Page 8

8

austin

I can’t stop thinking about Gio Montagalo and it’s affecting my work.

Alone in my office, I stare at the wall and do my best not to Google him—but it’s hard. It’s like trying not to scratch an itch. He’s everywhere, and yet the moment I close my eyes, he’s still there, taking up space in my brain like he’s paying rent.

Since our meeting this weekend—if you can even call it a meeting—he’s been the only thing I can think about, and it’s beginning to show.

Case in point: the half-written grant proposal sitting on my laptop screen. Deadline tomorrow.

Words? Completely gone.

Focus? Nonexistent.

Not good.

This is ridiculous !

I’ve had crushes before; fleeting distractions that barely register in the grand scheme of things. But Gio? He’s a category all his own. It’s not just because he is a famous athlete. Or because he’s good-looking— though, let’s be honest, the man could model for a cologne ad and no one would bat an eye .

Nope. It’s his presence .

The way he’s so damn sure of himself, yet somehow manages to make me laugh even when I’m trying to be mad at him because we’re in a media frenzy I never asked to be part of.

I glance at my phone sitting on the desk, face down like it’s a temptation I can’t afford to indulge. He hasn’t texted me since we met Friday at Five Alarm, which should be a relief.

It means he’s probably moved on, forgotten about me entirely. Right?

Right .

So why does that thought make me feel like shit?

Because. You have the hots for him. You think he’s funny, charming, and he’s a great conversationalist. He’s not boring. Plus, he’s tall.

So.

Tall.

My office door creaks open, and I nearly jump out of my chair.

“Professor Adams?” A student who works in this department peeks her head through the crack. “You have a meeting scheduled with the department chair in five minutes. I thought you might need a reminder since you’re normally early to those?”

Crap.

I plaster on a smile, hoping I don’t look as flustered as I feel.

“Thanks, Logan. I’ll be there in a minute.”

She nods and disappears, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stand and grab my planner. Work. Focus on work . Gio Montagalo does not belong in this office, he does not belong in my head, he does not belong anywhere near my carefully constructed life.

Period.

You are in academia.

His face almost blew off when you said the word professor.

The memory makes me laugh, despite the serious tone of my thoughts. The way his jaw dropped, the way he blinked like I’d just told him I was an astronaut—it’s almost enough to distract me from how off-balance he makes me feel.

Almost.

I step into the hallway, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder as I head toward the department chair’s office. The sound of low chatter drifts through the corridor, and at first, I don’t pay much attention. But then I hear it— that voice.

I stop in my tracks, my heart skipping a beat.

No. Can’t be.

He wouldn’t.

I round the corner, and there he is, leaning on the reception desk like he owns the place. Elbows propped up, his signature smirk firmly in place, Gio Montagalo is chatting it up with the other student aide, who looks about two seconds away from swooning.

My brain short-circuits for a moment, caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. What is he doing here?

Gio looks up just then, and our eyes meet. His smirk grows wider, like he’s been caught but doesn’t mind one bit.

“Professor.” He winks at me, his booming voice carrying down the hallway. “Fancy running into you here.”

I blink, my feet frozen to the floor. What the hell is he doing here ? “What are you doing here?”

The student aide—Paul—looks between us, his eyes wide with fandom.

Gio straightens his stance, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he steps toward me. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

Surprise me? My pulse kicks up, but I do my best to keep my expression neutral. “I have a meeting in, like, two minutes.”

“It’s not an important meeting,” Paul interrupts, eager to help. “I can tell Professor Casey you have a fever.”

“A fever?” I repeat, my head snapping toward him. “We are not going to lie to Professor Casey!”

Gio chuckles softly, clearly enjoying every second of this. “I like that plan,” he says, nodding toward the aide. “Thanks for having her back.”

“Oh my God,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “This is not happening.”

Paul looks genuinely disappointed as he glances between us. “Are you sure you don’t want to bail? I can make it really convincing.”

“I’m sure we are not going to cancel on the department head one minute before the meeting,” I say firmly, though the corners of my mouth twitch despite myself.

Paul sighs, deflated—but Gio is undeterred. The man loves a challenge, it’s in his DNA.

“I can wait,” he announces, his voice too loud for someone who just invited himself into an academic building where people typically speak just above a whisper. He gestures to Paul. “He can show me to your office—I’ll occupy myself until you’re done.”

Occupy himself?! By doing what?!

“That’s not how this works,” I snap, turning my glare on him.

“It’s fine!” Paul says eagerly, perking up at the suggestion. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t touch anything!”

