Page 17
He follows us into the elevator without speaking, and by the time we reach the penthouse, I can practically hear the questions crowding his head.
Alexander stops for a moment, his gaze moving over the space as he drops his backpack onto the couch, then turns toward me.
“Um, if you don’t need any help, why did you tell Professor Campbell you wanted me to tutor you?”
I look at him for a moment. His sweater is slightly too large through the shoulders. His blond hair refuses to lie completely flat no matter how often he pushes it back, His glasses sit across the bridge of his nose, framing pale powder-blue eyes that would probably look innocent on anyone else but are distracting on him.
His pretty face is designed to demand attention even though his features are half-hidden beneath that perpetually studious expression.
I let the silence stretch before speaking. “How old are you?”
I already know his age, but I want to find out whether it’s something he would lie about.
His brows draw together. “W-what does that have to do with anything?”
“I won’t ask again.”
He swallows. “I’m twenty-three,” he says, lowering his gaze as his fingers find a loose thread along the hem of his sweater and begin worrying at it. “How old are you?” His head snaps up, those pale eyes widening behind his glasses, probably only just realizing he spoke aloud. “I didn’t mean to ask that. I’m sorry.”
“You apologize a lot,” I say. “You were reading about me in the car, didn’t the article give you my age?”
Color rises quickly across his cheeks. “I’m so—” He cuts himself off when I raise one eyebrow and presses his lips together.
“Come.” I leave the room without checking whether he follows.
I already know that he will.
My chef, Penelope, is still setting the table when we walk into the dining room, moving between the kitchen and the long table. She’s a British woman in her fifties who comes to the penthouse three times a week to cook and restock the refrigerator. Today she has prepared chicken piccata with lemon and capers, baked rigatoni layered with mozzarella and tomato sauce, rosemary potatoes crisped at the edges, roasted asparagus, and a platter of grilled steak with herb butter slowly melting across the top.
Alexander looks at the table and wet his lips.
I pull out the chair beside mine at the head of the table and glance at him.
“Sit, little stripper.”
He blushes again, and lowers himself into the chair. “Thanks.”
I take my seat and wait while Penelope finishes arranging the last few dishes, then tells me there is tiramisu in the refrigerator before leaving us alone. Once the door closes behind her, Alexander reaches for his water, and I let him take one sip before speaking.
“Are you accepting my offer, or do you still intend to become a stripper?”
His hand pauses halfway back to the table, and after a moment, those pale blue eyes lift to meet mine.
“What are you paying me for if I’m not actually tutoring you?”
I lean back in my chair. “You could give me private strip shows.”
His throat moves when he swallows, then his eyes drop to my mouth. It lasts less than a second before he realizes what he is doing and looks away.
“I’m not very good at that,” he says nervously. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but I was actually auditioning on Friday, and I still don’t know if I got the job.”
“You didn’t.”
Confusion moves across his face, wiping away the embarrassment from a second ago. “I’m sorry, but how could you possibly know that?”
“Because I bought the club and instructed Vincent not to hire you.”
“Huh?” His eyebrows pull together before his eyes widen behind his glasses. “Y-you own the club?”
