"I can state with absolute certainty that your daughter will not be doomed to a life of mediocrity simply because she didn't get into my creative writing class, Mrs. –" I pause, partly because I can't remember the woman's name (even though she just introduced herself) and partly because the rest of my thought is one that doesn't need to be finished out loud: Your daughter won't be doomed to a life of mediocrity simply because she didn't get into my creative writing class. She'll be doomed to a life of mediocrity because she is genuinely mediocre.

I'm aware that is an incredibly rude statement – which is why I didn't say it to the wealthy helicopter mother standing in front of me. I'm not that horrible of a person, even if the woman demanding I admit her daughter into my college class deserves to be taken down a notch or two.

The woman's last name is one I'm supposed to know, something that was intended to be impressive when she introduced herself not quite two minutes ago. It was the kind of name you'd expect to see emblazoned on the side of a library or the wing of a hospital. In fact, one of the buildings on campus probably has her last name plastered on it somewhere.

She's someone important. That's the only explanation for why Gina, the English department's normally reasonable administrative assistant, burst into my office a few minutes ago and breathlessly informed me that Mrs. What's-Her-Name was dissatisfied that her daughter was unable to get into my class.

When I laughed in response, Gina just stared at me blankly, apparently failing to see the humor in a grown woman being upset enough with her adult daughter's college class schedule to show up to argue with the college professor about it.

"Blackstone," the woman declares.

"I'm sorry, what?" I ask blankly, shaking off my thoughts and bringing my attention back to the perfectly coiffed woman standing in front of me, the one I very much want to get out of my office so I can finish my lunch – and the book chapter I should be working on – in peace.

"Blackstone," she repeats, obviously offended that I don't immediately recognize her last name. "And I'm more than aware that my Ashlynn will never be doomed to a life of mediocrity, Mr. Ryan."

I'll admit that much is true. The woman and her daughter are moneyed and connected, which does make her daughter's lack of talent even more irrelevant. Her daughter has the kind of options in life that mean she'll be just fine not getting into my class. Besides, judging by how much bleached-blonde Ashlynn seems interested in her phone but not in this conversation, I don't think the girl is exactly devastated to not be enrolled in Creative Writing 207 with Professor Ryan.

As the mother begins lecturing me again, I close my eyes and take a deep breath instead of launching into an explanation that her daughter failed to get into my writing class because her writing sample wasn't good enough. I refrain because I've been told that my "people skills" could be better. Apparently, "blunt talk" isn't appreciated by the university administration, and that's exponentially true in the case of students with wealthy parents.

That's why I don't tell the mother that one of the benefits of being a somewhat-famous writer is that when you agree to teach creative writing classes at a snooty prestigious college, you get to personally screen candidates based on their writing samples. That way, you end up with a class full of the best and brightest students instead of being saddled with a class full of talentless kids whose parents donated the most money to the school.

For a moment, I allow myself to fantasize that if I stand here long enough with my eyes closed, the irritating mother and daughter duo will vanish into thin air. As I breathe in, I attempt to tune out the woman's nasal whine, bringing to mind one of the visualization exercises I've been performing with the meditation app on my phone. The exercises are one of the many things I've been attempting to use to treat my writer's block, but they seem to be as hopeless for that as they are at drowning out the woman's voice right now.

When I finally – and reluctantly – open my eyes, I let out a frustrated exhale. Mrs. Blackstone is still there, and is standing even closer to me, gesturing wildly as she talks. She's apparently oblivious to the fact that my head is about to explode. "Unfortunately, Mrs. Blackstone," I tell her, "My class is full. Regrettably, the only way to gain admission to the class was through the application process."

"Mr. Ryan, we're both adults here. We know there's always a way around these pesky admissions issues."

I blink. Is this lunatic about to attempt to bribe me to get her daughter into a creative writing class? I mean, seriously. It's a writing class; it's not like I just denied this girl her dream of becoming an astronaut.

Then Mrs. Blackstone pauses, her lower lip jutting out just enough to be clear that she's pouting.

She's pouting.

Oh, God, it's even worse than a bribe. She's trying to flirt with me.

I thought I'd seen it all, but a parent trying to flirt her daughter's way into my class is definitely a first.

