He presses his lips together, looking warm in his tweed jacket. I have the female version of that blazer. “Taking a class outside? Is that conducive to learning?”

“Not all kids learn in a classroom, especially these. There are actually seven different types of learning: verbal, visual, auditory, physical—”

He cuts me off with a slice of his hand. “Ms. Riley, spare me the rhetoric. I overhead your lecture.”

“It wasn’t a lecture; I prefer learning experiences.”

He exhales, having heard this argument before. “Regardless of where you teach, the lesson plan was relativity this week.”

I bob my head. “I did that. Just adding to the objective, Dr. Blanton. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing? Expanding minds? Creating questions? Getting them interested?”

He studies me through his wire spectacles, as if I’m a bug. His eyes land on my bare legs, and I inhale. We’re supposed to wear slacks or a skirt. “I prefer traditional methods. Just the facts—in a classroom with an overhead. You can’t be friends with students.”

I’m not! I just don’t want to see them struggle.

He’s used to teaching upper-level classes, students with high IQs and a drive to absorb anything put in front of them.

“Most are terrified of physics. They flunked—”

“Enough.”

I bite my tongue but take two steps until we’re on the same level, not comfortable with him being higher than me. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes. The multiverse is not a legitimate topic of scientific inquiry. Don’t encourage them.”

It is, dammit, and many physicists would stand next to me and argue the case.

“The topic came up because the students find it interesting, and it’s a way to introduce string theory. I see nothing wrong with exciting students.”

He glowers at me. “The mere idea erodes public confidence in science. It’s a philosophic notion.”

“Are you saying that some of the major theorists of our generation are wasting their time? Theoretical physics questions everything. It’s why I’m here.”

He takes his glasses off and cleans them with a hankie. Stuffy man. He needs a Myrtle in his life. “Ten percent of our female doctorate candidates don’t make it to the end of the program, Ms. Riley. You’re about to start your second year, and I’m not impressed.”

My heart drops, my failures creeping in. First Preston, now my career?

“Your level of work dropped dramatically last semester. Don’t bother to apply for CERN again unless I see marked improvement.”

The knife of that disappointment cuts deep. “I’m aware. I had a few personal issues earlier in the year—”

“No excuses, please.” His jaw grinds as his eyes sweep over me. “Women,” he mutters under his breath.

My anger coils up, and my face heats. Before I can tell the misogynistic jerk to go fuck right off—

“Wear decent clothes, Ms. Riley. You look like one of your students.” And then he’s stalking back inside the building.

He isn’t wrong, but my fists curl, and I let out a string of muttered curses once he’s out of earshot. Sure, I can stand up for Devon and Myrtle in a heartbeat, but when it comes to myself . . .

Chapter 9

DEVON

“No frat-boy innuendoes, and I’m sitting at the table with you for the first fifteen minutes until she’s comfortable. We clear?” I tell Brandt Jacobs the next day as I walk over to his silver Porsche.

“Let me get this straight,” he replies as he shuts his car door and faces me, huffing out a laugh. “You called me about this girl you want me to meet, and you’re going to monitor my behavior? Am I being punked?”

“You’re here to meet her. That’s it. Drinks only. If she asks you to stay for dinner, you do whatever you want, but she has to invite you. You’ve got half an hour with her.” Those are the guidelines Giselle and I worked out over breakfast this morning. She liked knowing I’d be close, and it was her idea to wait until they met and chatted before she asked him to eat dinner with us afterward.

Last night, she was in her room when I came home tired and exhausted after training camp. She had a light on, and I thought long and hard about knocking on her door, just to see her face, but I didn’t. The less I see her, the better. Plus, the fire must have finally caught up with her, and she needed to rest. Then, this morning, there she was in the kitchen all perky and working, and I offered up Brandt.

He laughs and slaps me on the back, pulling me back to the present. “Good to see you, man. Love how you always get to the point. Let’s talk contract soon. That fourteen million a year can be negotiated to eighteen. I feel it. Look at Carter with the Panthers; he just got a bump, and your stats slay his.”

“Soon. How’s the new house in Brentwood?”

He talks about his home and the pool he’s putting in as we head toward Milano’s, a classy Italian restaurant Jack has in his portfolio. I tell him about training camp, and we discuss the upcoming preseason game we have in Miami.

“I was surprised you weren’t seeing someone,” I say.

“Recent breakup.” He shrugs broad shoulders in a gray suit, a rueful look on his face. “Turns out she liked my bank account more than me.”

“Sorry, man.”

“Right.” He grimaces.

“Giselle doesn’t care about money. She’s got her own future ahead of her.” Someday, she’s going to get out of this funk and find her way.

“I didn’t know you were such a matchmaker.”

“Is that what I am?”

He laughs. “Yeah, and thanks for thinking of me. I’m ready to meet someone nice.”

“Good,” I say as I study him. He’s a blond all-American type with a keen mind and the tenacity of a bulldog. Early thirties, handsome, and successful—I can see Giselle with him. Still, I feel uneasy, and for the hundredth time, I second-guess the setup—but it’s happening. It needs to happen. She deserves a good guy, and I’ll pull out the best I’ve got.

“What’s her story?”

“Recent broken engagement. He’s a dickhead.”

We step into the foyer, and he looks around, taking in the fancy farmhouse decor, rustic metal chandeliers, and wood beams across the ceiling. The place bustles with waitstaff and clientele. He lets out a whistle. “Damn, Jack is raking it in.”

“You’re a good agent.”

The maître d’ sees me and smiles, nudging his head toward the back of the restaurant. Craning my neck, I find her sitting at a booth near the bar, hair down in a sleek fall of blonde, glasses perched on her nose, her laptop open as she types. My lips twitch. The girl likes to write stories about aliens. Or she could be studying. She’s a dichotomy of contradictions, and since the night in the VIP room, I never know which Giselle I’ll get.

We walk to the back, maneuvering past tables, and the closer we get, the antsier I feel, hands tapping against my leg.

“So, friend of yours? Related? How’s your cousin, by the way?”

“Giselle’s a good friend. Smart as a whip and has a big heart. Selena is great. Just moved her up to GM at the club.”