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But he doesn’t give a fuck about being caught as his eyes scan me from head to toe. When his perusal pauses at the inch of bare skin showing between my waistband and tank top, I tilt my head to the side.
“I like when you look like this,” he supplies, his perusal moving to my hair. It’d taken me about an hour to curl it just to my liking.
“Like what?” I ask, curious as I stare into his eyes, wanting to catch every shift and flicker of meaning.
“Like you know you’re going to see me.”
“I see you three times a week,” I remind him, not wanting to share that I take a little more care with my appearance on those days.
“And tonight, you dressed foronlyme.”
He extends his hand and I shake my head, unable to commit to placing my hand in his.
“I don’t do public displays of affection,” I tell him, glancing down the other end of the street. “And what if someone sees us?”
Add in the fact that I’m not entirely sure what it is we’re doing here, and I refuse to have my head scrambled by some innocent handholding. I’ve given into temptation; I haven’t lost my fucking mind.
“How many people in this city know I am your professor? Or even care?” But he’s dropped his hand and gestures with it for me to walk with him.
“You should care more about your reputation,” I chide him, looking up for a moment and taking a deep breath. I can’t believe I’m here with him. And I can’t believe I’m the only one who understand the full gravity of this. He could lose his job. Not that he needs the money, I’m sure. But he isa well-respected director outside of this gig. He doesn’t need a scandal to taint his image. And I don’t need to lose the trajectory of my own future for a seemingly fleeting attraction.
“I think you caretoomuch,” is all he says in response and I peer over at him for a moment, catching the end of his shrug. Is he like this with others? Certainly not in the classroom setting. But I wonder if his previous conquests have seen this version of him: without the crease of frustration between his brows, his features relaxed, his lips slightly parted as we walk.
“We can agree to disagree,” I tell him, still keeping in step with him. “Where are we going?” The cinema is long forgotten behind us and we’re headed in a direction I’ve never been before.
“If it’s privacy you crave, I can think of no better location than my apartment.”
Can I handle privacy with Professor Pugliesi? If I’m being honest, it seems like Abraham and Professor Pugliesi are two completely different people. And it makes me wonder what Abraham Pugliesi is like as a director.
“How are you in a typical work environment?” I ask as if I’m trying to pass the time. Really, I just want to know him. “I mean, on set. Not in the classroom because if we’re being honest, your classroom etiquette leaves much to be desired.” He’s chuckling by the end of my sentence and I begin to relax in his presence.
“I’ve had actors love me and some hate me.” There’s that shrug that screams nonchalance again. “I suppose it depends on who you ask.”
The back of his hand brushes against mine and I try not to react as he steps behind me, grabbing hold of my elbow. My heart pitter patters at the way I allow him to take control, even in the most mundane of situations.
He leads me across the street and stops in front of abodega. I learned that anything resembling a convenience store iscalled that in this city and I press my lips together as I wait for what comes next.
“Come on,” he says, reaching in his pocket for a loose key that he pulls out with a smile. He steps to the door just next to the store’s entrance and I watch as he unlocks it before holding it open for me to duck inside.
Surely he doesn’t livehere.
When I hesitate, he smiles and it’s a sight to behold. I haven’t seen an open smile from him since the night we met. Sexy grins and wicked little chuckles are all I’ve been graced with in the time since then.
“You’re going to have to learn to trust me, Sabrina,” he lilts, still holding the door open. “You’re also going to have to hurry. I’m certain our food is getting cold.”
I huff out a breath and step forward, stopping short just inside when I see there’s only a set of stairs leading up to a door. Abraham is right behind me, and before I can overthink it, I start to walk up the steps, desperate to put some space between us.
Being here, in this hallway, alone with him, reminds me that I have no real idea what I’m doing here, aside from satisfying a curiosity. Or perhaps I just like being wanted. And now I want to see what it’s like to be devoured.
“Excuse me,” he says as he reaches around me, pushing a key into the lock of the door at the top of the steps. He holds this one open too and when I step inside, I don’t expect it to look like it does.
Eclectic and full of life; plants everywhere and the smell of food and some kind of masculine scent joining together to remind me that a grown ass man indeed lives here.
“What do you think?” he asks, setting his key on the small table next to the door before he closes it. And now we’re completely alone.
I swallow before I speak, reminding myself that I agreed to be here. And that I’m a grown woman who can handlewhatever comes of this. Even if it’s nothing. Especially if it’s nothing.
“I like it,” I answer, turning through the space and admiring what appears to be the living room. “You must have a green thumb.” It would be impossible not to, with the number of plants covering most surfaces.
