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  He held out the paper. "I got an F. I apologize again for turning it in late. See, I'm about to graduate with a business management degree. I need to pass this course." His smile held well. "When we last spoke, I assumed you understood my position and told me it was acceptable to turn it in a few days late."

  Oh, she remembered that conversation perfectly. He'd given her excuse after excuse for why he deserved more time, and she just nodded and didn't have to say a word. The man was probably so used to women giving him everything he wanted, he hadn't even bothered to wait for her verbal assent. Just walked away with a smile and a wink. He'd actually winked at her like this was 1970 and calling women in authority by honey and babe was fine.

  "It was acceptable," she said calmly. "But if you'd read your syllabus carefully, you'd see each day it comes in late one full letter grade is taken off. I gave you a break though, Mr. Dunkle. I didn't count the weekend because I was feeling quite generous. Is that it?"

  He blinked. Confusion flickered over his face and she had to tamp down a chuckle. He leaned in just a few inches and dropped his voice to a concerned level. "Professor Blake, I need to get a C in this class. My job right now depends on my graduation this June."

  Her eyes glinted behind her glasses with pure intention. "Did you read The Story of an Hour by Kate Chopin? Or did you scan the Internet for analysis and summaries and stick them into your paper to make it look like you read it?"

  Oh, she knew that look well. Ella waited to see if he'd lie straight to her face. A tiny crease in his brow gave him away. She was the one surprised when he finally answered. "No."

  "No, what, Mr. Dunkle?"

  "No, I didn't read the story. I tried. But I got bored and stopped."

  She nodded. "I'd suggest if you want to pass my class you begin taking it seriously and doing the assignments. On time."

  His aura simmered with frustration. "I understand. I'll be sure to read the next short stories thoroughly. Who's the next author we're studying?"

  "Virginia Woolf."

  He looked like he'd rather stick needles in his eye than read Woolf, but she gave him credit. He kept his expression open and understanding. "Fascinating. Hey, maybe we can get some coffee after class? Discuss some of your viewpoints. Get to know one another better? I feel like we may have gotten off on the wrong foot."

  Unbelievable. The man just kept digging the crater larger and larger. He'd be lucky to graduate. She switched to her disapproving teacher voice: hard, controlled, and full of ice. "I dislike cliches, Mr. Dunkle. In both speech and company."

  "Huh?"

  "Gotten off on the wrong foot," she pointed out. "It's called a cliche. Look it up. Now, do you have any issues regarding the next assignment?"

  He cleared his throat. "I'm just surprised we're reading another woman writer. This was never explained as a feminist course. I assumed we'd be reading Hemmingway, or Fitzgerald, or Poe. Getting more of the male perspective in society, too, you know?"

  Once again, he realized he'd misspoken too late. Her gaze flicked over him, then slid away in dismissal.

  "You know what they say about the word assume, Mr. Dunkle?"

  "No."

  Her smile was mean. "It makes an ASS out of you and me. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get ready for my next class."

  She focused on the stack of papers in front of her and began to read. His stunned silence seethed with unspoken emotions, but finally he walked away with his failing paper clutched in his hand. She risked a peek.

  His stride owned pure grace and swagger. His tight, perfect ass made women want to weep. Or cop a feel.

  She tamped down the flare of guilt from ogling a student, but the man was her age and ready to graduate, so it wasn't all that terrible. Besides, she'd never date the man. If he thought their little chat meant she was going to forgive lateness or inane answers in her class, Connor Dunkle would learn quickly enough.

  Sighing, she began prepping for her next class. God, she was tired. She loved teaching, but lately, burnout threatened. How long had it been since she spent a night out? Or did anything more exciting than grading papers and playing Wii U Super Smash Brothers? She adored her ten-year-old son, but maybe she needed more balance in her life. Ella didn't want Luke growing up thinking women didn't leave the house other than to work. But every time she thought about going out with some friends for a drink, mama guilt kicked in. They'd already been forced to move twice before she got her permanent job at Verily College, and he was still adjusting to a new neighborhood and school. How could she leave him to pursue her own fun? The divorce may have been final for a year now, but the first year was filled with pain, anger, and lawyers back and forth. Luke probably needed more time to accept his parents would never get back together. He'd probably freak at the idea of her trying to date, and Lord knows her first priority was to her son.

