I stepped onto the ferry, my overnight bag bumping along behind me, and dropped into a seat toward the rear of the boat. I fluttered my sticky shirt against my overheated skin—if there was anything I hated more than going to my mother’s sixth wedding, it was the thought of doing it in temperatures that had soared to ninety-plus degrees with no break in sight.

But that was a problem for tomorrow.

Tonight, I had to avoid running into my older brother Theo. Difficult, since my brothers and I were all staying at the same inn. Silently, I cursed the bet we’d made the month before. How Theo had known our mom was close to walking down the aisle again was beyond me. But he had, and he’d used that knowledge to swindle Drew, Alex, and me out of a few hundred dollars each. As far as I was concerned, he’d cheated, and I had no intention of paying up.

Hence, the avoiding.

What I couldn’t avoid, however, was the fact that my book club was meeting on Tuesday evening and I still hadn’t read this month’s selection. Why we’d decided to enrich our minds instead of our libidos, I’d never know. Oh right. Something about how being able to confidently discuss the classics would make us better people.

Cringing, I reached into my purse and pulled out an old, battered copy of The Sound and the Fury. Of all the great American novels the discussion leader could have picked, she’d chosen the one I’d hated the most when I’d studied it in college.

My eyes scanned the weathered pages, taking in the notes I’d scribbled in the margins. Normally, I didn’t defile books in such a way, but following Faulkner’s stream-of-conscious narrative had been nearly impossible at eight o’clock in the morning on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays during my junior year.

I liked to think I was older and wiser now, but as I flipped through the pages, skimming the text, I still had trouble following the disconnected timeline. I shook my head when I reached the end of the first chapter. No doubt about it, my understanding of the story hadn’t improved with age or wisdom.

“Fucking Faulkner,” I whispered, my tone laced with disgust.

“Only one of the greats,” came a deep, rumbling voice from across the aisle.

I inserted my bookmark and turned to face the stranger, my breath catching in my lungs.

His lips were hitched to the side in a small grin and his bright blue eyes were alight with laughter. He canted his head toward my book. “But I’m guessing you don’t agree.”

I struggled to find the words to respond—not a problem I typically suffered. As a journalist, words were my bread and butter. Unfortunately, they’d deserted me when I’d come face-to-face with the most handsome man I’d ever laid eyes on. He had thick, wavy, brown hair and a sexy five o’clock shadow that dotted his strong, chiseled jaw. His eyes were deep pools of indigo that I imagined myself getting lost in. And his lips? Well, I wouldn’t mind finding out how soft they were.

If I were Cinderella and my fairy godmother had just granted my wish for the perfect man, he would have been it.  

I cleared my throat and set my book to the side. “Can’t say I’m much of a Faulkner fan, which was probably obvious when I cursed his name.” I smiled sheepishly. It was one thing to fling insults at a dead author, but an entirely other thing to have someone witness you doing it.

He shrugged, his right shoulder lifting and then falling carelessly. “You either love him or you hate him.”

“Let me guess,” I said, relaxing into the conversation, “you love him.”

“I certainly appreciate the way Faulkner’s work helped shape the American consciousness. You can’t deny he gave a voice to the misfits and malcontents, whereas his contemporaries typically used them to serve as fodder for the ‘more important’ characters.”

“Spoken like a scholar. Or a misfit or malcontent.” I fought back a smile.

Personally, I found Faulkner’s characters—at least the ones I’d read—tiresome and troublesome. Then again, I was no scholar.

The handsome man, no longer quite a stranger, turned to face me fully, his hand outstretched. “Professor David Carstairs.”

“Victoria Witherspoon.” I placed my hand in his and tried not to swoon when his fingers skated over my palm as he pulled away. “Professor, huh?”

David’s head ducked forward and his cheeks flushed. Setting his hand to the back of his neck, he made a face. “American Literature, I’m afraid.” He looked flustered, as if being a professor wasn’t really fucking cool.

And hot. Oh so hot.

Maybe most people thought his job made him a nerd, but I wasn’t one of them. And as for being attractive … well, forget about all those grunting alphaholes. I swooned for kind and cerebral. To me, smart and well-spoken was the sexiest combination you could find in a man. And Professor David Carstairs had both in spades.

“That’s very impressive. You obviously wouldn’t know it from the way I just maligned poor Mr. Faulkner, but I actually do love books. Just maybe not that one.”

“Oh yeah?” His eyes sparked with interest and he leaned closer. “Who’s your favorite author?”

Since I had an inkling the sexy professor wasn’t looking for my thoughts on the latest shifter-meets-witch romance I’d stayed up all night reading the weekend before, I scrunched up my nose and looked to the ceiling, cataloguing the authors I’d studied back in college. It had been years since I’d read anything that didn’t come with a guaranteed happily-ever-after. Life was too short for anything but stories that made me happy.

Bringing my gaze back to his, I finally said, “I really enjoyed Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, The Fitzgeralds—both F. Scott and Zelda, mad as she was—and Edith Wharton. Although, now that I’m saying it out loud, I realize practically all the novels I love best have been made into movies. For all you know, I’ve never even picked up a real book.”

