Page 39 of Wicked Little Secret
“That’s the one.”
“Are you… uh, are you a big foodie?”
“Excuse me?”
“You mentioned the Vietnamese restaurant earlier. Now, Saffron…”
“Right,” he says, his attention on the road ahead. The light’s turned green again. “I suppose I am. I tend to lean toward Asian cuisine. South and East. I appreciate the flavor palette.”
“What’s your favorite?”
He throws a glance over at me, his eyes darker than usual. My belly flutters in reminder that I’m not supposed to be doing what I do—acting like a social butterfly that’s trying to win him over with great conversation.
Those kinds of things don’t matter to Professor Adler. He’d probably prefer if I didn’t talk at all.
“Sorry, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want?—”
“I appreciate Thai more than others. I suppose that would be my favorite,” he interrupts after some thought. Then he directs another brief glance at me. “And yours?”
My brows quirk, startled that he’s bothering to ask. “Oh, mine. I’ve been really into charcuterie boards lately. But if we’re talking Asian cuisine, probably Thai as well. Or Japanese. I’m a sucker for sushi.”
“Quality sushi can be difficult to find. Unfortunately, Castlebury lacks in that regard.”
“Right, I’ve had better…”
We drift off into more uncertain silence. I return my focus to the car window, then resort to pulling out my phone to check on notifications I really don’t care about. Things like looking at any likes and follows on my social media accounts. Answering a panicked text from Katelyn as she messages in the middle of her date. Deleting spam emails.
Anything to distract from the fact that I’m trapped in an SUV with a professor who I admire but who can’t stand me.
Maybe I should’ve gone with the Uber after all…
“So,” he says as we brake for yet another light, “what were you up to tonight, Miss Oliver?”
“Hmmm?”
“You asked why I was driving down Monarch. I’m asking the same. It’s a side street of college apartments and some bars. What brought you there?”
“I was, uh… Samson and I were supposed to be studying. He lives in one of those apartments.”
“I see.”
“He was supposed to give me a ride home.”
“Supposed to,” he repeats in a tone that rings with some semblance of judgment. “I’ve noticed you keep using that phrase. I’m guessing no studying was actually accomplished?”
My cheeks warm from more than the heat blowing out of the dashboard’s vents. It’s from the awkward realization I’m about to discuss my boyfriend troubles with my professor. The same professor who made me feel smaller than small more often than not.
The same professor who I fantasized about recently when I masturbated.
“We didn’t get much studying done,” I answer. “Samson had… he had other ideas.”
There’s a pulse of inexplicable tension that follows. First felt in the clinch of the air, then witnessed by my own two eyes as I cut a sidelong glance and notice the subtle tick of his jaw. The way his knuckles bunch, clenched against the steering wheel.
As if I couldn’t be more confused. Did I say too much? Am I bothering him with my frivolous problems?
“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
“I asked. You answered. No need for anything to be forgotten. I didn’t answer because I was thinking aboutpast experience,” he explains, hanging a right at the next intersection. “It sounds like college-aged guys haven’t changed much since I was one myself.”