I shift my weight and groan. This bag is freaking killing my shoulder. I don’t know why I packed so many textbooks. I shoved all three in to my bag along with my laptop before I took off. Barely 15 minutes later, the straps are digging into my skin, making it feel raw and destroying my resolve to study. Part of me just wants to drop the bag and go to a bar. I’m so fucking pissed off. I shake off the bitter resentment and walk a little faster. I shouldn’t have brought so much grad work. It’s not like I’m in any mood to do it anyway. Not after fighting with my mother again.

I wish I didn’t have to pay her fucking bills, so I could move back to my shitty little apartment. Her poor decisions keep fucking me over. I can’t afford to live anywhere but with her now. Why the hell did she get a mortgage? Did she have to fuck me over like that? She had to know she couldn’t afford it. I told her not to do it. I knew this would happen. And now I’m stuck here helping her ass out again, while she gets sober … again.

I’m tired of sacrificing everything for her, but I just can’t say no. I can’t abandon her. Even if it’s draining the life out of me. I’m just lucky I was able to transfer to a local university so I could move back in with her. I need to get my shit together so I don’t fail. Playing catch-up is a bitch though. And I’m struggling to find the motivation.

I leave for not even three months and she ups and moves for some loser she met online. And then buys a house for both of them. I shake my head and bite the inside of my cheek while tears burn my eyes. I won’t cry again. I push them back and concentrate on the anger. Mom has so many problems. It’s fucked up.

I don’t care that she thinks he’s going to change and pay her back all the money that he squandered. It’s not fucking acceptable. I don’t trust this guy, just like I didn’t trust the last, but does she listen to me? No. Not unless I’m rattling off my bank account number.

I know I saw a little place down the street on the way in that looked like a good spot to park my ass and attempt to relax. I just need to get out of that house so I can study without being so pissed. I groan and swing the tote over my shoulder to try to ease the pressure of the weight. After a few minutes of walking I calm down and smirk, remembering what bag I picked for today. The text on the tote reads, “My book club only reads wine labels.” A smile grows on my face and I can’t help it. I may have a completely new life now, a really shitty one, but at least I still have my old sense of humor.

After a few minutes I nearly consider turning back to get my car, but then I pick up the pace remembering that asshole is still there. She'd better kick his ass out. I told her I’m not going to help out financially if he’s there. My fists clench harder as a long, strangled breath leaves me. Her words ring in my ear. “But you’re on the mortgage!” She’s such a bitch. And technically, a criminal for forging my name. But am I going to do anything about it? Nope. I always keep my mouth shut and do what’s best. At least what’s best for others. I don’t even know what’s best for me anymore.

I clench my jaw, and feel anger rising inside of me. It's not fucking right to be angry at her. Or is it? I just wish she were more responsible. I wish she weren’t a fucking alcoholic. Why do I feel so remorseful for hating that she puts me through this? More than anything else, I feel guilty, like her being so unhappy is all my fault.

The place I saw on the drive to the house, Valetti’s Italian Bistro, is just another block away. Hopefully they’ll have some booth in the back that’s empty. And alcohol. I could really use a drink. It’s a little late for dinner, so maybe it’ll be deserted and I can get my studying done in peace. I walk up the brick paved walkway and admire how rustic the place looks before opening the front door. This entire area has a small-town feel. I like it.

I’d like it more if I wasn’t forced to be here though. As soon as I’m done with graduate school, I’m gone. I’ll give Mom an allowance, maybe, and leave to find a place like this that isn’t tainted. A nice, small town with family-owned restaurants just like this. I smile and let out an easy sigh. Everything’s going to be alright. I just have to push through everything and work a little harder. And figure out a way to stop being a freaking enabler.

I take a quick glance around the place. It’s dark for a restaurant, with a few dim lights placed symmetrically around the dining area. The walls are a soft cream, and the chairs and booths are a deep red. It’s just my style. A little grin forms on my face as I spot an empty booth in the back on the right. It’s directly across from another booth in the narrow room, almost like they belong to each other, but there’s an obvious separation. I take quick strides to claim it.

I scoot into the seat and let the back of my tote hit the cushion before sliding the straps off my arm. Holy hell, that feels so much better. I rub my shoulder and look down to see two angry red marks from the straps. My lips purse. Next time I’m just bringing the laptop and my notes. And my car.

I lick my lips and pull out my laptop to bring up the syllabus. I downloaded it before I left, but I’m hoping this place has Wi-Fi. I breathe in deep and click to see. It’s password protected. Damn. I don’t like that. That means I have to talk to someone. And I really don't like that. I prefer to keep to myself. My eyes look past the brightly lit screen and search the place for a waitress, but there isn’t one readily apparent. My shoulders sag with disappointment. Where the hell is the waitress? My eyes drift to directly in front of me and catch the gaze of one of the men sitting across the aisle in the opposite booth.

I quickly break eye contact, but I got a good enough look at him that heat and moisture pool in my core. He’s fucking hot. Dark hair that’s long enough to grab, and dark, piercing eyes to match. His tanned skin and high cheekbones are emphasized by the dim lighting.

I swallow thickly and hope the heat in my cheeks isn’t showing as a violent red blush on my face. My eyes hesitantly look back at the man in question, and judging from the smirk on his face, he did see. Shit! I rest my left elbow on the table and attempt to casually cover my face while searching again for a waitress. I’m gonna need a drink to calm these nerves and focus on my work.

