life. The day I registered for classes, a woman at the registrar’s office gave me a hard time about the transferability of my community college work.

I was upset, trying not to cry while pleading with Mrs. Russell to work out a solution.

“There must be something we can do,” I said.

“Miss Winter, the courses you took won’t cover the requirements,” she informed me.

“But I wouldn’t have taken them otherwise. If I can’t get them to transfer, it puts me behind an entire semester.”

“Look.” Mrs. Russell swept the papers into a stack and pushed them toward me. “It’s all in the catalog, if you have questions. We can’t retroactively allow the cre***s to transfer.”

“I’m not asking you to do it retroactively!” I said. “This is my first semester here, and I’m trying to get my courses in order. If I have to take another foreign language translation class, then I’m already behind. And those classes are full already anyway.”

“The courses you took aren’t equivalent to the requirements for your academic program.” Mrs. Russell glanced pointedly at the line of students behind me. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

I blinked back tears, refusing to budge. “Why would they have told me the cre***s would transfer if they’re not equivalent?”

Then a tall, handsome man approached from another section of the office, his dark eyes fixed on me, his deep voice rolling over my skin like a wave of heat on a cold winter night.

“Can I help with this?” he asked.

My breath stopped in my throat. The sight of him jolted something loose inside me, and for an instant I could only stare at him, struck by the sharp, masculine planes of his face, the steadiness of his expression, his aura of complete control and self-possession.

He was wearing black trousers and a navy blue shirt open at the collar to reveal a V of taut, tanned skin. His hair shone under the fluorescent lights, and I was seized by a sudden urge to tunnel my fingers through the strands to see if they felt as thick and soft as they looked.

Unnerved, I jerked my attention back to Mrs. Russell, who was explaining the situation to him. She called him “Dr. West.” Likely a professor, then. I wondered what he taught.

Dr. West listened patiently, glancing at me every so often. “What classes are you trying to take?” he asked me.

“She’s a library sciences major, and she has to register for foreign lit translation and intro to biology,” Mrs. Russell said.

“But I shouldn’t have to take those because my cre***s should transfer,” I persisted.

“Make an appointment with a guidance counselor, Miss Winter,” Mrs. Russell suggested. “That’s all I can tell you.”

“By the time I do that, classes will already have started.”

“You have a couple of weeks yet to finalize your courses,” she continued. “I’m sure they’ll help you sort this out.”

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I knew by the tone of Mrs. Russell’s voice that she wasn’t going to give in, and the hopelessness of the situation crashed over me.

“The professors can—” Dr. West started.

“Never mind.” Because I didn’t want to start crying in front of him, I grabbed my bag and left the office.

Halfway down the sidewalk, my vision blurry with tears, I tripped on an uneven piece of concrete and went sprawling onto my hands and knees. My open satchel thumped onto the ground, papers spilling out.

“Are you okay?” Then he was there, crouching beside me to pick up the papers before the wind caught them. He reached out a hand but stopped an inch from my arm, his fingers brushing the sleeve of my gray sweatshirt.

“I… I’m okay,” I said.

He could have touched me. He was close. Close enough that I caught a whiff of him, a clean, soapy smell that settled in my blood and loosened the knot of frustration stuck in my throat. Close enough that I noticed the size of his hands, his long fingers and the dark hairs dusting his forearm where his sleeve inched up.

Awareness shot through me. I dusted the grit from my palms and straightened. He stood between me and the street, waiting in silence for me to collect my composure. A few people passed behind me, forcing me a few steps toward him.

He held out my satchel, his gaze moving over me, eliciting a surge of heat. I pushed strands of hair away from my face and looked at him. My heart hammered, my chest pooling with warmth. I was shaken all over again by the way my body reacted to him, with this hot pull of attraction I had never experienced before.

Not for any man. Ever.

“Thank you.” I took my satchel from him and straightened the papers. All I had to do now was turn and walk away.

I didn’t. He was still looking at me, his hands in his pockets, his hair ruffled by the breeze.

“Are you a professor here?” I asked.

He was big. Not all bulky and heavy, but tall with broad shoulders, long legs, and that air of self-control that made him seem in total command. The wind flattened his shirt over his muscular chest, and I had a sudden image of folding myself against that chest and feeling his arms close around me. Safe. Protected.