I want to smack them both.

“ Paul, ” I warn to no avail.

He’s already gesturing for Gio to follow him down the hall, like a student ambassador tasked with showing the new kid around campus.

I feel my defenses weakening.

“Babe, don’t worry,” Gio says, flashing me a grin that’s equal parts charming and infuriating. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Babe?

He’s calling me babe now?

What parallel universe am I living in!

“You don’t have a best behavior, I’m sure of it,” I complain under my breath, even though they’re already halfway down the corridor, in the direction of my tiny office.

I stand there for a moment, frozen in place, watching them disappear around the corner. Then, as if on cue, I let out the longest, most exasperated sigh of my life. Of course, this is happening. Of course, Gio has decided to insert himself into my Monday morning!

Why wouldn’t he?

By the time I drag myself to the department head’s office, my brain is spinning with all the possibilities of what kind of chaos he might be stirring up back in my workspace. Is he rifling through my desk drawers?

Rearranging my bookshelves?

Chatting up every passing student because he’s a pseudo celebrity?

The thought is equal parts horrifying and absurdly distracting.

Professor Casey is mid-sentence when I take a seat at his desk—exactly on time, no less—but I barely catch a word of it. Something about new policies? Budget cuts? It all blurs together as my thoughts spiral.

I force myself to nod at the appropriate times, jotting down nonsense in my planner to make it look like I’m engaged.

My mind refuses to cooperate.

Instead, it cosplays images of Gio sitting in my desk chair, playing with my pens, tapping on my keyboard, his cocky smirk plastered across his face as he says something that makes Paul laugh like they’re friends.

What does the man want?!

“Professor Adams?”

I blink, snapping back to the present to find Professor Casey staring at me expectantly.

“Uh, yes?” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as guilty as I feel. “Sorry.”

“Do you have any thoughts on the matter?” the department head asks, his tone suggesting he’s losing patience with me for my lack of attentiveness.

Crap.

“Could you repeat that last part?” I ask, offering my most professional smile.

His eyes narrow slightly, but he obliges—thank God—launching into another explanation about departmental priorities and some vague mention of student engagement initiatives.

I do my best to appear focused on his words.

All the while, my mind keeps drifting back to the man currently occupying my office—and the undeniable chaos he’s brought with him.

I glance at my watch. We’ve been in this meeting for sixteen minutes, though it feels like an eternity. I tap my pen against the page, willing myself to focus.

“And as for the faculty workshop,” Professor Casey continues, his tone dry as he flips through his notes. “We’ll need all hands on deck to ensure its success.”

“Mmhmm,” I murmur, nodding in agreement, though I couldn’t tell you what workshop he’s referring to if my life depended on it.

I glance at my watch again.

Seventeen minutes.

“Professor Adams.” Professor Casey stares at me. “Are you with us?”

“Yes, of course,” I reply too quickly, straightening in my seat. “The workshop. Hands on deck. Got it.”

My boss stares at me for a moment longer, unconvinced, before continuing his droning monologue about the department workshop, blah blah blah.

Blah.

I tap my paper with the tip of my pen. Let out a quiet breath of relief, my mind once again drifting back to my office.

Is this some kind of prank? Or worse, does Gio think showing up unannounced is romantic ? Some grand gesture? Is he trying to impress me?

I click my pen, gripping it tighter, ignoring the way my heart skips at the idea.

This isn’t a rom-com! I’m not a quirky heroine, and Gio Montagalo is definitely not the charming lead.

He’s a disruption.

A distraction.

And yet…

The thought of him waiting for me at my desk…flashing me a smile when I walk back in… sends an uninvited spark of warmth through me.

Professor Casey clears his throat, pulling my attention back to the present.

“Adams,” he says. “I trust you’ll handle your end of the workshop preparations?”

“Absolutely.” I nod briskly. I have no idea what I’ve just agreed to, but I’ll figure it out later.

As our meeting finally wraps up, I gather my things and make a beeline for the door, managing to mutter a polite goodbye to him and the other colleague who had been in the room.

The moment I step into the hallway, my feet quicken their pace toward my office.

Red face.

Beating heart.

As I grow closer, I hear his voice.

His laugh echoes down the hallway, rich and deep, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Because he probably doesn’t!

When I turn the corner, the scene that greets me makes me stop dead in my tracks.

Gio is sitting on the edge of my desk, leaning back on his hands with the kind of cool confidence that should be illegal. Paul is standing to his right, doubled over laughing, and another student—Rachel from my Tuesday morning seminar—has joined the audience, leaning against the doorframe, wide-eyed and completely captivated.

