"New words?" Dean sets two slices of pepperoni down on the table in front of me.

I look up from my laptop. "Maybe. I don't want to jinx myself, though…" I say, even though I don't believe in luck.

Dean pulls the towel off his shoulder and wipes his hands. "Well, now, I saw you back there from the kitchen and I knew you were writing again. Two years of you coming here once a week and I've never seen you with a laptop."

"That's not true," I say absently, distracted by the words on the screen. I've spent so much time in a creativity desert that I'm not sure how to judge whether or not what I'm working on is any good. But I think it might be good. "I think I've brought my laptop with me once or twice."

"Never," Dean insists. The owner of the pizza joint a few blocks away from campus makes the best-rated pizza in the area, and it doesn't tend to fill up with college students until later in the evening, which means there's a only sliver of time on when I can come here in peace for dinner. "It's about time you wrote something other than my pizza menu."

A year ago, Dean was struggling with trying to "fancify" his pizza menu, so I gave it a quick rewrite. Over a couple of beers and a slice of pepperoni, I helped him come up with some catchy local-themed names and descriptions for menu items. It was no big deal for me – a fun, easy diversion from banging my head against the wall trying to write my own shit – but now Dean insists that my slices are on the house, no matter how many times I try to pay for them.

"Your pizza menu is a goddamned work of art, thanks to me," I tell him.

"When you're really famous, I'll brag that my menu was written by you."

"I'm already famous," I call as he whistles and begins to saunter off toward the front.

He stops and turns around. "Oh yeah?" he calls. "How come I've never read anything you wrote, then?"

"I can't help that I don't write books with pictures, Dean."

He chuckles as he walks back toward the kitchen, and I return to typing. For the first time in years, I'm able to tune out everything that surrounds me, and I lose myself in the words. I'm completely engrossed in the experience of actually beginning to write again, even though it's not world-changing prose and it's coming in fits and spurts instead of flowing like water.

I only look up when a group of obnoxious college guys interrupts my train of thought, hooting and hollering and high-fiving and calling each other "bro" as they cross the restaurant from the entrance toward the dimly-lit side of the place that houses the pool tables and dartboards and beer. If they hadn't been so irritatingly loud, I'd be totally oblivious to her walking through the door too.

Her.

Purity is wearing a long dress with a tiny floral pattern that makes her look like she stepped off the pages of a turn-of-the-century fashion magazine.

She's otherworldly, her hair framed by the golden hue of the evening sunlight that pools through the glass door.

I imagine that every eye in this place is trained on her right now, but I don't look around to find out if that's true because I'm too busy gaping at her myself.

She pauses, uncertain and skittish, like she's about to dart away at any moment. I watch curiously, wondering whether she's going to bolt. I find myself wondering that about her a lot, actually.

I also wonder what the hell the girl is doing here.

Maybe she knows you come here.

That would require a level of interest in me that I'm not sure she possesses. Of course, she could have come here to find me and throw a beer in my face after the feedback I gave her on her assignment.

I was rough on her.

Okay, I was an asshole.

The thought of the feedback I gave her makes me cringe. I'm normally not a complete jerk when it comes to feedback. After all, I'm not trying to crush anyone's spirit and the students I select for my classes are genuinely talented.

Normally I give honest criticism tempered with something positive. In Purity's case, I should have praised her writing as lyrical and poetic. If any other student had submitted that assignment, I would have, too.

So why didn't I?

I told myself that harsh criticism is what the girl needs. It's not like I pulled the critique out of my ass. Her characters were stilted and formal and totally unrealistic. Writing three-dimensional characters is obviously her weakness. Of course, I shouldn't have expected anything else from a girl as sheltered as she is.

I'm so preoccupied with feeling guilty for being harsh on her that I don't immediately realize she's standing there with someone - a girl with tattoos and a partially shaved head and torn jeans.

A girl who's exactly the opposite of the kind of person I'd expect Purity to be here with. Hell, I wouldn't expect Purity to be in this place at all, a dive pizza joint with pool tables and darts and beer.

Her father would probably have a stroke if he knew she was here.

I don't quite believe the tattooed girl and Purity are friends until I see the girl put her hand on Purity's arm and point toward an empty booth on the other side of the room.

Well, shit. Maybe there's some hope for Purity, after all.

I'm not my father's daughter, you know.