Nothing to fear. Not from him.

I stepped back, not having felt this way before and not knowing where it was all coming from.

Why him? Why now?

“I’m a visiting professor for the year,” he said. “Medieval history.”

He was a medieval history professor. For whatever reason —the sheer dorkiness of the field?—this admission eased some of my tension.

“Oh.” I hitched the satchel over my shoulder and folded my arms across my breasts. “Well, thanks for your help back at the registrar’s.”

“The professors of whatever classes you need to take can approve your transfer cre***s,” he said. “You don’t need to go through the registrar’s office first. Get the course syllabus and bibliography from your previous college, and bring them to the professors to see if it fits their curriculum. If it covers the same ground, they should approve the transfer as a direct course equivalent.”

“Why didn’t Mrs. Russell tell me that?”

“She probably didn’t know. Professors have a lot of power.”

I almost smiled. “Even medieval history professors?”

“Especially medieval history professors,” he assured me.

“Knights on horseback and all that?”

A responding smile tugged at his mouth. “And damsels in distress.”

My heart constricted. Ah, fairy tales.

“Hey, Professor West!” A young man jogged up to him. “I heard you were teaching here this year. I was at Harvard when you were a grad student. Tom Powell.”

The kid stuck out a hand. Professor West shook it and made a few appropriate comments. I backed up a step, not wanting to leave him and yet not knowing how to stay.

The other guy kept talking. Something about a paper he was working on.

Professor West glanced at me. I had the sense he was about to make an excuse, extract himself from the conversation so that he could turn back to me.

So we could finish what we’d started.

I retreated another step, staring at the sunlight glinting off his hair, the sharp edges of his profile, the muscles of his neck, and the confidence of his stance.

Professor West was beautiful. He was beautiful and warm and wanted to help a distraught girl in a ragged gray sweatshirt. Even though his eyes seared me like a caress he hadn’t made a move to touch me or invade my space. If anything, he seemed to restrain himself from doing so.

If I could trust myself with anyone, I thought, it might be him.

Before he looked at me again with those penetrating eyes, before I could think of an excuse to stay, I surrendered to my fear and hurried away. I had to force myself not to look back.

I thought I’d never see him again. If I’d been another kind of woman, I could have sought him out, taken one of his courses, dropped by his office.

But I wasn’t the kind of woman who did things like that. I couldn’t be, even if I’d wanted to. I’d worked hard to get into the UW, and I had a very strict schedule of classes I needed to take to graduate.

I had a part-scholarship and a job at a coffeehouse on State Street, a tiny studio apartment, and an unwavering notion that graduation would put me on a path toward something normal.

While I nourished a secret hope of one day finding a man who would help rid me of my inhibitions, I had to focus on other things first. I’d spent years figuring out what I needed to do, and I couldn’t deviate from that course now that I was finally accomplishing something. Seeking out a medieval history professor who made my heart race certainly wasn’t part of my plan.

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Two weeks after our encounter on the sidewalk, the semester started. I managed to get my transfer cre***s approved by appealing to the professors of two courses. I immersed myself in classes on digital communication, international studies, database management, and American literature.

When I wasn’t in class or at the library, I studied or worked. I forgot all about Professor West—or tried to tell myself I had.

Until he walked into Jitter Beans one morning.

I was helping another customer, answering a question about the difference between a cappuccino and a caffe latte.

“So a cappuccino has a stronger coffee flavor?” the guy asked, peering at me intently.

“That’s correct.” I looked over his shoulder to check how many other customers were waiting.

My gaze collided with Professor West’s.

I drew in a sharp breath, my pulse thudding a stream of heat through my blood. How had I not known the instant he stepped inside?

I couldn’t stop staring at him, tracking my gaze over his ruffled, dark brown hair, the angles of his features, the curve of his beautiful mouth. He was all-professor in a tailored suit and a perfectly knotted tie, his briefcase in hand.

A smile crinkled his eyes as he looked at me, then he tilted his head slightly toward the guy I was supposed to be helping.

“Oh.” I swung my attention back to the customer, who looked a little annoyed at having been dismissed. “Sorry, what?” I said.

“I asked if you could make the latte with an extra shot of espresso,” he repeated.