“I’m telling you, it’s true!” Gio is gesturing animatedly with his hands as he tells the story. “Third period, Coach loses his mind. We all get stuck running suicides for an hour because Parker Fiffe decides to tape his water bottle to the ceiling in the team room. To this day, none of us know how he got it up there.”

Paul rasps, tears practically forming in his eyes as he stares at his new hero. “No way!”

“My lips to God's ears.” Gio kisses his fingers and holds them up like he’s delivering the gospel. “And the worst part? Parker blamed it on me!”

Rachel is in love. “That is insane.”

“It was,” Gio says, his grin widening. “But hey, those were the good old days when I was your age.”

Oh lord.

Time to break up the party.

I clear my throat loudly, and all three of them turn toward me.

“Am I interrupting?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended.

“No, no—come in,” Gio says smoothly, gesturing like he’s the one who owns the place.

Rachel giggles, and Paul tries to hide his smile.

I roll my eyes and step into my office, setting my bag down on the chair with a little more force than necessary.

“I didn’t realize you were going to make yourself so at home. I’ve been gone thirty minutes.”

“Just filling in,” Gio says, completely unfazed. Clueless. “I’m a natural. In fact, hook me up with a lecture hall and I’ll give a speech.”

“Don’t doubt it,” I deadpan, shooing him out of my seat so I can sit.

Rachel clears her throat, clearly sensing the shift in the room. “Um, Professor Adams, I stopped by to ask about the extra credit assignment for next week? Uh. I was wondering if you were willing to extend the deadline?”

She knows my policy on making exceptions: there are none.

“Put that in an email and I’ll get back to you by the end of the day,” I tell her, cutting her off so she can’t linger.

Rachel steals another lovesick glance at Gio.

“Oh. Okay.” She glances at him one last time, her curiosity evident, before scurrying out the door.

Paul, however, remains, torn between staying and leaving.

“ Paul, ” I say pointedly, raising my brows.

“Right, yep, I’m going,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. But just as he reaches the doorway, he pauses, turning back to grin at me. “For the record, Gio is awesome. You should give him a chance.”

I’m startled, caught completely off guard as Paul finally steps out and the door clicks shut behind him.

What on Earth were they yapping about while I was stuck in my meeting ?

The door clicks shut.

I turn my attention back to Gio, who’s now lounging in the chair opposite my desk, looking completely at ease—as if he belongs here, as if he hadn’t just derailed my entire day.

“Give you a chance?” I repeat, narrowing my eyes at him. “Care to explain what that’s supposed to mean?”

Gio leans back, his grin widening as he stretches his arms behind his head. “We were just talking. Paul asked some questions, I answered. Nothing scandalous.”

His eyes are practically sparkling as he watches me cross my arms over my chest.

“I doubt that.”

He raises a brow, his expression one of mock innocence.

“What? You think I was out here spreading lies?”

“I think,” I say slowly, “you were probably out here charming the pants off my students—and have not tried explaining to me what you’re doing here. ”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Seemed like the best way to see you.”

I stare, dumbfounded. “Have you ever heard of texting? Or calling? Or literally any other normal method of communication?”

“Sure,” he says easily. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re not supposed to show up at a person’s office unannounced—I wouldn’t do that to you .”

“Right. You were given tickets to my office.”

My mouth gapes. “That is not the same thing and you know it!”

“Isn’t it?”

“No!” I practically shout, eyes darting to the closed door. I lower my voice, pointing a finger at him. “This is completely different.”

He tilts his head, pretending to consider. “Different how? Because I didn’t bring a sign?”

Wow. He thinks he is so cute and clever.

I let out a frustrated sigh, trying to ignore the heat creeping up my neck. It would help if he wasn’t so damn adorable and clueless.

“Gio, I have a job . A very serious, professional job. You can’t just waltz in here and act like…like?—”

“Like I want to see you?” he interjects, his tone soft enough to have me blinking at him.

I’m speechless.

He leans back in the chair, crossing his legs, grinning as he watches me struggle to form a response.

“You know, for someone who spends her days lecturing people about sociology, you’re not very good at reading between the lines.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, though my voice comes out quieter than I’d like.

His shoulders move up and down as he regards me. “It means I’m here because I wanted to see you. No ulterior motives, no grand plan. It is what it is.”

The sincerity in his tone throws me.

My emotions are a tangled mess, and I can’t seem to settle on one long enough to form a coherent response.

