Page 138 of Broken by my Bully

The ice cubes in his bourbon clink against the glass as he leans his head back to laugh. “I have a masters in psychology, philosophy, and anthropology. I’ve been teaching for years, and I ran a privatepractice at one stage. I’ve been figuring out what goes on inside other people’s heads for over two decades.”

“But you’re only thirty-four.”

“My interest in psychology began long before I entered college.”

I nod at this, and have to look away because I’m blushing again. It happens whenever I stare at Bastian for too long, even when he’s not looking back. It’s worse when we lock eyes, of course. Then other parts of my body are overheating, and tingling, and aching.

“Speaking of college,” he says, swirling the bourbon in his glass, “you’re adding a business class next semester.”

I scoff. “Yeah, right.”

“Financial literacy. Basic accounting. Investment strategies.” He lists them like commandments. “You’ll thank me when you’re not dependent on anyone else.”

“Except you, apparently,” I say bitterly.

His eyes flash. “Be thankful I’m only demanding education. Others might demand...different payment. The less financially secure you are, the more vulnerable that makes you. The fewer options you will have.”

The way he says ‘different’ makes my skin prickle.

Something makes me bolder than I’d normally be. Either the wine, or the fucking audacity.

“You’reseriously lecturingmeabout the importance of money? Pretty sure you didn’t grow up wondering if your dad remembered to buy stuff for dinner, or if it was gonna be PB and J the fifth night in a row.”

He doesn’t flinch from the accusation, but there’s a touch of heat in his eyes now. “The only time I went hungry was when I was being punished.” He gestures around his elegant home. “But I didn’t inherit this. I earned it.”

He slides his ankle over his knee, turning a little to lay the arm holding his bourbon over the back of the couch.

“PB and J for supper, hmm? Was it your home life that sparked your interest in social work?”

I take another sip, glancing at him from the corner of my eye. “You went through my application, but you didn’t read my essay?”

A flash of a rueful smile, like he realizes he underestimated me. “I read your essay. Your ideas for rehabilitating Riverside are eloquent. I especially liked your idea about setting up a community center for kids where they could go in the afternoons and get a meal, do their homework…basically stay out of trouble.” He takes a sip of his bourbon, and my stomach flutters when he locks eyes with me. “But you practically wove yourself into a knot to avoid talking about your past.”

I swallow, my thumb stroking the rim of the wineglass. “I prefer looking to the future, not being stuck in the past.”

His eyes narrow, a tightness on his mouth like he’s busy working out how to crack a hard nut. I look away, squirming under that scrutiny, hunting for something to distract me.

There’s a small table near the front door, probably for keys. I didn’t notice it when I came in because when Bastian is close, the rest of the world fades away.

There’s a pink gift bag on the table, pale tissue paper spilling from the top. The packaging looks a lot cheaper than what’s on his desk in the study.

“Who’s the lucky lady?” I say, more sourly than I’d intended.

Bastian blinks like he’s coming out of a daydream, and frowns. “Excuse me?”

I point with my chin.

He glances over his shoulder and then turns back to me with a wide smile. “Well, fuck.” He chuckles. “I completely forgot.”

“…Who the gift was for?” I say dryly as I take another sip of wine. How many girlfriends does Professor Rooke have? Man as handsome as him? As wealthy as him? I’m surprised there isn’t a line out the door.

My glass is almost empty, and I’m wondering if I’d be tempting fate to pour another.

I don’t feel drunk yet. I think I’d like to.

“Careful of that sharp tongue.” He drains his glass as he stands. “You wouldn’t want to cut yourself.”

There’s a laugh in his voice, so I giggle. But as he walks to the door, cold sweeps through my body. Instead of taking his seat, Bastian brings the gift bag to me where I’m sitting, stopping so close to the sofa that I’d probably kick him if I tried to swing my legs over to stand.