  Ella sighed. She had no time for dating anyway. Weekends were filled with endless errands and running around. The idea of putting on something more than a pair of sweats seemed painful.

  Right now, her legs resembled a porcupine. If she ever had sex again, she'd need to bribe the beautician to give her a bikini wax.

  She was thirty-five years old, and an official old maid. Maybe they'd make a card in her honor one day. If children even played that game anymore. Oh, Lord, now her mind was chattering about inane things again and she needed to get herself together.

  Ella bet Connor didn't have such problems. His biggest issue was probably what woman to sleep with and what type of beer to drink with dinner. Yeah, she was being judgy, but damned if she didn't feel like she had the right just this once.

  She sorted folders and her fingers closed around the glossy postcard she'd found in the Verily bakery. With purple and silvery scroll, the logo of Kinnections matchmaking agency made her pause. Tapping her finger against the edge, she rotated it in her hands and pondered.

  It may be a bit pricey, but imagine someone taking the time to personally screen her matches? No bars or losers or meat markets to deal with. No dreaded Internet. Maybe there'd be a nice single father out there who was perfect for her. A man who took responsibility seriously. A man who wouldn't dump his family for a newer, flashier model like her dickhead ex-husband.

  The next group of students came straggling in, and Ella shoved the card back into the pile of papers. She'd think about it. Right now, she needed to concentrate on Edith Wharton.

  Ella got back to work.

  Chapter Three

  "I would always rather be happy than dignified."--Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

  Connor climbed the steps to his apartment, looking forward to some good TV, his meatball parm sub, and a cold Guinness with the perfect head. The conversation with Professor Blake kept replaying over and over in his head. What had he done wrong? The damn class was ruining his perfect GPA, which he'd worked hard for. Was she really going to bust his balls on essays that meant nothing?

  He muttered a few choice curse words and stopped short. A voice hit his ears along with the sound of metal dragging on concrete.

  "What's a matter, new boy? You too good to hang with us? Maybe I'll teach you a lesson. Gimme that DS!"

  "No! Leave me alone!"

  Connor bit back a groan and turned. The same three boys--he called them the gangsters--were tormenting some poor kid who had been shoved to the ground and pinned by his bike. An open backpack spilled a variety of contents over the sidewalk. The main bully gave a satisfied sneer and held the red Nintendo DS high over his head.

  Little shits. They liked to play dirty and tended to pick out kids a few years younger. Connor knew the type well. His younger brother, Nate, had fallen victim to bullying in school and it had almost destroyed his ability to concentrate on his studies. Connor made sure no one messed with him, but he felt bad for the kids who had no one to protect them.

  Connor put his purchases down and walked over to the crew. "Practicing for prison?" he drawled. He stood in front of them with his arms crossed casu
ally, an intimidating stare on his face. Like clockwork, the three of them looked at each other, their faces reflecting wariness and a coward's fear. Yeah, the bullies were only strong together. Break them up and they were helpless. "Here. Let me help you."

  The boy on the ground ignored his outstretched hand and dragged himself to his feet. No tears shone in his dark eyes, but his skin was mottled red, and his lower lip trembled slightly. Still, pure rebellion reflected in his face and attitude. His dark hair was cut too short, emphasizing a wicked cowlick in the front, and he was skinny and all legs. A thin trickle of blood dripped down his arm. Probably a scraped elbow. He wore a red sweatshirt with the Captain America logo, athletic pants, and some type of expensive looking sneakers. Connor respected him wanting to handle the situation himself, especially at his age. What was he, about nine? Ten?

  "We weren't doing nothing," the lead gangster replied. "He fell off his bike."

  The boy didn't deny it. He stared at the bullies with a fierce resentment that shimmered in the air. His hands clenched into tight fists, but he didn't move, just shifted back and forth on his feet.

  "Convenient. Give me the DS."

  "It's mine!" lead gangster whined.