I’m dismayed.

Pleased.

Confused.

Delighted.

He’s watching me, expression calm but curious, like he’s waiting for me to say something—anything.

I clear my throat, forcing myself to regain some semblance of composure. “You can’t just show up like this, Gio. It’s disruptive.”

“There’s that word again,” he teases. “What am I disruptive to? Your work?”

“Yes,” I say firmly, though the slight waver in my voice betrays me.

He untangles his legs and arms and leans forward, resting those beefy forearms on the desk, closing the distance between us.

“And here I thought professors were supposed to thrive under pressure.”

The way he says it causes me to tingle.

“Pressure is one thing,” I retort, trying to ignore the way his proximity is making my pulse race. “You’re something else entirely.”

“Good ‘something else’ or bad?” he asks, his grin widening.

I narrow my eyes at him, refusing to dignify the question with an answer.

I shiver again.

“If you’re going to stay, you need to behave.”

“Define ‘ behave ,’” he says, the teasing edge in his voice making it clear he has no intention of doing so.

His eyes say it all and eyes don’t lie.

He likes me .

Likes me likes me.

Never in a million years would you have been able to say to me, “Austin Adams—in one week, Gio Montagalo, your favorite hockey goalie—is going to give you tickets to his hockey game and chase you down at your office because he wants to date you.”

I would have bet money on it.

A ton of money.

The idea is so far-fetched that even now—with him sitting right in front of me—I have trouble wrapping my head around it.

And yet…

Here he is. In the flesh.

“You’re staring,” Gio says, stating a fact.

“I’m not,” I lie, shaking my head as I force myself to look at the papers on my desk. I shuffle them to avert my gaze and give my hands something to do.

“It’s okay. I get it, this is a lot to take in.” He sighs so long and loud as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Trust me, I’m struggling with it too.”

Say what now?

I glance up, narrowing my eyes. “Struggling with what?”

“This. Us.”

Us.

The word hangs in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, I’m sure I misheard him.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve dated anyone,” he continues, completely oblivious to the mini heart attack he’s just caused inside my body. “And honestly, I didn’t think I’d ever get back into it, you know?”

“No,” I say quickly, my voice sharp as I sit up straighter. “I don’t know. There is no ‘us.’”

Gio tilts his head. “Not yet.”

He sounds so convinced. So sure.

“Gio.” His name on my lips causes me to pause, the weight of it heavy in the air. Suddenly, my best friend’s voice pops into my head, loud and clear, like some kind of guardian angel.

“ Do not tell him there is no us. What the hell are you doing? You’re going to turn this man down? Why? YOU ARE SINGLE. We literally talked about dating last week! You said you were lonely! You said you wanted a steady lay and didn’t want to sleep around! You said you wanted a boyfriend! And HERE HE IS! And he’s famous, and hot, and funny! Do not shove this man out of your office.”

My inner monologue spirals, her words playing on a loop like a broken record.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

He’s hot. And famous.

Two things that do not add up in my brain.

I cross my arms tighter over my chest, trying to ground myself in the present moment, but Gio doesn’t miss a beat. He leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk, his gaze steady and unwavering.

“You’re overthinking it,” he says, his tone soft but sure, like he’s reading my mind.

“I am not overthinking it,” I reply, though the crack in my voice betrays me. Overthinking it is what I do best. In fact, as a smile tugs at his lips, my eyes go to the small, framed sign on my wall. “ Overthink it later .”

How ironic.

“You are,” he tells me matter-of-factly. “You’re going to make this more complicated than it needs to be.”

“It is complicated,” I argue, though my conviction feels shaky. “You’re you. And I’m not.”

“You’re not me?” He raises a brow, clearly unimpressed with my logic. “What does that even mean?”

“I meant—you’re you and I’m me.” I fumble for the right words. “This doesn’t make sense. We don’t make sense.”

“Says who?” he asks, leaning back in his chair like he’s completely at ease .

“Says reality,” I snap, overwhelmed with the conversation. I did not wake up planning for this.

I did not plan for him.

Obviously.

“Reality is overrated,” he quips, his grin widening. “Haven’t you learned that by now? The internet says so.”

“Oh shut up.” I laugh.

He seizes the opening, shifting tactics. “Did you read the article about yourself this morning on Sports Center ?”

My head shakes. No I have not.

“You should,” he says casually, leaning back in his chair. “It makes you look like the better, smarter part of this partnership.”

“Partnership?” I echo, arching a brow.

