Over drinks at White Harp on Thursday night, I tell Claire everything. She listens with wide, unblinking eyes, her cocktail forgotten on the table. When I’m finished, I throw back a shot of whiskey and take a heavy swallow of my beer.

“I’m not sure what to say,” she begins quietly. “On the one hand, good for you for throwing down the gauntlet. On the other, I kind of want to report him. You’re his TA, for Christ’s sake. Granted, he’s only six years older than us and ridiculously attractive. So it’s not skeevy or anything. But didn’t he leave BU because of the same exact thing?”

“It’s probably a fetish,” I mutter.

“Why is he even here? He hasn’t taught since BU, and he churns out bestsellers like clockwork. It’s not like he needs the cash.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know. I think he really likes teaching. Or maybe he wants to redeem himself.” Then I shake my head. “Who cares. He probably only got the job because the head of the graduate school is his buddy.”

Claire takes a noisy slurp of her rum and coke. “This is nuts. Are you going to sleep with him?”

I gape at her. “What the fuck, Claire?”

She shrugs, grinning unrepentantly. “Exactly. Fuck. It will be good for you.”

“Did you not hear a word I said? He’s going to read about the accident and back off.”

The laughter leaves her eyes. “Iris, listen. I’ve seen your scars. They’re not as bad as you think. Have you ever considered that it’s not the scars that makes boys—keyword boys—hightail it the next morning? Maybe your picker is broken.”

I stare at my empty shot glass, unable to hold her gaze. “You think being the queen of one-night stands is a self-fulling prophecy.”

She nods perfunctorily. “Face it, you never let the nice ones get close enough. Remember Brad? He was sweet as pie and half in love with you. You kept him in the friend zone so long I thought he’d Lady-of-Shallot himself.”

I snort in spite of myself. “Good reference.”

Claire grins. “Thanks, but are you hearing me? Brad knew about your scars and would have worshipped them because they were attached to you.”

I lift a hand to stop her. “I’m not sure what that has to do with your advice to sleep with Beckett. He’s on the opposite end of the spectrum from Brad.”

She nods thoughtfully. “He is, but he’s also opposite from all those dumb boys of our undergrad years. He’s basically his own spectrum. He’s worldly, obviously a deviant, and writes borderline-noir crime fiction. I bet he’s going to be even more determined to have you. You’re like the perfect tragic heroine.”

I grimace even as her words elicit a shiver. “No way,” I say weakly, scooting to the edge of the booth. “I’m going to the bar. You want another rum and coke?”

“Yep, thanks.”

At the sight of the slammed counter, I pause in dismay. Without heels, I’m five-foot-five-inches of Never Going to Get a Drink. I almost return to beg Claire to go, but in my final sweep I spot a familiar figure sitting on a barstool.

I squeeze past four frat boys lost on their way to Greek Row and tap the man’s shoulder. As angry voices rise behind me, Griffen turns.

“Iris! Hey.” He gives me a one-arm hug and glares over my shoulder. As he looks like a cowboy who can wrestle bulls without breaking a sweat, the muttering instantly fades.

“Thank you,” I say, hopping onto the brass rail near the floor. I wave down the bartender and once my order is taken, turn to face Griffen.

“Are you here alone?” I ask curiously.

He nods. “Stood up, apparently,” he says, chuckling. “Ah, well, there’s enough familiar faces around that I don’t feel like too much of a loser.”

“You’re not,” I assure him.

He winks and takes a pull from his bottle. “Beckett’s really got it out for you, huh? Aren't you TA for his undergrad course, too?”

“Yep,” I say, smiling thinly. “I think I get on his nerves.”

“Yeah, you’re a regular pain in the ass,” he quips, “fucking up the bell curve for the last two years.”

I laugh and shove his shoulder, which is like pushing a brick wall. “Whatever, your GPA was higher than mine last year.”

He grins. “Damn straight. I have my eye on a PhD.”

My drinks arrive and I add them to our tab. “If you get bored, come hang out with Claire and me.”

His focus sharpens. “Claire? That’s your roommate, right? Tall brunette?”

I laugh. “Sorry, buddy, she’s taken.”

“How taken?”

I think of Monty, whose definition of romance is reading Descartes aloud while Claire cooks him dinner. “Fifty to sixty percent.”

Griffen immediately stands, leaving his empty beer on the counter. “I like those odds.”

Laughing, I hand him Claire’s and my drinks. “Back right, corner booth. I’m going to use the ladies room. See you in a minute.”

“Make it ten,” he says, winking as he strolls toward my roommate.

Feeling like a naughty fairy godmother—who’s going to get an earful on the walk home—I skirt around the bar crowd. I’m several steps away from the back hallway when I hear Beckett’s name. It’s spoken in a pleading tone by a female voice, and my eyes wander until I find her in a nearby booth.