  Connor looked at the kid but he didn't claim the DS. Keeping a stubborn silence, he met the gangster's gaze and refused to back down.

  Connor shook his head. "Tough. I'm claiming the DS. I've been dying to try out some games so it's now mine."

  The boys looked at him as if he'd gone nuts, and Connor used their shock to smoothly snatch the DS from the bully's hand. "You can't do that!" the second gangster cried. "That's stealing."

  "Guess I'll be sharing a jail cell with you one day, huh? Listen up. Next time you think you're gonna have a bit of fun at some younger kid's expense, remember this. I can find each of you alone and make you regret it. Got it?"

  The leader stepped back. "Whatever. Come on, guys. Let's get out of here."

  They trudged away in their ragtag group. Connor picked up the bike from the ground and thrust out the DS. "Here you go. No thanks necessary, kid."

  "I didn't need your help," the boy hissed in fury. Connor jerked back at the frustration glinting from his brown eyes. "I had it handled. You screwed up everything, dude! Now they're gonna be looking for me cause they think I'm a wuss!"

  Connor blinked. "Are you kidding me? You would've gotten beat up. I've seen those kids around and they don't play nice. Trust me, they won't mess with you anymore."

  The boy yanked back the DS and his bike, shoving his backpack over his arm. "Whatever."

  Connor rolled his eyes. "When did that word make a comeback? I mean, really?"

  The kid didn't answer, just shook his head and dragged his bike toward the building next door. Huh. Guess he was a new neighbor. Connor hadn't seen any moving trucks, but he hoped the grumpy old man was finally gone. Anyone was better than a grizzled man who sat on the front stoop and bellowed at strangers on the street, drinking cheap whiskey from a brown paper bag. Even a surly kid.

  Connor watched the red door shut and turned back to his own place. Maybe he should knock on the door this weekend and introduce himself. The neighborhood wasn't the best, but the location was prime for commuting to Manhattan and keeping rents low. Other than the band of bullies who haunted the streets, there weren't drugs or gangs. Just a bunch of older stone buildings with ancient plumbing, leaky windows, and pothole-ridden streets.

  Still worked for him.

  Connor trudged inside and reheated his dinner. The interior of his apartment didn't reflect the shabby exterior. He'd updated the original dull beige walls and carpet with a rich blue, and his brother's girlfriend, Kennedy, had transformed the bachelor pad into a home using a few feminine touches to brighten up the place. He'd moved from his old apartment he'd shared with Nate to save money, ignoring his brother's protests that he'd cover his expenses until Connor finished school.

  Hell, no.

  Connor had spent his life taking care of his little brother and raising him. Though Nate was now a fancy rocket scientist who used to work for NASA, Connor refused to take his charity. But he hadn't been able to afford the tuition so they'd struck a deal. Since Connor had worked three jobs to get Nate through college when he was young, Nate would front his tuition bill. Connor could live with that, knowing he'd pay back his brother every dime once he got into a management position. He'd quickly moved to this apartment to save on rent and was now able to live comfortably.

  He may not have fancy granite counters or stainless steel appliances, but everything worked, including the big screen TV. The furniture was secondhand, but it was solid wood mahogany, with clean, masculine lines. The extra bedroom was a nice perk, so he used it for his workout equipment and skipped the gym membership. Photos of architectural buildings and bridges filled the walls, bringing a sense of wonder and creativity to the space. His textbooks stuffed the antique bookcase, and he'd created a small workspace in the corner of the living room, saving a spot for where he'd hang his degree.

  He pulled out his sub, cracked open his beer, and ate at the sturdy pine table while he scrolled through his iPhone and updated social media. The radiator hummed and the pipes creaked in the background. The smell of sauce and meat drifted in the air. He embraced the quiet, settled in, and enjoyed the solitude. After dinner, he powered up his laptop and did a few hours of schoolwork, finally rubbing his tired eyes around nine o'clock.

