Considering the number of Blair Reynolds–inspired hard-ons I’d had—including this one—I was definitely not saying that. But I wasn’t sure she was ready to handle hearing my feelings on the subject of how badly I wanted to get underneath her little skirts and the cardigans I fantasized about unbuttoning.
“Most of my students come to class dressed in jeans and flip-flops. Occasionally pajamas, after, I’m guessing, a hard night at the bar. Most of my students don’t wear pearls or carry Chanel bags.”
She made a choking noise. “So, apparently I dress like a grandmother now. Thanks.”
She wanted the truth? My gaze settled on the hem of her skirt, trailing it down to her legs. I swept over the lines of her body, admiring the view, giving her all the answer she needed.
I definitely didn’t think she looked like anything other than a fantasy. My fucking fantasy.
“Trust me, the last thing I think of when I look at you is my grandmother.” My voice sounded hoarse, strained, raw. I met her gaze again, the look on her face doing funny things to my chest. “I never meant to imply that you were old, just that you seemed more mature than the rest of the class. You don’t look like you screw around when I’m lecturing like some of your seatmates.”
I knew because I kept my eyes on her way more than I should.
Some of the red drained away, as though my confession had mollified her a bit. I tried to lighten the tension between us, to distract the part of me that couldn’t stop thinking about her legs.
“Speaking of, you might want to tell your friend that I can see the newspaper he tucks in front of his computer every day. I know he does the crossword puzzle in class.”
Surprise filled her pretty brown eyes and then her lips twitched, breaking through the lingering anger. “In his defense, it’s not every day.”
“Just most days.”
“Just most days,” she agreed with a smirk.
My breath caught at the playful tease and this new side of her.
In some ways, Blair reminded me of my ex-wife, Jessica. We’d met during law school. Jessica’s father was a judge, her mother a well-known society hostess. The first time she’d taken me home to meet her parents, I’d been afraid to touch anything, never more aware of the shit hole I’d grown up in—the cramped apartment over my father’s bar on the South Side.
I’d been dazzled by Jessica. She’d seemed like a chance at a different future, the perfect wife for my legal career. She just hadn’t been the perfect wife for me. It had turned out that as hard as it was for me to shake off my South Side background, it had been even harder for Jessica to ignore.
So yeah, I’d done the rich-girl thing. And been bitten in the ass for it. Didn’t need to do it again. No matter how hot her mouth was.
I tore my gaze away from Blair and looked down at my desk. I twirled a pen in my hands, a nervous habit I seemed to have developed somewhere along the way. I’d never had nervous habits in Chicago, just bad ones—the worst being my shitty self-control.
The thing about having an addictive personality was that if you set a drink in front of an alcoholic, it was fucking hard to resist a taste.
And if Blair Reynolds were alcohol, she’d be a single malt Scotch.
Nothing about her screamed sex—it was more like a whisper. A whisper that wound its way through me, filling my ears, my head, my eyes. It was a whisper that tempted me when I’d always been drawn to the loud and obvious.
Thank god torts came as naturally to me as breathing; I spent a ridiculous amount of class time thinking about her, wondering about her, fantasizing about her. Turned out it was so much worse when what I wanted most was sitting right across from me.
I dropped the pen, my fingers curving into my palm as if that alone would keep me from reaching out and touching, from satisfying my curiosity about whether her skin was as soft and smooth as it looked.
Fuck.
“Are you ready to talk about the pro bono project?” she asked, her voice full of no small amount of censure.
I straightened in my chair and nodded.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a little blue notebook and a silver pen. “I thought we could volunteer with one of the local middle schools. I’ve talked to one that works with at-risk youth. The administration is interested in partnering with us to create a mentoring program.”
My ex-wife’s idea of charity had been serving on committees and throwing lavish parties to raise money for one of her pet projects. I’d figured Blair’s proposal would be in a similar vein—something where she didn’t have to get her hands dirty.
“Which school?”
“Greenwood Middle.”
“Where’s that?”
She mentioned an area of D.C. notorious for drugs and gang activity.
Part of what had made me a great trial attorney was my ability to read a jury.
I couldn’t get a read on her.
“Do you think that could work?” she asked, her voice hesitant, as if she were waiting for me to squash her plans.
Was I really that big of an asshole? I mean, yeah, I screwed with her a bit, but I couldn’t believe she actually thought I was so heartless that I would block a plan to help underprivileged kids. Hell, I’d been a product of one of those schools in Chicago. I knew firsthand how tough it was to claw your way out of the gutter.
“I think it’s a great idea,” I answered, surprising her, by the look on her face. “A lot of them have probably had negative run-ins with the legal system.”
I knew all about having a juvie record.
“This could be a chance for them to see that the deck isn’t always stacked against them. That sometimes the law is on their side. What’s the next step?”
“I’ll arrange a meeting with the school principal,” she answered. “I’ll try to go there in the next few days. I’d like to set it up as soon as possible so the program can launch before everyone is bogged down with studying for finals.”
“Are you going by yourself?”
Blair nodded.
The school she’d named was in one of the roughest parts of the city. I figured we’d team up the students to go over on the days they mentored at the school. But Blair going by herself?
“I’ll go with you.”
Her mouth tightened. “No.”
“I’m not letting you go by yourself. It isn’t safe. Let me know when you get the meeting set up and I’ll clear my schedule to take you.”
“Letting me?” Her voice was downright frosty as her anger simmered between us.
Fire and ice.
She was the ultimate contrast. She had a self-control about her that I envied, and at the same time, there was so much fire inside her pushing to get out. It blasted through her eyes, bubbled over in her voice. Her control slipped, inch by inch, and I wondered what it would be like when it finally fell away.
Magnificent. She would be magnificent.
Whoever got that side of her would be a lucky bastard. She was beautiful under normal circumstances, but when she was angry she was fucking gorgeous.
“I’ll take you,” I repeated.
Her eyes narrowed. “No.”
Blair
I said no, when what I wanted to say was, no fucking way. In traffic that could be a forty-five minute drive. Forty-five minutes in the car alone with him?
I’d either throttle him or jump him and neither one boded well for my legal education.
“I’ll go with you,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “We can meet here and drive over together. Just email me the date. I’m responsible for this project. If something happens to one of my students, it’ll be my ass on the line.”
I hesitated, torn between not wanting to go anywhere with him, and realizing I’d picked a battle I couldn’t win. And the absolute worst part of it all? I was curious.
I always voted the party line, never went more than five miles over the speed limit, never drank more than two glasses of wine. And I wanted to fuck my professor with an intensity that bordered on madness.