“Sure.” My hands trembled as I rang up the order and conveyed it to the girl who was making the drinks. “It’ll be ready in a sec.”

The guy took ten years to get out his wallet and pay for the latte. By the time Professor West approached the counter, my stomach was taut with nerves.

“Um…” I gripped the edge of the counter. “Hi.”

Amusement flashed in his expression. “Hi.”

“Can I help you?” I tried to muster a professional tone, aware of my coworkers bustling around behind me, the hum of conversation from other customers.

“Medium coffee, please.” He slid a hand into his pocket. “For here.”

I turned to grab a cup and pour the coffee. “Room for cream in your coffee, sir?”

“No, thanks. Did you get everything straightened out with the registrar?”

I looked at him in surprise, wondering why he cared. “Yes, I did what you suggested. A couple of professors filled out the right forms indicating I’d already covered the curriculum.”

“Good.”

“Thanks for the help… Professor West.”

“Dean.”

I put the cup on the counter, painfully aware of the beat of my heart, fast as a hummingbird’s wings. “Dean?”

“My name. Dean West.”

“Oh. I’m—”

“Olivia,” he said.

The sound of my name in his deep voice rolled through me like a breaking cloud.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I saw your name on the papers at the registrar’s office.” He handed me a couple of dollars. “I remembered it. Olivia R. Winter.”

I rang up the order and counted out his change. “Why did you remember my name?”

“Actually…” He lifted the cup and turned to the tables. “I remembered you.”

I stared after him as he sat at a table beside the window and opened a newspaper. We didn’t speak again that day, but I saw him leave and gave him a little wave of farewell. I had the instinctive sense he would come back. I wanted him to.

And he did. He always ordered a medium coffee, no room for cream, and sometimes a muffin. It was my favorite time of year—early September with crisp, clean air and warm colors and a touch of fall.

I couldn’t help it. Every time I went to work, I hoped I’d see him. I didn’t want to hope for it, didn’t think anything could come of it, but a thousand happy sparks twirled through me whenever he came into Jitter Beans.

I liked everything about him—his masculine features and thick-lashed eyes, his jaw sometimes dusted with a hint of stubble. I liked his dark hair, his tall, strong body, his smile, and the twinkle that shone in his eyes when he looked at me.

I started to welcome the feelings he aroused in me, all so utterly different from the narrow practicality that had driven my life for years. One morning he pushed a folded piece of paper across the counter along with his dollar bills.

Half-expecting it to be his phone number, I opened the paper. There was a library call number written in scrawled, masculine handwriting: PR9199.3 R5115 Y68.

I looked at Dean in confusion.

“Memorial Library,” was all he said before taking his coffee and going to his usual table by the window.

I tucked the paper safely into my pocket. As soon as my shift ended, I hurried down State Street to the massive campus library. I took the stairs to the second floor and checked the numbers on the ends of the stacks that stood like sentries throughout the floor.

PR9199.3 R5115 Y68. I ran my finger along the rows of dusty, old books before I came to the correct volume. My heart thumped as I pulled it off the shelf and looked at the title.

Your Mouth Is Lovely.

I smiled.

When Dean walked into Jitter Beans the next day, I pulled the book from beneath the counter and handed it to him. I’d stuck a Post-It on the front with another call number: Aston 552.

“Cooperative Children’s Book Center,” I said. “What can I get for you, sir?”

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“Medium coffee, please.” He put the book under his arm. “No room for cream.”

He returned two days later and held up a children’s picture book titled A Rock Is Lively. I grinned.

His eyes twinkled. “Lots of stuff buried beneath the surface of a rock, the book says. Very turbulent. Molten, even.”

“The book is right.”

Our gazes met. A bolt of energy arced between us, one that made my heart hum with warmth and excitement.

“Medium coffee, no cream?” I asked, turning to the dispenser.

I pushed his cup across the counter at the same moment that he reached for it. Our fingers met, and a shiver of awareness jolted clear up my arm.

I jerked my hand back, my breath shortening. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” His eyebrows drew together, faintly puzzled by my reaction.

My face grew hot. Now he must think you’re a freak.

I wiped my damp palms on my apron and tried to regain my equilibrium. “We… uh, we have some fresh scones in.”