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “You’re the one with the Ivy League degree—I went to a Podunk college in Canada and used pancakes to make sandwiches when we ran out of bread.”

I blink at him, my lips twitching as I try to suppress a smile.

“Pancakes? Really?”

“Hey, they’re versatile,” he says, completely serious. “And don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. They’re so fluffy.”

That does sound delicious.

“Anyway. The media loves you. They also love the fact that you were roasting me at the game.”

I snort.

“It’s what any sports loving enthusiast would do, given your recent stats.”

He clutches his chest like I’ve just mortally wounded him. “Wow. Straight for the jugular, huh?”

“Some would say I helped you win this last game.”

“That’s exactly what they’re saying. You’re my good luck charm.”

Good luck charm?

“Please don’t tell me you believe in superstitions.” Although if I’m being fair, most athletes have some kind of pre-game superstitious ritual .

“Are you out of your mind? Of course I do!” he replies, looking genuinely offended by the suggestion that he wouldn’t .

I can’t help but laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious,” he says, leaning forward like he’s about to let me in on some life-altering secret. “Do you have any idea how many rituals go into being a hockey player? It’s practically a religion.”

“Let me guess,” I say, crossing my arms. “You have a pair of lucky socks that you’ve worn twenty games in a row.”

“Not socks,” he says, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But I do have a routine. And now I have a lucky charm.” He pauses. “You.”

“I need you at every game.”

“Every game?” I repeat, staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “Do you realize how insane that sounds?”

“Not insane,” he corrects, holding up a finger. “Committed to the cause.”

“What cause? Driving me crazy?”

“If that’s what it takes,” he says, smirking.

I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off.

“Think about it,” he says, his tone turning thoughtful. “You come to my games, I win more often, the media gets to keep their feel-good story about my ‘brilliant, beautiful good luck charm.’ Everyone wins.”

Everyone wins.

“What’s in it for me?” I blurt out. “Besides the fact that my team will become champions.” Which is the ultimate goal, yeah?

“Well. You get me.” He spreads his arms wide like he’s presenting himself as a prize on a game show. “Whatever you want.”

Whatever I want …

My eyes trail down his torso.

Broad chest.

His is a body roughened by years of hockey, with hands you’d expect to see gripping a stick or wrapping around a big, thick?—

“Uh-huh,” I say, forcing my focus back to his face. His stupid, cheeky grin is firmly in place. “I have a job, you know. A full-time one.”

I’m a Big Kid! My tone says.

“And?” He shrugs like this is the most minor inconvenience in the world. “My games are mostly at night. Doesn’t conflict with your office hours, Professor Adams.”

“How generous of you,” I lament dryly.

“I know.”

“You seriously think I’m going to drop everything and become your personal good luck charm? That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” he counters, his grin softening into something closer to sincerity. “It’s practical.”

“Practical?” I repeat, my voice rising slightly. “For who? You?”

“Sure.” The giant oaf leans back in his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “But also for you. Think about it—this is your chance to be part of something bigger than yourself.”

“I am part of something bigger than myself,” I say, gesturing around my office. At my diplomas—Bachelors, Masters, and Doctorate degrees, thankyouverymuch . “It’s called academia .”

He snorts. “Does academia have championship trophies and screaming fans?”

“No,” I admit reluctantly. “But it includes tenure and health insurance.”

Ha!

“Touché,” he allows. “But it also doesn’t have me . And for the record, I don’t half ass anything.”

He is giving me a pointed look so intense, I squirm uncomfortably.

“Right,” I reply dryly. “Because it’s not like I have papers to grade or meetings to attend or, you know, a life outside of work. ”

“You’ll make time,” he says confidently, like it’s a foregone conclusion.

“Wow.” I blink at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.” He flashes me a smile so bright it should be illegal and for a brief moment, I catch myself wondering if he’s had any teeth knocked out and if so, which ones.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” I snap, unconvincing even to my own ears. He is turning me into a liar!

“Sure it was,” he says easily. “You don’t want to admit it.”

I roll my eyes, but Gio only laughs, the sound warm and entirely too charming. Intoxicating, even.

“Okay,” I say, holding up a hand. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I agree to this madness. What exactly would this… arrangement entail?”

His grin widens, like he’s been waiting for me to ask. “You’d come to my games, obviously. Cheer for me. Maybe throw a few good-natured insults at the opposing team.”

“Duh.” I toss my hair. “What else?”

“Well.” He sits forward, getting excited. “We’d probably have to hang out a bit outside of games, you know, to keep up appearances. Make it believable for the media.”