As Purity smiles and nods at the tattooed girl, I think that maybe I underestimated her. Maybe she hasn't been thoroughly indoctrinated by her father. Maybe she's not narrow-minded the way I assumed she was.

After all, I hadn't seen the girl in years. Maybe I made a snap judgment about the kind of person she'd become based solely on her clothing and demeanor and the fact that she is Alan's daughter.

That makes me really fucking superficial, doesn't it?

She glances in my direction and recognition lights up her face. Well, lights up isn't exactly the right term for it; that would imply she's pleased to see me.

She's definitely not fucking pleased about seeing me.

Her eyes narrow and her expression freezes into a mask.

Well, this is fucking awkward.

I give her a nod – a professional, casual, blasé nod. It's a nod that says I definitely, in no way, shape, or form, did not run back to my office after that first class and jerk off because of how lush and plump her lips were. It's a nod that says I've never once pictured her lips wrapped around the end of my cock, or her head bobbing up and down my length. It's a nod that says I haven't been a bit wracked with guilt when it comes to the fantasies I've had about her, because I know how young and naïve and vulnerable she is.

Professional.

Appropriate.

Boundaries.

I repeat the words to myself like a mantra as Purity sits down in the booth across from her friend, and I try not to stare at her like a lecherous creep, even though I'm feeling like both. Purity says something to her friend, who tosses me a dirty look. For a second, I have the irrational thought that her friend knows I've had filthy fantasies about Purity, but that's ridiculous.

Purity must have told her friend what an asshole I've been.

That's only marginally better than being a creep.

Another pang of guilt hits me for my behavior, but I shrug it off. This is how it should be. Being an asshole means I keep my distance from her.

I keep her safe from me.

Turning back to my laptop, I force myself to focus on my writing. As I begin typing, though, I don't have to force much at all. I'm fueled by an impetus I can't quite explain. I don't quite know why, but I have the nagging suspicion that seeing Purity has opened the floodgates when it comes to my creativity – but that's ridiculous.

Even so, I lose myself in writing, the words flowing until I've filled two pages with hardly any effort. I only look up when Dean returns to my table, a scowl on his face.

"Don't you tell me there's something wrong with that pizza," he says, crossing his arms across his large chest.

"Shit," I mutter. "I was so distracted – I didn't even think about the pizza, Dean."

He shakes his head. "If I hadn't known you for as long as you've been coming here, that would be fucking insulting, Gabe."

"If I put you in my novel, will that make up for it?" I joke.

Dean snickers. "Don't make me one of your lame-ass touchy-feely emotional male characters."

"I thought you hadn't read my novels."

"Don't get a big head. My wife forced me when her book club was reading it. I don't read women's fiction."

"Literary fiction," I correct. Part of what I like about coming here is that Dean gives me shit and I give him shit right back. It reminds me of my Marine days.

"Whatever," he scoffs. "Make me a villain or something."

"Well, that's hardly a stretch."

"You want that pizza boxed up or what? You're here late tonight."

I glance at my watch. Damn it. "Aw, shit, Dean. I didn't realize it was almost seven. You should have kicked me out of the booth if you needed it."

I'm usually out of here by six, before Dean gets a heavier college crowd in here. I try my best to avoid places where the students hang out, since there's nothing more awkward than running into your drunk students out in town. But if I absolutely avoided every place where they hung out, I'd miss out on some of the best dives in this city.

"What, you think I'm some kind of shrinking violet who can't tell you if I need my booth back? If I wanted you out of the damned booth, I'd kick you out of the damned booth." He pauses for a beat. "Now I'm kicking you out of the booth."

I laugh. "Give me a box already," I tell him, closing my laptop. "I've got to get home and let Hemy out. I wasn't paying attention to the time."

"Writers," he mumbles, shaking his head as he walks off.

When he's gone, I can't help but glance across the room to the booth where Purity and her friend are. I'd been making a concerted effort to ignore them – but I can't ignore the two guys standing by their booth and chatting them up.

Two guys wearing baseball caps turned backwards and faded t-shirts with Greek letters plastered across the front of them. Basically, your average beer-guzzling douchebag frat boys.

I should get my laptop and my pizza and go home and take Hemy for a walk. That's what a normal professor would do.

I should ignore the two morons who are clearly trying to engage with Purity and her friend. That's what a professor who didn't have a personal history with one of his students would do.

I should leave it alone.

