“So how are those redeeming qualities of mine coming along?” he murmurs as the prof walks to the podium with his notes.

I think of the answer I want to give. I finally say, “I’ll let you know when I find one.”

The professor taps the podium three times, signaling the start of class. Ashton doesn’t care, of course. His lips brush my ear as he leans in to whisper, “Do you want me to just tell you?”

I push his face away with my palm, feigning annoyance, the beginnings of the burn in my thighs making me uncomfortable enough to squirm in my seat. Ashton’s low chuckle tells me he’s noticed and he has a good idea what his proximity is doing to me.

The entire lecture today is on Thomas Hardy and I can’t focus on a freaking word with Ashton’s cologne swirling in my nose, with his knee bumping into mine, with those skilled fingers of his strumming against the desk. At times I catch him scribbling notes in his book. Notes on what? He’s not even in this class.

At one point the prof has turned away from us to take a sip of his water. Ashton tears a sheet out of his book and slides it in front of me without a word. Frowning, I look at it.

I should have known better. I should have waited until after class.

1. I’m brilliant

2. I’m charming

3. I’m hung like a thoroughbred

4. I’ve stopped all philandering

5. I’m highly skilled, as you’ve learned the other night.

P.S. Stop staring at my hands. I know what you want me to with them.

   The professor continues his lecture not five feet away from me as blood rushes to my head, to my belly, to my thighs. What is he doing? Why would he write that down and pass it to me in the middle of a lecture? The last thing I want to be thinking about while the professor drones on about stupid Thomas Hardy is Ashton and his hands and the other night in the car . . .

A hand squeezes my knee, making me jump in my seat. My elbow reactively flies out and jabs Ashton in the ribs. It’s enough to attract the professor’s attention. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?” he asks calmly, regarding us over his glasses.

I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head as seventy-something students lean forward in their seats, their eyes boring into the back of my skull.

That likely would have worked. The prof might have let it go. But then I have to go and cover the note lying on top of my book, as if trying to muffle the indiscretions screaming from it.

I see the professor’s eyes fall to it.

My stomach hits the lecture hall floor.

“Notes being passed around in the front row of my lecture. May I?” A weathered hand stretches out toward me and the proof of my scandalous behavior with the guy sitting beside me.

I stare wide-eyed and frozen at that hand as my brain frantically runs through my options. There aren’t many. I can’t run out of the class because of my foot, so I’m left with either shoving the note into my mouth or stabbing Ashton’s expert hand with my pen to cause a diversion. Both will guarantee dismissal from this class; one will include a special jacket and a bonus overnight stay with Dr. Stayner.

So, with a sharp glare in Ashton’s direction, I hand the prof the note and pray to God that he doesn’t start reading it out loud, because then my diversion tactic may still need to come into play. “Let’s see what we have here . . .” The room starts to sway and blur, my ears filling with the rushing sound of blood. I don’t doubt that the hall is buzzing with excited whispers, all waiting like spectators at a hanging, but I can’t hear a thing. And I don’t dare look at Ashton because if he has a smirk on his face, I’ll punch him square in it.

“Mr. Henley, I suggest you carry out your conquest attempts outside of my classroom,” the prof finally says, shooting Ashton a pointed glare as he crumples the note into a tiny ball and tosses it in the trash. Air leaves my lungs in a rush. Of course he knows Ashton. Everyone knows Ashton . . .

Ashton clears his throat as a low murmur grows behind us. “Yes, sir.” I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or not. I refuse to look at him.

As the professor walks back to the podium, a chorus of disappointment fills the room as students realize they’re not going to witness an execution here today. But before he continues on with the lecture, he adds, “And if I were this young lady, I would seriously debate number one.”

“Do you realize how close you were to having this pen through your hand?” I hold it up for effect as we walk out of the building.

“I was bored. Hardy sucked the first time around, too.”

“Well, you didn’t have to humiliate me in the middle of a lecture hall, did you?”

“Would you rather I not have come? Truth . . . doctor’s orders.”

I grit my teeth. Despite everything, I mutter with a smile, “No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I’m glad you came.”

“I haven’t . . .yet.”

I slap my book across his arm, blushing furiously. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re incredible.” By the way his breath catches and his dark eyes flash, I don’t think Ashton meant to say that out loud.

I have to fight the urge to fall into his chest. I don’t fight the words, though. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” There’s a long pause. “Irish . . .” His feet slow to a stop and he turns one of his intense, dark Ashton stares on me. My stomach clenches instantly, both eager and terrified of what might come out of his mouth. “Are you going to answer that?”

“What?”

“Your phone.” His hand touches my jeans pocket where my phone is tucked. “It’s ringing.”

As soon as he says it, my ears catch Connor’s unique ring tone. “Uh, yeah.” I slide it out and look at the screen to see Connor’s beaming grin and green eyes. I hit the answer button. “Hey, Connor.”

“Hey, babe. I’m running to class but wanted to double-check—you’re coming to the race next Saturday, right?”

“Yup, I’ll be there for the morning. I have my volunteer shift in the afternoon.”

I hear the relief in his voice. “Great. My parents can’t wait to meet you.”

My stomach does a somersault. “What? You told them about me?” “Slow and easy” means “meet parents”?

“Of course. I’ve got to run. Catch you later.” I hear the phone click, leaving me staring at Ashton as he absently kicks the fallen leaves off the path.

When he looks up at me, he frowns. “What?”

I look at my phone and back at him. I hear the tentativeness in my voice as I say, “Connor wants me to meet his parents.” I know why I’m telling Ashton. I want to know what he thinks about that.

He shrugs, distracting himself with a blond girl walking past.

“Hey!” I snap, scowling. “I’m standing right here!”

Bowing his head, Ashton sighs. “What do you want me to say, Irish?” Looking up at me with that resigned smile and the thinly veiled hurt that he hides from most, he says, “Meet his parents. It probably makes sense.” He pauses, his lips pursed tightly. “You and Connor are together.” I hear the unspoken words as if he’s screaming them. You and I are not.

“What if I wasn’t with him? Would it matter to you?” It’s the same line that he’s used on me a few times. Now it’s my turn.