  To think he once had nothing to do but hang at the pub with his friends was now laughable. Most of the time, he fell asleep with his textbooks open on the table, drooling over the pages. Other than an occasional Saturday night out or hanging with his brother, his social life had dried up to an embarrassing level. He rarely saw his old friends, who were mainly into getting drunk at the bars every Friday and Saturday night, refusing to acknowledge that forty loomed dangerously close. Hell, the saddest part of all was he didn't even miss his old life.

  Not even the women.

  How had that happened? Not that he didn't have steady offers, but lately his sexual drive had been humming at a low level. Something seemed lacking in all of his encounters, and he couldn't seem to figure out the problem. He'd never been like his brother, craving some type of mythical connection with a woman that didn't exist. No, he believed hard in the three B's when it came to dating. They were part of his own personal Bible he'd created to keep things uncomplicated.

  Beauty.

  Body.

  Boobs.

  Marriage didn't interest him, and neither did getting tied up with all the daily routine and messiness of a long-term relationship. He'd seen firsthand how the feeling of love could turn bad and sweep everyone in its wake into a tsunami of casualties.

  No, thanks. Keep it clean and everyone remained happy. He just needed to get his groove back.

  He got up from the table and cleaned up. Maybe he'd spend a few minutes spacing out in front of the television. Yeah, he had to be at the job site at five a.m. for his construction job, but he needed to clear his mind from the array of numbers flashing in his head.

  Dropping into the comfortable sectional, he channel surfed for a bit before he hit pay dirt. The Fast and Furious number--well, whatever. Nothing like some good car crashes and skimpily dressed women to soothe him. He put his feet on the coffee table and settled in.

  "How was school, honey?"

  Her son dragged his fork across the chipped plate. "Fine."

  Ella raised a brow. Luke slumped at the table, staring at his meatloaf with pure suffering. She didn't blame him. Lately, dinners were thrown together with little thought to gourmet taste and more to sustenance on a faster timetable. "Did you just utter the most boring, inane word on the planet that should be struck from Webster's Dictionary? The word I absolutely refuse to acknowledge in this house because I believe we have brains larger than an amoeba? Did you say the word--fine?"

  He tried to look annoyed but his lip twitched. "Sorry. It was uneventful."

  She grinned. "Mu
ch better." They smiled at each other and for a little while, life was just about perfect. Ella knew well about grabbing those moments in time that defined her daily routine. Her son was growing up. Every day, she felt as if he tugged another inch away from her toward the big bad world that was waiting to gobble him whole. Her gaze swept over his beloved face, with his charming pug nose, full lips, and graceful brows. His brown hair was thick and messy, with a terrible cowlick she'd never been able to tame with gel or scissors, but was such a part of who he was she hoped he'd never get rid of it. His round black glasses made him look like a young Harry Potter. Of course, he hated them and was already begging for contacts.

  But his eyes were truly the window to his truth. A deep, rich chocolate brown, they reminded her so much of his father. Luke's were full of warmth, kindness, curiosity, and zeal.

  His father's had been full of unfulfilled longing and too many secrets.

  Ella tamped down a sigh. The last time she'd convinced Luke to sit on her lap for just a moment, his lanky legs had hung over her and hit the floor at an awkward angle. She'd spent her entire life engulfed in the magic of words and poetry, and in that moment, finally got what it felt like to grieve the passing of time. Just another one of those things you could read about or watch but didn't truly understand the flood of emotion until you experienced it. Kind of like childbirth.

  "Besides uneventful, have you made any friends yet?" she asked.

  His head dropped again. "Nope."

  "No boys in the neighborhood? Maybe to ride bikes with or something?"

  He snorted. "Let's just say there's been no welcoming committee. I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry about it."

  And that's exactly why she worried. Luke was extremely independent, and usually had no problem making friends. His wicked sense of humor won over his toughest critics, but the past months had stolen his smile.

  He needed more time, and she knew he'd make friends. Pushing wasn't going to help. Attending a new school simply sucked. She'd tried everything possible not to move, but the job offer at Verily College was a gift she couldn't pass up. She hated not being home after school for Luke, but for now she had no choice. Next semester she'd have a better schedule and more flexibility, but for now, she needed to prove herself and take the unwelcome time slots leftover from the other long-term professors.