Page 17 of Broken Dream (Steel Legends #3)

“No,” I say honestly. “I mean, I know of them. But it’s not like I keep up on all the gossip or anything.”

“Just as well.” She bites her lip. “I suppose you don’t hear about us much here. On the Western Slope, there’s always something going on that people are whispering about.”

“I’m sorry you have to go through that.”

She shrugs. “I’m used to it. Besides, I’m very grateful. Look at the way I get to live. My family is worth a fortune, and I’m a beneficiary of some of it. So how can I be anything but grateful?”

Wow.

She’s certainly not a spoiled rich brat.

Not that I thought she was. If that were the case, she’d be partying, driving around in an expensive car, and spending her money on frivolous things.

She certainly wouldn’t be going to medical school.

She’s choosing to put herself through these grueling four years and an even more grueling five or six afterward.

Angie Simpson is about as real a person as I’ve met in a long time.

“Let me grill the sandwiches really quick,” she says. She puts together a second sandwich and then throws them both into what looks like a waffle iron. Then she pours ladles of soup into two bowls and takes them over to the small table in her kitchen.

She wraps her fingers around the fridge door. “Would you like something else to drink? I have water or soda. Or we can just have the wine.”

“I think water would be great. Thank you.”

I really need to watch myself. I don’t drink often, so my tolerance is shit. And if I drink too much, I might just do something that will cost me my job.

Angie nods and fills two cups of water, adds ice, places them on the table, and then returns to the counter, where she opens the waffle iron and uses a spatula to pull out two gooey grilled cheese sandwiches.

“I just use regular old cheddar,” she says. “I’m not really into stinky cheese.”

I can’t help a chuckle. “Cheddar’s great. But I kind of think that when it comes to cheese, the stinkier the better.”

She wrinkles her nose adorably. “You sound like my mom. I’ve never met a chef that doesn’t love stinky cheese. Or goat cheese, which is the worst.”

I laugh. “I love goat cheese.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave my house,” she says, her eyes bright.

I grin. “I guess it would have never worked out between us anyway.”

She narrows her eyes. “Because of the cheese? Or because you’re my professor?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Are we flirting?

It’s been so long since I flirted with someone. I’m a little rusty.

Angie smiles and gestures to a chair. “Have a seat.”

I wait for her to sit, and then I take the place across from her. She’s even put out cloth napkins.

Impressive.

I place mine across my lap and take another sip of my wine.

“Well,” she says, “dig in. But be careful. The cheese is going to be really hot.” As she says this, she opens her two slices of bread, and steam drifts out. “Helps a little.”

I repeat her movements. Then I take a sip of the water.

I decide to start with the tomato soup.

I bring a spoonful to my lips, blow on it, and then let it float over my tongue.

And wow.

It’s like tasting the essence of a sun-warmed tomato. The flavor is rich, velvety smooth, and bright, with that deep sweetness only a perfectly ripe tomato has. The subtle tang is balanced with a hint of roasted garlic and fresh basil that lingers just long enough to make me want another taste.

So I take another taste.

Then another.

And then I speak. “This may be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

Her cheeks redden further.

Oh, God…

She’s thinking…

And I’m thinking…

I’d love to taste her pussy on my tongue.

Am I ready?

Am I truly ready?

I haven’t been with a woman since…

And she’s a student, for fuck’s sake. A student .

Hell, simply being in her home could be grounds for me to be fired.

But she let me in her home.

And I think she might let me in her , too.

Angie clears her throat, jerking me out of my thoughts.

“I’ll be sure to tell my mom how much you like it.”

I nod. “Best tomato soup ever. I don’t think I’ll ever eat tomato soup out of a can again.”

“My mom would love that,” she says. “She’ll say something like, ‘if I got one person off canned soup, I’ve done my job for the universe.’”

I smile. “Your mom sounds like an interesting person.”

She chuckles. “She is. She’s the youngest of four, and the other three are brothers, so they were always protective of her.

My uncle Ryan is the youngest of the three, and he’s seven years older than my mom.

My uncle Joe, the oldest, is thirteen years older, and my mom ended up marrying his best friend.

So there’s a huge age gap between them. Thirteen years. ”

I tilt my head.

Interesting that she mentioned the age gap.

She and I probably have an age gap of just about that much.

Is she telling me that doesn’t matter to her?

Or is she telling me…

I take another sip of wine.

She’s telling me absolutely nothing. She’s merely making conversation.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m babbling again.”

“Do you babble when you’re nervous?” I ask.

More red cheeks. If this goes on, her cheeks are going to be the color of a fire engine before we’re done.

The idea arouses me. I wonder if the blush in her cheeks spreads to her breasts.

In fact, I’m pretty hard right now, sitting at her kitchen table, eating her mother’s soup.

Thinking about the creaminess of the paradise between her legs.

I can’t deny I was attracted to her the first time I saw her. Hell, I kissed her.

But now…

Now that I’m actually feeling hopeful for the first time in so long… I’m feeling…

Feeling for the first time that I would really like to get to know a woman.

This woman in particular.

Why did she have to be my student?

I can’t lose my job.

Of course, if the surgery goes as planned, my teaching job won’t matter anymore. No one would care if a nonteaching doctor took a medical student for himself. People might roll their eyes, purse their lips. But my job wouldn’t be in jeopardy.

“I’m not nervous,” she says, looking at her sandwich. She picks it up. “It’s probably cool enough now.” She takes a dainty bite.

“Good. I don’t want you to be nervous.” I raise my wineglass. “We’re just neighbors, Angie. Tonight we’re just neighbors.”

She clinks her glass to mine. “Sounds good to me.”

I pick up my sandwich and take a bite.

The sandwich is hot, just shy of scorching.

The cheddar is sharp and tangy, with that unmistakable bite that fills my mouth in waves of savory goodness.

The bread is perfectly crisp, crackling as I sink my teeth in, golden and buttery on the outside, while the inside is soft, almost melting into the cheese.

“This bread is amazing,” I say.

“My cousin Ava made it. She owns a bakery in Snow Creek.”

I smile. “Is there anything that your family doesn’t do?”