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Dear Professor(52)

By:Blaire Drake


Jordan stilled. Tension tightened his shoulders and radiated off him, tainting the air between us.

“That’s a very random question.” His voice had taken on the hard edge I was so accustomed to hearing in class. I’d almost forgotten how cutting it could be over the past few days.

“Yes.”

“Is there a particular reason for it?”

“Maybe.” I swallowed. I wanted to step back—his tone was getting harder and harder. I’d hit him right in a sore spot, and he still hadn’t answered. “I’d like to know.”

His eyes were spitting ice at me. “Yes, I’m single. Now, I’d like to know why you asked.”

I straightened my spine and pulled together every ounce of strength in my body. I was going to be honest. I didn’t care about the outcome now. I wasn’t going to dumb this down or sugarcoat it.

“I was incredibly uncomfortable following your blackmail, which forced me to sign your agree—”

“I didn’t force you into anything. You signed that of your own accord.”

“After you’d blackmailed me! Can I continue answering your question, or will I have to pause in the appropriate places for your bullshit?”

His eyes narrowed, his jaw ticking at my outburst. “You have exactly sixty seconds to spit out what you have to say before I shut you up.”#p#分页标题#e#

I glared right back at him. “After you forced me into agreeing, I researched you. And what I found is that you are not single.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Yes. I’m also calling you a cheater, because everything I found said you’re married!”

I’d had no idea how easily an atmosphere could change until that moment. It went from tense to cold. Pure, icy coldness. The man in front of me froze, but a vein bulged in his neck. It was the only physical movement that told of his true anger. The other indicator was the darkening of his eyes.

Their usual electric blue became so cloudy that they touched upon indigo.

“Get out.” His words cut through the silence like a knife.

“What?”

“Get. Out.”

I swept my eyes over his body. His hands were trembling at his sides, and his fists kept clenching. Not in a scary way. More like he was trying to restrain his own anger.

“Did I say not it clearly enough, Darcy?” he growled. “Get out!”

I took a deep breath and turned. I pulled the door open and quickly stepped through it. I’d barely made it to the bottom step when he slammed the door so loudly that I almost tripped over my own feet.

It was cold out there, but a thin sheen of hot sweat was forming on the back of my neck, and my mind was working overtime. Had my question really been that offensive? What had been so bad that he had gone from laughing to throwing me out so coldly in seconds?

I rubbed my fingers across my chest and paused by my car door. Glancing over my shoulder, I looked back to his house. I could just about make out his silhouette in the window.

Guilt crept through my body, making me sick with its strength.

I wished I’d known why.





The echo of the door slamming and chipping the doorframe still echoed off the walls of his silent house. That had been a momentary loss of control, an outlet for the anger he’d been unprepared to feel at her questioning.

He shouldn’t have yelled at her like that, and the guilt was already setting in deep in his heart. His rational mind knew she was only trying to protect herself. But fuck. Fucking hell. Of course, out of all of them, Darcy was the one who did research. She was the one smart enough to dig far enough into his past and tear it all up.

Not that she’d had to go back far. Four years was it. Four long, fucking torturous years back into his past was the deepest she’d had to delve.

Jordan grabbed the nearest thing to him—a glass—and threw it. It flew across the room and hit the wall just above the fireplace. It shattered on impact, sending tiny shards exploding across his carpet.

That didn’t ease his anger, either.

Anger. Guilt. Frustration.

He’d kept them all at bay for so long, defying every piece of advice he’d ever been given. “You need to talk about it,” his therapist had told him. “You’ll only hurt yourself if you keep it in.”

Bullshit, Jordan had called it. It had been bullshit four years ago and it was bullshit now. It was a part of his life he’d left behind in Colorado. It was the reason he’d left. He didn’t want to hear that preachy shit—about how talking would help and praying would heal his soul.

Prayer hadn’t saved Amanda. Even as he’d sat there next to her and begged to an entity he’d spent his whole life believing in, it hadn’t worked. Not a single fucking one had been answered until after he’d said goodbye.