Page 9 of I Want to Know What Love Is

“I do think you’re hot.” Well, well. My eyes widen before I can stop the reaction. His matter-of-factness neutralizes any hint of flattery in the admission. Then he continues.

“But I’m not an out-of-control adolescent who can’t keep control of his dick. Besides, there are plenty of hot girls around who aren’t on the SPU staff.” He waves a hand in the direction of a couple of drunk chicks stumbling across the front lawn. His self-confidence borders on arrogance and outsizes mine by a metric ton. Or so it feels at the moment since mine is mostly bravado today. That stupid would-be wedding anniversary lurks at the back of my mind like a pile of dirty laundry shoved under the bed, particularly smelly today after a year of stewing when the stench should have faded away by now.

But I nod because he has a point and I can’t help wondering which of the girls has their claws into his hunky muscles before I can stop myself from useless speculation. I need to get out more. And by out, I don’t mean Chinese takeout junkets or college jock parties.

“Whatever. Let’s work up a schedule.” All business, at least on the outside, I pull my phone from my bag and scroll to my calendar, keeping my eyes off him. “I have Monday evenings available after eight. Once a week should do, right? Or do you need more?” Shit. Everything I say sounds like a double entendre to my sex-starved sensibilities. This super jock has me way too confused for my health. There’s no way I should find him attractive, let alone interesting. He’s a kid and I’m not. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old adult and I have the scars to prove it.

“I told you, it’s a bad idea,” he says. I look up at him and scowl. His pretty brown eyes stare me down without flinching.

“Talk to your coach about that. Not my problem. My problem is doing everything I can to be successful and that means saying yes to favors when asked by fellow coaching staff. Got it?” I heave a breath and he nods. Then he gives me that smirky smile that shouldn’t affect me. No way should I feel an actual flutter in my gut, a squeeze in my chest.

“Then I’d be doing you a favor if I agree. How’d you know tempting my kindness was the way to my heart?” He stretches his words into a deep Cajun drawl that normally only shadows his words. The faint flutter turns into a frenzy in my gut and I force a deep breath. Jesus H. Christ, this so-called kid is more an adult-sized lady-killer than ninety-nine percent of the men I’ve met in the past year. And I don’t remember the one percent, but I figure there must be someone out there more dangerously charming than Dylan fucking Jones. But hell, I need to get myself focused back on the prize—the head coach’s job for the women’s basketball team.

“I’m not interested in your heart.” It’s the absolute truth, though I’m struggling not to stare at his broad shoulders, the bulging forearms folded across his chest, his strong chin and those lover’s lips. “I’m all about your mind—or apparent lack in the brain department.”

“Ouch. You trying for the gold medal in ball-busting?”

“Are we on for tutoring?” It’s not easy to ignore his charm. He chuckles and shakes his head.

“Shit, you’re a handful. As long as all you’re interested in is my mind, then I guess we’re safe. Let’s do this. I need to get at least a B-plus in Financial Management.”

“Then you’re good for Mondays at eight thirty?”

“Where should we meet?”

“In my office, of course. You didn’t think I’d be inviting you to my house, did you?”

“No.” He scoffs, but I’m not sure if I see a glint of hope or if I’m truly desperate enough to be imagining one. I need to douse this flirtation with an ice bucket before I embarrass myself.

“Paul wouldn’t appreciate it, I’m afraid,” I say. I don’t elaborate on the fact that Paul is my black Lab though it’s true he does have a problem with men. I have my pride and enough sense to realize how pathetic that would sound. I haven’t had a date in far too long. It’s been exactly one year if you count my wedding day as a date and if you don’t count the fact that I was stood up.

But the thing is, I haven’t come across anyone who interests me in all this time. Not even lover-boy here—in spite of his obvious charms. He’s a child, a man-boy, not quite an adult yet, with too much to learn in spite of his dangerous maturity and I’m smart enough to confine my lessons to the classroom.

Plus, even if I do find him physically attractive, I’m not desperate enough to risk throwing my career away on a teacher-fucks-the-student scandal. How humiliating would that be? As if.

My career means a hell of a lot more to me than a steamy night of sin, no matter how satisfying it might be. As soon as I get my bearings at SPU, I’ll find a nice out-of-town bar to meet some lucky guy. In the meantime, if I need to hone my flirting skills, I’ll confine myself to torturing Coach Ryan because he seems like the sort who deserves it.

Or maybe you should just chill and forget about men for a while.

My conscience is a bitch, but she’s right. I’ve worked too hard and sacrificed too much to get this far. Which, ironically, is my problem. All that sacrifice has left me high and dry so that I feel like I’m about to turn into an old prune if I don’t do something about it.

Patience was never my virtue, but I’m going to have to dredge some up here and now because I’m not about to self-destruct my career no matter what misgivings I have about my personal life. I’m on the cusp of something big here. The head coach is retiring in a year and I was brought in to take his place. All I need to do is be a good girl with my nose down for one lousy fucking year.

I wave a hand as if swatting a fly. College boy can take it however he wants. Then I turn and get into my car without looking at him. He can figure out where my office is. I’ll e-mail his finance prof and get the syllabus for his class tomorrow. I back from the driveway, gritting my teeth against the pit of loneliness in my gut and trying not to imagine what might have happened if a certain QB were a few years older and not a student. Forgetting about a graceful exit, I stomp on the gas when I hit the street and make short work of my trip home. Can’t let the Chinese food get cold, right?

My phone rings as I’m pulling into my driveway. An irrational and apparently crazed part of my brain starved to the breaking point for male attention perks up and flashes a neon wishful thought that this call is from Dylan Jones inviting himself over for a booty call. Shit. I stomp on the brakes, turn off the car, and grab my phone from the console.

A quick look tells me—no screams at me—that reality couldn’t be further from my wishful thinking. The blood drains from my head and my gut rolls over, churning up hurt and bile, and I hope I don’t get sick in my new car.

Why the fuck would Gary be calling me? I haven’t heard from my ex-fiancé, my almost husband by a miss of five minutes, since he left me standing in the church decked out in full wedding gown regalia in front of hundreds of family and friends.

Chapter Five

Dylan

I stand on the front lawn of BMOC House like a fucking statue, for no good reason, and watch Coach Lake drive away. I force myself to think of her as Coach Lake, not Amanda or Mandy. She looks like a Mandy. Fuck. Taking a deep cleansing breath of night air, I give my pathetic ass some purpose besides foolishly wanting a girl—strike that. A woman I can’t have. Amanda Lake is a full-grown monster of a woman, the kind who can’t be trifled with, the kind who’ll cut off your balls and eat them for dinner if you wrong her.

Or that’s the impression she gives. But there’s more to her. I sense vulnerability under the ball-busting exterior. Why else would she peel out down the street like she was outrunning a lit fuse? Fuck. I’m delusional.