“Would you like a menu?” I turn to see a young man, very Italian-looking, with olive skin and bright green eyes waiting for my response. He seems nice enough and obviously still in high school.

“No thanks, just a drink please?”

“What can I get you?” he asks, and then gives me a forced smile. Well, damn. I’m sorry me being here has rained on your parade. I shake off the snide inner remark. Maybe he’s just had a rough day. Like me.

“Citrus vodka and Sprite, please.” My favorite. I smile brightly at him, hoping maybe a little sunshine will rub off on him, but it’s a no-go. He gives me the same tight smile with a short nod, and leaves.

This place is odd. I never would’ve guessed that guy was a waiter. He was only wearing black jeans and a black tee. It’s not the uniform I’d expect from a nice place like this. Or the service. A small, self-conscious part of me thinks maybe it’s me. Maybe they don’t like that I’ve come in here just to drink and study. There’s a long bar on the other side of the room though. I close my eyes and shake my head slightly. It’s not me. I’m always thinking that. I need to stop that. It’s a bad habit.

I stretch out my shoulders and look back at the computer screen. I mumble a curse under my breath. The guy across the aisle distracted me, and I didn’t even get to ask for the password when the waiter finally came around. Damn, I’ll have to remember to ask when he comes back with my drink. I click my tongue on the roof of my mouth. He didn’t even ask for ID. I wonder if I’m starting to look old. I purse my lips as I consider this thought. No fucking way. He’s just a shit waiter.

Satisfied with that, I return to my syllabus and pull out the corresponding textbook and a yellow highlighter. I've got three chapters from this one to highlight, and then I’ll write my notes down. I nod my head. That’s a good plan. I may have transferred schools two years into my PhD, but I should be able to bang out all three classes this semester and be back on track. I’ve got Molecular and Cell Biology up first. I cringe a bit. It's all just so much fucking memorizing that I’ll never ever use again. This may be a long fucking study hour. Correction. Hours.

My heart sinks in my chest at the thought of wasting the night like this. I'm so tired of late nights in the lab or studying. I've alienated everyone in my life. My “social life” consists of bailing my mom out of jail and talking to my primary investigator about our research. I don't even want to pursue the summer internship I was offered. I thought I'd love doing cancer research, but my only choices at this point are working with either cells or animals. And neither one is tempting. I have no clue why I’m still working my ass off for this. But if I let it go, what do I have left? Without my career, I’ve merely wasted years of my life hiding from reality. The thought depresses me to the core.

“Whatcha doing, sweetheart?” My body jolts as I hear the question, and I turn my head to stare at the Italian Stallion that sneaked up on me.

Hearing his masculine voice and watching his corded muscles ripple as he moves to sit across from me in my booth brings back that initial desire, full fucking force. My pussy heats and I clench my thighs. Holy hell. His muscles are rock fucking hard, and there isn't an ounce of fat on his body. His dark eyes pierce into me. I break away from his gaze and curse my hormones for making me so horny. Not fucking fair. I feel a deep urge to just fuck my frustrations away.

I don’t need sex. I’ve never had it, never done the dirty deed, but no one needs sex. I bite my lip and feel my shoulders turn inward as doubt creeps in. How the hell would I know if it would help? I’ve never had the courage to go through with it.

I can’t believe he’s sitting with me, but at the same time, I don’t want to be hit on. I’m sure he’s just trying to get lucky. I don’t have time for this. I have to catch up on my studying so I don't fall behind even more. But I find my eyes drifting down his body the way I imagine his would trail down mine. His white tee shirt is pulled taut over his muscles. My eyes dart to meet his as I belatedly realize that I’m blatantly staring. A blush blazes in my cheeks, and my stomach drops.

I nervously tuck my hair back behind my ears and lick my lips. I drop my eyes, and focus steadily on the white tablecloth for a moment. I clear my throat and gather the courage to look Mr. Hunk in the eyes. “I have to study.” I’m surprised I had the courage to say anything at all, and that my voice was mostly steady. I wish I weren’t so dismissive though. It came out a bit shorter than I would have liked. I don’t want him to think I’m some bitch. It’s not that. I’m just awkward, and I really do need to study.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Elle,” I respond quickly, and try to keep my voice steady. But it yelps slightly because of my nerves. Fuck! I sound like a damn squeaky mouse. I am a grown woman, damn it! I clear my throat again and wish my drink were here. My hair cascades down from behind my ears, and I nervously reach up to tuck it back into place and take a breath.

This is a bad idea. I'm not stupid; I need to stop this shit. He's trouble with a capital T, and I’m not in any position to handle him.

"I’m Vince. What are you studying, sweetheart?"

Vince. I like that name. It suits him well.

I consider answering him, but he just wants into my pants. And I need to study. I know this, yet I can’t help getting so wound up and hot for him. All fucking week I've been miserable. Hating my life. Hating how I let my mother pressure me into giving up everything I had going for me so I can be her rock. Just like she always fucking does. I haven't done one thing for myself in so long. Not one reckless thing ever that I can think of. Nothing I wanted to do purely out of desire.

Would it be so bad? Would it really be so wrong to just flirt a bit? Flirting. My lips press into a line. I don’t even know how to flirt. So yeah, it would be a bad idea.