Office hours. He’d used to eschew them entirely, threatening TAs into covering them for him or just skipping out on them entirely. Now they were one of the things he most looked forward to each week. Classes had only been in session for a few days, so he probably wouldn’t have many takers, but maybe he could get a good group going again like he had last semester. Inquisitive minds who needed individual time to work through their difficulties with the material. People he could help.
“Actually...”
Cole snuck a quick peek at the time. Bollocks, he was running late.
He looked back at the man expectantly. Then blinked, refocusing on him again. There was something familiar to his features, and he struggled, trying to place him.
The man—boy—tucked his thumb into the strap of his backpack.
His bright green backpack.
Cole’s eyes went wide. “You—”
“You might not remember me,” he said, jaw flexing. “I never got your name, and I don’t know if Max ever told you mine. But back a few years ago...”
“Oh believe me, I remember.” It all returned to him in flashes. The theft on the “L”—the thundering of his heartbeat and the rush of adrenaline as he’d flown wildly, insanely beyond his control.
The moment with his nephew’s tormenter when he’d very nearly done the same, except instead of losing himself, he’d been found.
He’d seen the terror in a bully’s eyes and recognized it deep in his own heart of hearts. He’d seen the razor-thin line between a monster and a man, and he’d finally come down fully on the side of the man.
Swallowing against the tide of conflicting emotions, he stroked his thumb across his ring, spinning it on his finger to calm himself. On the other side of the lectern, the young man seemed to be fighting not to squirm.
“Well. Sir.” The kid shifted his weight. “I’m in this class, you see, and I wanted things out in the open. There’s not another section I can transfer to, and I need the credit for my major, and—”
Interrupting him, Cole cocked a brow. “And you want to know if there will be reprisals for your having ruined my nephew’s life for a year.”
Cole had to give the man credit. He only very slightly flinched. “Exactly.”
There was an old, bitter part of Cole that wanted to flunk the little bugger on sight.
And there was another part that wanted to thank him. If it hadn’t been for him, Cole might still be stewing, grieving and angry and alone. He might’ve never met Serena.
He might’ve never gotten her to take him back. To forgive.
To agree, eventually, to become his wife.
Releasing his ring, he reached out. It was still so strange to touch people casually, but he was getting better at it. Four years of love and tireless affection could break through even the most thoroughly built of walls. Struggling for a smile, he clasped the kid’s shoulder with his hand. “You are very, very lucky you never laid a hand on my nephew again.”
And that he was a better man than he’d been before Serena.
Pulling his arm back, Cole returned to gathering his things. The kid’s jaw flexed back and forth, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times before he stammered out, “So...so we’re good?”
“We’re good.”
He heaved out a heavy sigh. “Thank you, Professor.”
Cole waved him off, and much like he had in that alley, the guy took it as his cue to bolt. For about a minute too long, Cole watched him go.
Well, that was going to be awkward. He’d have to bring it up with Barry, either the next time he caught him in his office or when he and Serena went over for dinner the following weekend. But it was all right. Cole trusted himself to handle it. To be impartial. And to keep himself and his reactions under control.
The alarm on his phone blared out a chime, startling him back into action. Reminding him he had places to be. Silencing the alarm, he grabbed his bag and tossed it over his shoulder. If it wouldn’t have been quite so unbefitting of a professor—and a newly retenured one at that—he would have outright sprinted to the “L,” but as it was, he kept himself to a restrained fast walk. He lucked out when an inbound train was pulling into the station just as he hit the stairs. He ducked between the doors a split second before they closed and dropped himself into a seat.
As the train lurched into motion, he gazed off through the window. His bag was full of grant proposals that needed editing and papers to read, and normally he’d take full advantage of the downtime offered by his daily commute. But he was still rattled, still lost in memories. Still this tiny bit angry.
But mostly just so unbelievably fucking grateful for the way his life had been changed, and he would never, ever go back.
When his stop finally came up, he was so deep in thought he nearly missed it. Jolting from his seat as the doors swept open, he disembarked with his head in a fog, and the walk to the field didn’t help to clear it.
Apparently, he wasn’t much good at hiding his distraction, either.
It didn’t take him long to find Serena in the crowd of parents and siblings and other onlookers gathered behind the fence near the dugout. Nodding to the people he recognized, he made his way over to her, sidling in behind her and tapping her on the arm.
She turned to him, all unbridled delight at seeing him, even after all these years. It went straight to his heart, making him feel as tender and bruised as he’d been back when she’d first found him. The smile on her face fell.
“What’s wrong?”
Bless this woman. This joy who’d pulled him out of the mess of ashes and fire that had been his life. She knew his moods so well by now—knew when to talk him through them and when to let him stew. He’d never earn her devotion or her love, but fuck him if he would ever stop trying.
“Nothing,” he said, sliding his arms around her. If he held on a little bit too tightly, she didn’t call him on it. “Just had a blast from the past.”
“Oh?” She tilted her head up for a kiss, and he gave it to her gladly, relishing the warmth of her lips.
