Page 8 of In Deep

“It’s not personal. I’m not interested in dating right now. Or anything else,” I add quickly before he gets the wrong idea.

“Shame,” he says with a hint of disappointment. I’m tempted to look back at his face, to glance at those deep green eyes, but I force myself to keep walking. “I’ve never met an omega who smelled as sweet as you.”

I blush, hoping he doesn’t see the colour in my cheeks and know how much that compliment pleases me. Try as I might, those omega instincts lurk inside me, regardless.

* * *

To my astonishment, he shows up at the museum’s coffee shop next.

“Are you stalking me?” I ask him, frowning.

“Yes,” he tells me.

“I could report you to the college administration.”

He grins. We both know he’s untouchable. Star of the rowing team. They’ll turn a blind eye to just about anything he does. “If I order a latte, do you promise not to spit in it?”

“Maybe.”

I turn away from him. Keeping my resolve, not falling for his charm, is easier with my back to him. His scent hangs like a temptation in the air. I scoop fresh coffee groundings into the machine, heating the milk with a hiss.

“I actually came to ask you something non-date related.”

I rest a cup beneath the machine and let the coffee filter down.

“What?” I ask him.

“I hear you tutor maths.”

I peer over my shoulder at him. “Yes.” It’s another way I make extra cash. I have a few kids from the local school who I teach, plus one or two college students too. “Why?” I ask him suspiciously.

“I’m looking for someone who can help me.”

I pour the warmed milk into the cup and spoon foam across the surface. Then I sprinkle cocoa on top and hand it to him. His fingertips stroke against my knuckles as he takes the cup and I pretend not to notice. Pretend that the feel of his skin against mine doesn’t set it tingling.

“What are you studying?” I ask him.

“Medicine.”

He’s going to be a doctor? Why does that make him a hundred times more attractive?

“Then why do you need a maths tutor?”

“We have a maths module coming up which I need to pass.”

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“How much do you charge?”

“Ten pounds an hour.”

“I’ll pay you twenty, and I’ll come to yours.” He hands over his card to pay for his coffee. “I’m serious, Rosie. I can’t afford to fail this module. And my maths is …” He stares at me with a sad puppy-look in his eyes. My stomach flips and I can’t say no. I can’t let him fail medicine. Not when he’s going to be a doctor and help people.

I know it’s a bad idea, but the money and those eyes make it too difficult to resist. I press his card to the machine, letting it beep.

“OK. We can do a trial session.” I shuffle on my feet. “I doubt I’ll be able to help.”

“I know you will. How does tomorrow at seven sound?”