The lecture hall was too bright, too cold, and way too serious for Lana Monroe’s taste. But that didn’t stop her from sliding into the back row at the very last second, breathless and barely holding her coffee cup upright.
Down at the front of the room, Professor Julian West adjusted his glasses and glanced over the class, his gaze sharp enough to cut through steel.
“This is Advanced Literature,” he began, his voice low and smooth, like he’d given this speech a thousand times. “If you’re here for an easy A, you’re in the wrong room.”
Lana smirked behind her cup, already intrigued. His suit was dark, his tie perfectly knotted. He looked like he belonged in some black-and-white movie where no one smiled.
Great. Another professor with a stick up his ass.
Her pen tapped lazily against her notebook as he outlined the semester’s projects. But she wasn’t really listening. She was watching him the way he paced, the way his hand brushed through his dark hair when students couldn’t answer his questions.
Why was it always the meanest ones who were the hottest?8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvZvC1lIbIY