“Yeah.” He’d tell her the details later, talk through all the nuances of his reaction. Let her help him process it the way she always did. For now, though, he stuck to the part that was important. “Reminded me how incredibly lucky I am to have you.”
The soft curve of her smile returned. “Not as lucky as I am to have you.”
He didn’t believe it for a moment, but he wasn’t going to fight her on it. He needed her with a desperation that scared him sometimes.
Then again, maybe she needed him, too. Needed someone to remind her of how amazing she was and to shower her with all the love she deserved.
At the thought, he glanced around. “Was Penny not able to get off work after all?”
“No, she’s here.” Serena pointed toward first base. The twist to her tone took him by surprise.
Penny and Serena still had their moments, but recently they’d been more or less on an even keel. Following her gaze, he scanned the crowd for blond hair and a black leather jacket, and—
Ah. Yes. His sister-in-law stood a little farther down the way, her head bent in conversation with none other than the new headmaster of the school himself—one Grayson Trousseau.
“I see.” Well, at least that explained Serena’s tone. He mentally rolled his eyes at them both. Sisters, honestly. Refocusing, he returned his attention to the field. “How’s the little slugger doing?”
“One on base so far.”
“Not bad.”
He glanced at the scoreboard. They were only in the second inning, and Upton was leading by two.
Just then, Max came up to bat. He adjusted his helmet and scanned the crowd. When his gaze met Cole’s, Cole waved, giving him a quick thumbs-up.
Despite all of Serena’s fears, Max had gotten into Upton and with a scholarship to boot. The school had been as brilliant for him as Serena had imagined it would, and the boy was flourishing, making friends and coming home with a h
ell of a lot fewer bruises. He was top of his class, and Cole took particular pride in how well he was doing these days with math.
Max stepped up to the plate, and they watched him as he hit a decent grounder off the first pitch. The crowd of Upton supporters erupted in cheers, none louder than his and Serena’s. He made it to base, and Cole kept an eye on him even as he refocused his attentions, scarcely able to believe he’d managed not to ask yet.
Sliding his arms back around her, he rubbed a questioning hand over her belly. “And how’s our other little slugger?”
“Slugging away.”
He swallowed hard. The idea of becoming a parent—of inflicting all his imperfections on an innocent he had brought into the world—had terrified him for so long. It would never stop terrifying him.
But they were ready. And once their son made it out into the world, Cole would protect him with every ounce of love in his body.
Threading their hands together, Serena hummed. Their rings clinked, and for a second, the emotion of the day threatened to overwhelm him.
He pressed a kiss to the gold of her hair. “Have I mentioned today that I adore you?”
“Mmm, I think you fit it in at some point this morning.” She ground back against him suggestively, and he growled, grasping her tighter to still her hips.
“I’m trying to be serious.”
She twisted her head to look at him, reaching up with one hand to touch his cheek. “Seriously, then. You have. You never let me doubt it.”
“Good.”
He let her turn her attention back to the game, but he only gave it half his eye.
A handful of years ago, he’d been lost and grieving and alone, watching his own train wreck of a life spin out and wishing to God that it would just stop.
Unwinding one arm from around his wife, he brought a hand to rest against his heart. The ink there wasn’t new, but it still felt fresh sometimes. The nautical star was there to point him home, and beside it was a ship sailing out on clear waters. Seas that were tranquil and calm.
Serene.
The woman in his arms was his home now. She’d taught him how to be a better man.
And he was never going to let her go.
About the Author
Jeanette Grey started out with degrees in physics and painting, which she dutifully applied to stunted careers in teaching, technical support, and advertising. When she isn’t writing, Jeanette enjoys making pottery, playing board games, and spending time with her husband and her pet frog. She lives, loves, and writes in upstate New York.
Learn more at:
JeanetteGrey.com
Twitter, @JeanetteLGrey
Facebook.com/JeanetteLGrey
By day, Rylan will show Kate a side of Paris not found in any guidebook. By night, he’ll introduce her to a passion beyond her wildest dreams.
In this sensuous story of indulgence and desire, Jeanette Grey delivers one of the most romantic reads of the year and proves why she is fast becoming a must-read star.
Turn the page for a preview of Seven Nights to Surrender, available now!
It was ridiculous, how pretty words sounded on Kate’s tongue. Right up until the moment she opened her mouth and spoke them aloud.
Worrying the strap of her bag between her forefinger and thumb, she gazed straight ahead at the woman behind the register, repeating the phrase over and over in her head. Un café au lait, s’il vous plaît. Coffee with milk, please. No problem. She had this. The person ahead of her in line stepped forward, and Kate nodded to herself, standing up taller. When her turn finally came, she grinned with her most confident smile.
And just about had the wind knocked out of her when someone slammed into her side.
Swearing out loud as she was spun around, she put her arm out to catch herself. A pimply teenager was mumbling what sounded like elaborate apologies, but with her evaporating tenth-grade knowledge of French, he could have been telling her off for running into him, for all she knew. She was going to choose to believe it was the apologizing thing.