Sitting with her—practically under her—is the man himself.

“Come on,” whines the woman, who I recognize vaguely from campus. “Let’s get out of here!”

Some evil convergence of acoustics brings me his soft words. “If you’re that anxious, Maggie, just unbutton your pants a bit. I’ll take care of you right here.”

“Beck!” she squeals.

I make a sound—a coughing gag, or a gagging wheeze, or something equally indicative of revulsion—and jerk into motion again.

Grateful for the alcohol-induced buffer between my brain and the odd thrum of pain in my chest, I wait in the short line, take care of business, and hurry back toward the promise of more alcohol.

I’m halfway to our table when someone grabs my arm. My momentum carries me full around and against a familiar leather jacket. Gasping, I look up at Beckett. His other hand curls around my hip, holding me against him as I try to squirm away.

“Stop moving,” he growls.

“Let me go,” I retort, lifting my chin and meeting his burning eyes. “There are students and faculty all around us.”

Like I just told him I’m a leper, his touch vanishes. But his eyes stay locked on my face, searing and full of… anger?

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I hiss, glancing around to make sure we’re not being observed.

The anger, too, vanishes. “I’m incredibly sorry that happened to you,” he says.

The accident.

I twitch a shoulder. “Great. Does this mean we can act normally now?”

“If you’re asking whether I still want to fuck you silly, the answer is yes. Because apparently that’s my normal setting where you’re concerned.”

My heart rate spikes, fire raging through my limbs. “You can’t say stuff like that!”

His gaze roams my face. “Come home with me, Iris. Right now.”

I shake my head, choking on hysterical laughter. “You’re seriously deranged. I’m not sleeping with you! I’ve known you less than a week, and you’re my professor.”

“Beck, darling? Who are you talking to?” It’s the chirping voice from earlier, which belongs to the woman whose arms are now wrapping around his torso. She peers around his shoulder at me. “Oh, hello. You’re James’ TA, aren’t you?”

James.

The alcohol turns in my stomach. Annoyance and embarrassment tighten Beckett’s features; he remembers as well as I do his words from last night. That once I slept with him, I could call him James.

You’re disgusting, I tell him with my eyes.

“Yep. Just saying hello.” By some miracle, my voice comes out normal. Polite, even. “See you Monday, professor.”

I make it back to the booth, but after five minutes of listening to Griffen do his damnedest to charm Claire, I mumble excuses and grab my coat.

“It’s pretty late,” says Claire worriedly. “Do you want us to walk you home?”

Behind me, a British piece of shit says, “I’ll drive her home.”

“Professor Beckett, nice to see you,” says Griffen, surprise twinned with uncertainty. He looks questioningly at me.

Synapses fire at lightning speed as I weigh my options and realize there’s only one that doesn’t make this situation even more suspect. Clenching my teeth, I turn and look up at Beckett.

“Thanks so much, I’d really appreciate that.”

His lips twitch, and he gives Claire and Griffen a short nod. “Enjoy your evening.” With a hand on my lower back, he guides me from the pub.

The second we’re outside, I move away from him. “My apartment isn’t far. Thanks for the offer, though!”

A block later, he joins me as I wait for the crosswalk. As Thursday night is a pretty big party night, we’re surrounded by people. Most of them are drunk or high and not paying attention to us, but we’re definitely not in private. Which is why when deft fingers stroke my hair back from my temple, I don’t start screaming at him.

“Soft as it looks,” he murmurs.

“Go back to your conquest, professor,” I whisper scathingly.

His head bends near my ear. “Have you always been this fiery, or do I merely bring out the best in you?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Turning toward him, I poke him in the chest and glare into his laughing eyes. “You just finger fucked a woman in a White Harp booth, and now you want to take me home? Not happening!”

He blinks. “I—what? I absolutely did not.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘just unbutton your pants a bit and I’ll take care of you right here.’”

He throws back his head and laughs. “If you must know, little eavesdropper, I was calling her bluff. Maggie fancied herself a walk on the wild side but when push came to shove, she caved.”

I stare at him, mouth opening and closing. “I don’t… you’re—”

He grins rakishly. “A prick, yes. We've already determined this. What I want to know, Iris, is whether you have the guts to take me on.”

The crosswalk finally chirps—thank you, universe—and saves me from a response. I escape, running into the camouflage of the thick pedestrian flow. Despite the fiery protest of my knee, I don’t stop running until my building is in sight. Taking the steps two at a time, I burst into the lobby and jab the button for the elevator.

My veins are live wires, twitching my legs and feet, and every few seconds I glance toward the front doors.

No Beckett.

The elevator opens and I rush inside.