I should certainly push aside the twinge of - what is it, jealousy? – I feel as I watch one of the guys make a stupid joke and the other guy laugh, and then the two of them elbow each other like a pair of dumbasses.

But I do none of that. Instead, I wonder how long they've been talking to the women. I wonder if Purity is into those kinds of guys.

One of them leans over and rests his forearm on the top of the booth behind Purity. His proximity to her immediately sends a surge of irritation through me that I can't rationally explain away. When he touches her shoulder and leans toward her, saying something I can't make out, my irritation quickly becomes more than that.

Now, I'm just pissed off.

I'm even more angry when she moves to the side, backing away from him. She's clearly uncomfortable, and he's responsible for making her feel that way. I don't like him standing near her, I don't like him leaning close to her, and I definitely don't like him touching her.

Now, I'm not thinking rationally at all.

I'm on my feet before I can think about consequences. If I would have thought through the consequences, I would have realized that this was a stupid, irrational, poorly-considered choice. It involves an unnecessary amount of attention being drawn to me in public as a professor who's about to interfere in the life of one of his students in a very questionable way.

Definitely questionable, especially when it comes to the things I've thought about this particular student.

Before I know it, I'm standing at their table. To my immense credit, I don't reach out and physically prevent the dumbass from touching Purity again – but only because as soon as he sees me approach, he steps back himself. "Oh, uh…" he stammers, clearing his throat. "I didn't know you were here with your dad."

Purity blushes a deep shade of red. "He's not my dad."

Her friend lets out a loud snort, covering her mouth with her hand. Then she looks at me, her eyebrows raised. "That's not her father. That's the famous Professor Ryan."

The friend is giving me a hell of a lot of stink-eye, which means that Purity definitely told her about the feedback I gave her on her writing assignment – but she's not looking at me like I'm some kind of pervert, which means Purity didn't tell her about how I was leering at her.

The way her friend crosses her arms and gives Purity a protective glance, though, makes me immediately warm to her. At least Purity has someone looking out for her who obviously knows how to take care of herself.

"Whatever," scoffs the guy who was talking to Purity. "We'll be over at the pool tables if you want to hang out – I mean, if your dad will give you permission." He high-fives the other dumbass like they're the two cleverest people in the world before walking off toward the pool tables.

Purity glares at me. "What are you doing here?"

"Yeah, Professor," Purity's friend chimes in, her voice accusatory. "Are you in the habit of interrupting all of your students when they're trying to hook up with boys?"

"Hooking up with boys?" I'm unable to keep the edge out of my voice. "Is that what was happening here?"

Purity's friend snorts loudly. "With those boys? Yeah, right." She pauses. "I mean, maybe you were, Purity, but they're not my type. No offense."

"Me? What? No, I wasn't interested in them – I mean, hooking up with them – um, no." She pauses, taking a deep breath as her cheeks flush a more vibrant shade of red. "I, actually, um… need to use the restroom. I'll see you in class, Professor Ryan."

She pulls herself to the edge of the booth and stands up, but loses her balance. When I reach out to steady her, she stumbles.

Right into me.

She falls against my chest, gasping loudly as her body presses hard against mine. My hands automatically grip her arms, and for a split second, I'm holding her body against mine as she looks up at me.

Everything stops.

Time seems to come to a screeching halt, at least when it concerns the world around us. I'm holding her and she's looking up at me with wide eyes, hair tumbling down around her shoulders.

The instant my skin touches hers, it's as if a current of electricity runs through us, arousal that connects us to each other immediately. That's the worst cliché in the world, but it's the only way to describe what happens between us. I know without a doubt that she feels it too, because I can see it in her eyes.

A nearly irresistible urge to kiss her – right here and now in the middle of the restaurant surrounded by God-knows-who – surges through me. As if she can read my thoughts, her head turns up slightly toward me and her lips part.

I almost do it.

I almost kiss the hell out of the girl.

Then I come to my fucking senses because there's no way in hell I should be kissing this girl.

Girl being the operative word.

Student being another word.

I can't kiss her in the middle of this public place like she's a regular woman who isn't a student or my ex-friend's daughter.

I let go of her and she just stands there for a moment, blinking several times, before she clears her throat and turns around and practically runs toward the back of the restaurant.

When Purity's friend catches my gaze, she raises her eyebrows and takes a sip of her soda. "Well, shit," she says. "After seeing that, I think I might need a cigarette."

Her and me both.