Embarrassed, she waved the kid away, gesturing as best she could to show that she was fine. As he gave one last attempt at mollifying her, she glanced around. A shockingly attractive guy with dark hair and the kind of jaw that drove women to paint stood behind her, perusing a French-language newspaper with apparent disinterest and a furrow of impatience on his brow. The rest of the people in line wore similar expressions.
She turned from the kid, giving him her best New Yorker cold shoulder. The lady at the register, at least, didn’t seem to be in any big rush. Kate managed a quick “Désolé”—sorry—as she moved forward to rest her hands on the counter. She could do this. She smiled again, focusing to try to summon the words she’d practiced to her lips. “Un café au lait, s’il vous plaît.”
Nope, not nearly as pretty as it had sounded in her head, but as she held her breath, the woman nodded and keyed her order in, calling it out to the girl manning the espresso machine. Then, completely in French, the woman announced Kate’s total.
Yes. It was all she could do not to fist-pump the air. She’d been exploring Paris now for two days, and no matter how hard she rehearsed what she was going to say, waiters and waitresses and shopkeepers invariably sniffed her out as an American the instant she opened her mouth. Every one of them had shifted into English to reply.
This woman was probably humoring her, but Kate seized her opportunity, turning the gears in her brain with all her might. She counted in her head the way her high school teacher had taught her to until she’d translated every digit. Three eighty-five. Triumph surged through her as she reached for her purse at her hip.
Only to come up with empty air.
Oh no. With a sense of impending dread, she scrabbled at her shoulder, and her waist, but no. Her bag was gone.
She groaned aloud. How many people had cautioned her about exactly this kind of thing? Paris was full of pickpockets. That was what her mother and Aaron and even the guy at the travel store had told her. An angry laugh bubbled up at the back of her throat, an echo of her father’s voice in her mind, yelling at her to be more careful, for God’s sake. Pay some damn attention. Crap. It was just— She swore she’d had her purse a second ago. Right before that kid had slammed into her…
Her skin went cold. Of course. The kid who’d slammed into her.
Tears prickled at her eyes. She had no idea how to say all of that in French. Her plans for a quiet afternoon spent sketching in a café evaporated as she patted herself down yet again in the vain hope that somehow, magically, her things would have reappeared.
The thing was, “watch out for pickpockets” wasn’t the only advice she’d gotten before she’d left. Everyone she’d told had thought her grand idea of a trip to Paris to find herself and get inspired was insane. It was her first trip abroad, and it was eating up pretty much all of her savings. Worse, she’d insisted on making the journey alone, because how was a girl supposed to reconnect with her own muse unless she spent some good quality time with it? Free from distractions and outside influences. Surrounded by art and history and a beautiful language she barely spoke. It had seemed like a good idea. Like the perfect chance to make some really big decisions.
But maybe they’d all been right.
Not wanting to reveal the security wallet she had strapped around her waist beneath her shirt, she wrote off all her plans for the day. She’d just head back to the hostel. She still had her passport and most of her money. She’d regroup, and she’d be fine.
“Mademoiselle?”
Her vision was blurry as she jerked her gaze up. And up. The gorgeous man—the one with the dark, tousled hair and the glass-cutting jaw from before—was standing right beside her, warm hand gently brushing her elbow. A frisson of electricity hummed through her skin. Had he really been this tall before? Had his shoulders been that broad? It was just a plain black button-down, but her gaze got stuck on the drape of his shirt across his chest, hinting at miles of muscle undernea
th.
His brow furrowed, two soft lines appearing between brilliant blue eyes.
She shook off her daze and cleared her throat. “Pardon?” she asked, lilting her voice up at the end in her best—still terrible—attempt at a French accent.
He smiled, and her vision almost whited out. In perfect English, with maybe just a hint of New York coloring the edges, he asked, “Are you okay?”
All those times she’d been annoyed when someone spoke English to her. At that moment, she could have kissed him, right on those full, smooth lips. Her face went warmer at the thought. “No. I—” She patted her side again uselessly. “I think that guy ran off with my wallet.”
His expression darkened, but he didn’t step away or chastise her for being so careless. “I’m sorry.”
The woman at the register spoke up, her accent muddy. “You still would like your coffee?”
Kate began to decline, but the man placed a ten-euro note on the counter. In a flurry of French too fast for her to understand, he replied to the woman, who took his money and pressed a half dozen keys. She dropped a couple of coins into his palm, then looked around them toward the next customer in line.
“Um,” Kate started.
Shifting his hand from her elbow to the small of her back, the man guided Kate toward the end of the counter and out of the way. It was too intimate a touch. She should have drawn away, but before she could convince herself to, he dropped his arm, turning to face her. Leaving a cold spot where his palm had been.
She worked her jaw a couple of times. “Did you just pay for my coffee?” She might be terrible at French, but she was passable at context clues.
Grinning crookedly, he looked down at her. “You’re welcome.”
“You really didn’t need to.”
“Au contraire.” His brow arched. “Believe me, when you’re having a terrible day, the absolute last thing you should be doing is not having coffee.”
Well, he did have a point there. “I still have some money. I can pay you back.”
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