“Believable?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “You mean you’d want me to fake-date you?”

“Who said anything about fake?” he says, his grin turning mischievous.

My stomach flips, and I hate how easily he gets under my skin.

“Dude,” I start, my tone holding warning.

“Relax, relax.” He stands. I track him with my eyes as he rounds the desk, his presence so commanding that it feels like the entire room shrinks. “I’m not asking you to marry me. Just to think about it.”

I’m not asking you to marry me…

Marry me.

He stops right next to my chair, towering over me, and every logical part of my brain is screaming at me to stand up, too. Or wheel my chair away. The massive lunk crouches so we’re eye level, his face impossibly close to mine.

My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain he can hear it.

“I-I don’t think this is appropriate.”

“What’s not appropriate?” he whispers, closing the space further by gripping my chair by the arms and pulling it forward.

Not aggressive.

Just deliberate.

Purposeful.

“I’m working. It’s not appropriate to…”

“To do what?” He leans forward, mouth brushing the side of my neck where my pulse beats erratically.

He kisses it again.

“That.”

“Why?”

Cause.

Just…cause.

He is giving me every chance to stop him. To turn my head. Shove him away. Resist him like a good girl because I AM AT WORK. THIS IS NOT PROFESSIONAL!

But I don’t push him away.

I don’t resist.

As much as I hate to admit it, I want him to keep kissing me.

I want him.

Not because he’s Gio Montagalo but because he’s so fucking sexy and sure of himself.

And so, when his lips brush against mine, tentatively to test the waters, I let him. In fact, my breath hitches with excitement and before I know it, I’m kissing him hungrily, hands instinctively reaching up to touch his face.

Stroke his cheeks.

My fingertips trail along the curve of his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble against my smooth skin—a contrast between us that sends a shiver racing down my spine .

Yum…

His lips, soft yet demanding, press against mine with increasing fervor, coaxing me to respond in kind.

I tilt my head, giving in completely, and the world narrows to just this: the heat of his mouth, the gentle scrape of his stubble, the intoxicating taste of him.

Sweet, like candy.

My candy—the kind I keep on my desk for students to take.

The air between us is charged—electric—and I feel like I’m floating and free-falling both at the same time. My senses are flooded—his scent, the warmth of his body, the rhythm of his breathing mingling with mine.

Hot tongue.

Full lips.

When we break apart, gasping for air, I feel lightheaded, my lips tingling and swollen from the force of our connection. My chest rises and falls in uneven bursts, heart pounding so hard it’s a miracle it hasn’t leapt out of my rib cage.

The whole thing gives me butterflies.

“Whew,” I let out, doing my best to smile. As if I make out in my office on the daily, like—no big deal.

Gio straightens to his full height, his presence still commanding even as he steps back, and the wheels of my chair roll me gently into place.

“Think about it,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, his lips curling into a grin.

“Mmm?” I manage, voice shaky. I have betrayed myself and judging by the look he’s giving me, he is well aware.

Gio stands slowly, the absence of his warmth making me feel unmoored. Makes me want to yank him back and kiss him all over again…

“You know— us .”

“Us?” My head tilts to look up, up, up at him, brows furrowing .

He grins down at me, that maddening, cocky smile that has my knees going weak even though I’m sitting.

“Yeah, you goof. Us. I’d love to see you at my next game.”

I roll my eyes. It’s impossible not to. “Yeah—so you win.”

“That’s not the only reason I want you there, but if it gets you to the arena, I’ll take it.”

Gio Montagalo is still sniffing after me to be his good luck charm and the thought still blows my mind. Of all the things…

“You’ll come around to my way of thinking.”

Arrogant bastard.

I open my mouth to argue—tell him how ridiculous he sounds. Unfortunately the words get stuck somewhere between my brain and my lips and before I can untangle the mess of thoughts swirling in my head, he steps back, hands sliding into his pockets.

“I’ll see you later, Professor,” he says, giving me a wink that manages to feel both playful and arrogant. Like he knows I’m putty in his big, strong hands.

Then.

He turns and walks out of my office, leaving me staring after him like a freaking idiot.

When the door closes behind him, my hand drifts to my lips, still tingling from the kiss; my brain struggles to catch up with what just happened.

What did just happen?

I blink at the door, half-expecting him to come back, to say something else, to explain himself. But he doesn’t. He’s gone, and I’m left alone in my office, my thoughts racing and my heart still pounding.

Think about it.

As if I’ll be able to think about anything else.