“No, thanks.” He continued looking at me, one hand curved around the cup, a frown tugging at his mouth.

Yeah. You should probably stay away from me, Professor West.

“Olivia, I’m giving a lecture at the Chazen Museum on Friday night,” he said. “I’d like it if you’d come. We can go somewhere afterward.”

I blinked. “Are you asking me out?”

The bluntness of the question made him smile. “I am.”

“Oh.” Oh!

He waited. I flushed. Panic fluttered in my chest.

“I don’t… I don’t really date,” I stammered. “In fact, I don’t date at all.”

“Okay.” He scratched his chin. “Well, we don’t have to think of it as a date, if you don’t want to. We can just go out.”

The tight knot of dismay inside me loosened a little. I badly wanted to spend time alone with him, this medieval history professor who was luring me with library call numbers.

“Isn’t us going out against university policy?” I asked. “Since you’re a professor?”

A shadow eclipsed his expression for an instant, as if I’d reminded him of inviolable rules. Then I got worried he would retract the invitation.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“It’s not against policy if you’re not a student of mine,” he said. “But if you’d rather not—”

“No, that’s not it,” I interrupted. “I just… I was just making sure.”

“Do you plan to take any medieval history classes?” he asked.

“Actually, I plan to stay far away from the medieval history department,” I admitted.

“Good idea.” He paused. “So what do you think?”

I took a breath. For God’s sake, Liv. It’s a lecture and maybe coffee afterward. That’s it.

“Okay,” I finally said. “Friday night.”

“Good. The lecture starts at seven.”

“What’s it about?” I asked.

“Monastic architecture and sarcophagi.” He lifted his cup in a salute and winked at me. “Prepare to be dazzled.”

I already am, I thought as I watched him walk away.

I arrived at the Chazen Museum an hour before the lecture and spent the extra time looking at the exhibits. I was still a little nervous about the evening, but in a good way. After two days of wrestling with the whole issue, I’d firmly told myself that I liked Professor Dean West and I was looking forward to seeing him outside of Jitter Beans. It was exactly the kind of nice, normal evening that I wanted.

A large crowd filled the lecture hall of the museum, the buzz of conversation fading as a woman came out to announce the other museum events and introduce Professor West. I was sitting in the fifth row, and my heart gave a little leap when he approached the podium and began speaking.

Warm and rich, Dean’s voice flowed over the audience and seemed to settle in the core of my being. I welcomed the opportunity to stare at him without reservation, drinking in the sight of him in a crisp, navy suit and striped tie, his hair burnished by the lights.

I remember him talking about a medieval church in France, the structure of a town, Roman sculptures, but more than the subject matter I was enraptured by the sound of his deep voice, the authoritative way he spoke and discussed the images on the screen behind him. I loved the gracious way he answered questions and listened to people’s comments. I loved that he knew so much.

There was a reception after the lecture was over, and people kept vying for the distinguished professor’s attention. I drank a glass of cherry-flavored mineral water and ate about twenty grapes before I finally found a chance, and worked up my courage, to approach him.

He gave me an easy smile, one that made my heart flutter.

“Hello, Olivia,” he said. “I’m glad you came.”

“So am I. It was a really interesting lecture.”

“Thanks.” He curled his hand beneath my elbow in a gesture that seemed utterly natural. I felt the warmth of his palm through my sleeve, and this time I didn’t pull away. I didn’t want to.

“I need to go and thank the curators,” Dean said, his voice a low rumble over my skin. “Then if you’re free, we can go somewhere. Will you wait for me?”

I nodded. I thought he might be the only man I would ever wait for.

After ten minutes, he returned and we went to get our coats from the coatroom. Dean held out my coat while I slipped into it.

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I reached back to tug my hair from the collar, but he got there first. His fingers brushed the back of my neck as he eased my ponytail free of the coat. A waterfall of shivers ran down my spine, and my breath caught in my throat.

“Thanks.” I quickly stepped away from him, ducking my head as I fastened the buttons.

“Sure.” A slight tension ran through his voice.

****. I turned back to him and forced a smile. “So where should we go?”

“There’s a place over by the Capitol where we can get a drink or something to eat,” he suggested, hitching up the collar of his coat. “We can walk, if you don’t mind that it’s a little cold.”