David moved to the empty seat next to me and reached for my dog-eared copy of Faulkner’s seminal masterpiece. Thumbing through it, he examined the notes I’d scribbled in the margins and chuckled at some of my more colorful observations. Eventually, he set it back down with the rest of my belongings.

“Anyone whose notations are filled with that much passion on the subject is a true reader. I particularly appreciated the part where you ranted about how Caddy only existed to showcase Faulkner’s misogyny and hatred of women.”

“Spoken like a true professor,” I snickered, remembering the paper I’d written on that very topic my senior year.

My instructor had returned it with a bright red “C” in the upper right-hand corner. While my thesis about the prevalence of sexism in early American literature had been well researched and supported, apparently, I’d missed the point of the assignment entirely. Alas, that’s what tended to happen when I was fueled by Red Bull and righteous indignation at two o’clock in the morning.

“Since you’re the expert,” I continued, twisting in my seat and bringing our knees within scant centimeters of one another, “what’s your favorite book?”

“Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon. Also made into a movie.

His sexy smirk threatened to undo me.

Do not swoon, do not swoon, do not swoon.

Difficult, given the temperature, but I somehow managed to hold it together.

“I’ve read the book and seen the movie,” I told him. “I’ve even been inside the house they used for filming Grady’s place. One of my professors lived there.”

All at once, David’s smile dimmed and he eyed me with what I interpreted as disappointment. I was confused for about two-point-two seconds until I realized that he’d misinterpreted my statement.

“Oh! No, nothing like that,” I blurted with a laugh and a wave of my hand. “I assure you, my presence there was entirely on the up-and-up. Every year Professor Burrows hosted an end-of-term cocktail party for the program’s graduating seniors. He thought it would help us transition into the ‘real world’ where grown-ups didn’t do keg stands.” I chuckled and used my fingers to make air quotes. “The joke was on him though because two years later a couple of guys ended up getting high in his bathroom. Rumor has it his parties were by invitation only after that.”

All at once, David relaxed and his gaze dropped to my mouth. “Can I confess something?”

Unbidden, I felt my tongue dart out and lick my lips. His eyes flared with heat, and I nodded.

“You can call me a creep and tell me to fuck off, but I find it incredibly sexy that you’ve read my favorite book, seen my favorite movie, and have a unique piece of trivia about it to boot.”

Feeling myself blush under the weight of his stare, I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear and dropped my eyes to gawk at David’s hands. I’d never been a hands girl before. Traditionally, forearms were more my thing, but I couldn’t stop picturing them molded to my naked body. What would it feel like to have those long, tapered fingers digging into my flesh as he rocked me back and forth over his cock?

I blinked and shook my head, pushing the inappropriate fantasy to the back of my mind. This was bonkers. I’d known this guy for all of thirty minutes and I was fantasizing about getting horizontal with him. That never happened.

But it was precisely because I’d never felt such an instant, all-consuming attraction to a man before that I raised my eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. If this attraction was one sided, I’d never in a million years say what I was about to say. But the way David had stared at my mouth—like he couldn’t wait to taste me—and the look of bold, open longing in his eyes told me it wasn’t. I was positive that he wanted me as badly as I wanted him.

“For what it’s worth, I find you being a professor incredibly sexy too. And the fact that you didn’t try to convince me my opinion on Faulkner isn’t valid is an incredible turn-on.”

What did it say about me—or rather, the men I typically met—that something as benign as simple respect was a major aphrodisiac?

“Is that so?”

I nodded and my mouth split into a shy grin. “It is.”

“What do you think we should do about that?” He smirked again, and oh dear god, his dimples popped. I was such a goner.

Pulling every last ounce of bravery I possessed to the forefront, I looked him square in the eyes. “I think we should get dinner together. Tonight, if you can.”

David smiled back at me, and I felt it all the way to the tips of my painted pink toes. “I’d love that.” He reached out and squeezed my hand before quickly dropping it and leaning back in his seat.

I was sweating like a buffalo in this heat and humidity, but he looked entirely unflappable in his navy linen pants and white cotton t-shirt.

“But first, tell me more about this professor who didn’t think keg stands were an important and necessary life skill.”

From there, our conversation flowed quick and easy. We spent the rest of the ride to Dobbers Island getting to know one another. I talked about my work as a reporter covering everything from an overabundance of stray kittens roaming the streets to insurance fraud when a nearby town’s beloved ice cream parlor burned down. Meanwhile, he discussed what it was like shaping the minds of his students and how he’d always loved reading. I told him the reason for my visit to the island, and he described summers there as a child.

By the time we pulled up to the dock, we’d exchanged numbers and agreed to meet at seven o’clock in front of the restaurant nearest the inn where I was staying. David had offered to pick me up and then walk over to the restaurant together, but the less my family saw of him, the better.

I didn’t want my mother getting her hopes up that I’d brought a date to her wedding after all.