My Professor's Secret

39|

thirty-nine

It isn't much longer after I've tucked my phone away that Trevor emerges from his bedroom. The sight of him nearly steals the thought right out of my head.

Gone are the pressed slacks and button-down shirts I'd grown accustomed to seeing him wear around campus. In their place are a pair of charcoal gray sweatpants hanging comfortably from his hips and an old white T-shirt that had clearly seen better days. It fit him differently than his work clothes ever could, outlining the broadness of his shoulders and the definition in his arms in a way that felt almost unfair

He doesn't say anything as he passes through the living room. Instead, he offers me an easy smile before motioning toward one of the stools tucked beneath the kitchen island.

"I won't be long."

I follow him into the kitchen without protest and settle onto one of the barstools while he begins gathering ingredients from around the apartment.

Watching him struggle one-handed to tie the strings of his apron lasts all of three seconds before I slide off my stool.

"Here."

He glances over his shoulder.

"You don't have to—"

"I know."

I step behind him anyway. The fabric is warm beneath my fingers as I gather the loose strings together. I can't help noticing how much broader he feels this close, or how easily the scent of his soap reaches me. My hands brush lightly against the small of his back as I tighten the knot before looping the strings into a neat bow.

"There."

He looks down briefly before laughing under his breath.

"I appreciate the rescue."

"I'm beginning to think you enjoy pretending you don't need help."

"I prefer the term selectively stubborn."

A smile escapes me.

"I'll keep that in mind."

I return to my seat while he opens the cupboard and retrieves two wine glasses. He pours us both a decent cup of red wine. He rounds the island to hand me my glass, then props himself in between us both for a toast.

"To you and all your hard work. Not only are you twenty thousand dollars richer, but you're going to be published soon," he says, allowing a smile to spread his lips before we clink our glasses and he makes his way back to the kitchen.

"You know," I begin, watching him pull a package wrapped in butcher paper out of the refrigerator, "I almost turned down your invitation." He pauses long enough to glance back at me, but remains quiet as he retrieves items from the refrigerator. "I figured accepting dinner after everything that's happened would make me look like a pretty terrible person." I shrug one shoulder. "Especially knowing simple things have been difficult for you since your arm was burned."

His expression softens.

"I'm glad you changed your mind." He sets the steaks onto the counter before retrieving a bowl filled with potatoes and asparagus. "Cooking has always been one of my favorite ways to unwind. The nurse practically ordered me to stay away from Hinkhouse for a while." He shakes his head with a quiet smile. "Apparently almost setting yourself on fire buys you mandatory time off."

"I'd imagine so."

"But staying away from my own kitchen?" He reaches for a chef's knife. "That wasn't part of the agreement."