“I don’t mind.”

He seemed to make a conscious effort not to touch me as we left the museum. I felt like I should apologize, knowing I was sending him mixed signals, but I didn’t know how to without getting into treacherous waters.

We walked the length of State Street to a restaurant called The White Rose situated in a corner of the square. He held open the door of the restaurant for me, then spoke to the hostess. She smiled at him and led us past a crowd of waiting customers to a secluded, linen-covered table in the corner.

“How’d you manage that?” I asked as Dean pulled my chair out for me.

“Magic.”

I didn’t doubt it. One look from him probably turned the hostess into a puddle of goo.

“Actually…” He flashed me a grin. “Reservation.”

Nice that he’d planned in advance where we would go. Made me feel like he’d been thinking about me.

The waiter handed us leather-covered menus. Shadows and candlelight cascaded over the intimate tables, voices rose in a low hum, silver clinked against china plates.

I studied Dean as he looked at his menu. The flame of the candle cast warm, dancing light over his face, illuminated the flecks of gold in his chocolate-brown eyes. The perfect, smooth knot of his tie nestled at the hollow of his throat. A swath of hair tumbled over his forehead. I curled my fingers into my palm against the urge to brush it back, to feel the sweep of the thick strands beneath my hand.

Was he the one?

I had no illusions of great love and romance. I never had. My mother’s relationships with men were restless and sometimes violent. I’d learned early on that it was easier not to count on anyone.

But during the past few years, I’d come to certain conclusions about myself and relationships. I wanted to learn how to trust a man. I wanted to know what true, physical pleasure felt like. I wanted to find the courage to be vulnerable on my own terms, as my own choice.

No, I hadn’t expected to find that man anytime soon, but I had an unnerving feeling he might be sitting across from me now.

Dean looked up and caught me staring. His gaze held mine. Electricity crackled in the air between us, sparking red and blue. Heat flooded my cheeks.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

Confusion creased his forehead. “For what?”

“For being… weird.”

His smile flashed. “I happen to like weird.”

“Well, then, you hit the jackpot with me,” I muttered.

“I know.”

I glanced at him, arrested by the warmth of his gaze, my blush deepening. A streamer of pleasure mixed with trepidation wound through me.

He nodded toward the menu. “Are you hungry?”

“Very. The grapes I ate at the reception weren’t exactly filling.”

We both ordered spice-crusted salmon with wild rice, and the waiter sent over a sommelier to discuss the wine choices. Dean seemed to know what he was talking about, and they eventually decided that some certain vintage of pinot noir would go well with our meals.

“Where are you from?” I asked when our food arrived.

“Originally California. San Jose area. My parents and sister still live out there.”

“You have one sister?”

“And a brother.” He speared a slice of fish with his fork, his mouth tightening. “I don’t know where he is.” He shook his head as if to dismiss the thought. “You?”

“No brothers or sisters.”

“Where did you grow up?”

I hated that question. I reached for my wineglass in an attempt to stall my answer. “Oh, all over,” I finally said. “We traveled a lot.”

“Was your dad in the military?”

“No. My parents split up when I was seven.” I concentrated on forking up a portion of rice, not wanting to know if he was looking at me with pity.

“And what brought you to Madison?” he asked, almost as if he sensed I didn’t want to go down the path of my childhood.

“I’d been wanting to attend the university,” I explained, “but couldn’t afford the full tuition. My aunt lives up in Pepin County, so I moved to a nearby town and went to a community college while saving my money. Then I got a part-scholarship so I could go to the UW. If everything goes as planned, I should graduate in two years.”

He looked at me, something indefinable passing across his expression. “That’s very admirable.”

I smiled wryly. “It’s why I’m an old undergrad. I didn’t enroll in community college until I was twenty-one, then I took classes part-time for a few years because I had to work.”

“You’re not old.”

“You probably had a master’s degree by the time you were twenty-four.” I reached for my wine again. “Took me a while to get here.”

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“But you did.”

“I did.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes, casting occasional glances at each other, the air sparking with heat whenever our eyes met. I liked the way he ate, his movements sharp and precise. I watched the muscles of his throat as he swallowed, the way his hand curled around his fork. The sight of his mouth closing around the rim of his glass sent a rush of arousal through me.

I’d never felt this way before. About anyone.

“So what exactly is it you teach, Professor West?” I asked.

“Mostly medieval archeology and architecture, though that ties into other things. Town planning, political structures, religion. I’m going to France over winter break to do some work on the architecture of Sainte-Chapelle.”

I should have been intimidated by the illustriousness of his work, but he was so matter-of-fact about it that any potential breach between us—a renowned professor and a girl struggling to get a bachelor’s degree—faded into insignificance. And I loved listening to him talk, his smooth baritone voice thudding right up against the walls of my heart.

After dinner, we had coffee and shared a sinfully rich chocolate torte. He took a couple of bites, then sat back and watched me. Warm tension tightened my belly. I swiped a dollop of chocolate from my lower lip.

“You, ah… you look at me a lot,” I remarked.

“You’re very pretty.”

I didn’t know about that, but the compliment poured through me like honey. “I like the way you look too.”

That was an understatement. One glance at him and I went all hot and fluttery inside.

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. Curiosity and heat simmered in his expression.

“What is it about you, Olivia?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you so sweet and determined and guarded all at once?”

“I didn’t know I was all those things.”

“You are. Why?”

I shrugged and sank my fork into the torte again. If I was eating, I couldn’t talk much.

I ate another bite and spoke around the mouthful. “This is really good.”

Dean’s mouth twitched with a smile, but his eyes were still curious as he sat back again. He continued watching me as I polished off the torte and scraped the plate clean.

By the time he paid the bill and retrieved our coats, I’d realized the danger of Professor Dean West. If I let him, he would slide right past all my defenses. No one had ever done that before.

We went outside into the cold. He didn’t touch me. This time, though, I wanted him to. I nudged his elbow. He looked at me, then extended his arm and waited. I moved closer, falling into step beside him as we walked back to State Street.

It felt exactly the way I’d imagined it would, pressed to his side with his body heat flowing into me and his arm strong and tight around my shoulders. I fit against him like a puzzle piece locking into place.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“Off Dayton Street, not far from the Kohl Center. I walked.”

“Next time I’ll pick you up.”

My pulse leapt at the idea that there would be a next time.

“And this time,” Dean said, “I’ll drive you home. I’m parked by the museum.”

When we reached the parking lot, he unlocked the door of a black sedan and ushered me inside before getting into the driver’s seat. I told him my address, and we fell silent on the short ride home. The buildings of downtown passed by in a blur of light and shadows.

When he pulled up in front of my apartment, my damned nerves got tense again. I fumbled around collecting my bag and buttoning my coat.

“So, thank you,” I said. “That was really nice.”

“Yes, it was. Thank you too.”

I took hold of the door handle. “I’ll just…”

“Olivia.”

I turned to face him. His eyes glittered in the light of the streetlamps. He reached out slowly, as if he were trying not to startle a kitten, and curled his hand around my wrist.

His touch spiraled heat into my blood, igniting flashes of unbearably intimate thoughts—me in his arms, his lips sliding over my throat, his hands on my bare breasts. The air grew hot, compressed.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean said.

My heart crashed against my chest, and a hard tremble swept through me. I parted my lips to draw in a breath.

“I… okay.”

He leaned across the console and lifted his hands to cup my face. His touch was gentle, still cautious, but the heat brewing in his eyes left me in no doubt as to his desire. We were closer than we’d ever been before, so close that I could see the darker ring of brown surrounding his irises.

For a moment, we just stared at each other. Then his hands tightened on me as he lowered his mouth to mine. And the world fell away the instant our lips touched.

CHAPTER FIVE

August 22

Six days have passed since I mentioned the idea of having a baby. A million thoughts are flying and twisting through my mind, but they don’t have anywhere to go. I’ve never been one for discussing personal details with my few girlfriends, and my mother would dispense lousy advice, even if I did know where she was. Not that I’d ever tell her anything either.

What sucks is that the one person I really want to have a conversation with—the man I’ve always been able to talk to about anything—is unapproachable right now. When he’s even home. He’s not outwardly cold or forbidding, but I sense his reluctance to discuss it further. And truth be told, I’m not all that eager to have a repeat of our previous conversation anyway.