Mrs. Blackstone adopts a coquettish tone and straightens her back, pushing her inflated breasts up so that her perky cleavage is on display. "Are you absolutely certain that there's really nothing I can do to change your mind, Mr. Ryan?" she asks, her polished red fingernail landing on my shirtsleeve. "We read your novel in my book club after you did all of those talk shows, and I'm certain that if Ashlynn was under your tutelage –"

I recoil, my stomach turning. There goes my appetite for lunch. "I'm more than certain, Mrs. Blackstone," I tell her firmly, placing my hand on her arm to turn her in the direction of the office door. "Now, I'm afraid I really do have a meeting, so I'll have to ask you to –"

"Wait," she interrupts, looking at me over her shoulder. "Maybe there's something my daughter could do to change your mind!"

As if on cue, the daughter finally tears her gaze away from her phone. Her hand goes to her hip and she arches her back in an obviously well-practiced mimic of her mother's posture that's pathetic and disturbing. I'm about to launch into a tirade directed at the mother that will undoubtedly get me into trouble with the college administration (accusing a school donor of whoring out her daughter to get into a class is definitely going to get me face-to-face time with the dean). Suddenly, Gina, the woman responsible for dumping these two idiots in my office in the first place, materializes in my doorway yet again.

"Um… Professor Ryan?" she asks tentatively.

"Yes?" I growl, taking out my frustration on her without even the least little bit of remorse. What the hell is it now? The fall semester hasn't even started yet. I made the foolish mistake of coming to my office on Friday afternoon before Monday classes begin, something I silently vow to never do again.

Then I see what exactly it is.

Or who it is, more accurately.

"Gabriel," a baritone voice booms, immediately silencing Mrs. Blackstone. Even if I hadn't looked up, I'd have recognized the voice in an instant.

Alan Taylor has a distinctive tone. He has always spoken with authority. Even when we were kids, he had a way of getting people to listen to him. I suppose that's one reason he wound up being a preacher. Well, that, and he's always loved hearing himself talk and telling people how to live their lives.

Not that I'm bitter or anything.

"Should we come back later?" Alan asks. "Of course, we wouldn't want to interrupt."

He speaks the words with the insincere tone of someone who means exactly the opposite of what he's saying. I know Alan, and if there's anything he's relishing right now, it's the fact that he's walked into an uncomfortable situation involving me and a dissatisfied parent.

"They said they knew you and…" Gina shrugs as her voice trails off.

"Actually, you are interrupting," Mrs. Blackstone informs them, her tone imperious. "Mr. Ryan was just discussing adding another spot in his writing class for my Ashlynn."

I look at her in astonishment. The woman really has no shame, does she? I guess I should be flattered that a parent wants to get her daughter into my class badly enough to throw herself at me, but I'm too disgusted to be impressed. "I'm afraid that's not possible, Mrs. Blackstone," I tell her firmly. "My decision is final, and as you can see, I have another meeting."

A completely unexpected meeting with someone from a former life – and his daughter.

His very grown-up, spectacularly beautiful daughter, I note, as my eyes land on her.

"Mr. Ryan, we still have things to discuss about my daughter and your class," Mrs. Blackstone insists.

"I'm afraid I have another meeting with a parent," I say, distracted. Before Mrs. Blackstone can speak again, I gesture to Gina. "Would you walk Mrs. Blackstone and her daughter out to the front, please?"

"Absolutely," Gina replies.

"I'll be talking to the dean about this," Mrs. Blackstone threatens. "He and my husband play golf on Sundays."

"Bless your heart." I shouldn't egg her on, but I can't resist using the phrase I grew up with on this entitled East Coast rich woman. "Tell the dean I said hello."

"Come on, Ashlynn," Mrs. Blackstone huffs. "You don't need to be taught by some washed-up writer anyway."

"Ugh, finally," the daughter mumbles. "Can we go get massages? I'm exhausted from walking all over campus."

As soon as they leave, Alan raises his eyebrows. "Another satisfied customer?"

If this were any other day and any other moment, I'd tell Alan to go to hell. But I'm caught too off-guard to even muster a response at all – and not just because the last people in the world I'd expect to show up at my office in the English department are my former childhood friend and his daughter. In fact, I'd like to blame my lack of words solely on that fact.

The truth is that I'm speechless because I can't seem to take my eyes off of Alan's daughter.

Purity Taylor is breathtaking. That word gets tossed around a lot, but not by me. I've never even thought it in reference to anyone or anything except for this girl, who embodies everything about that word. She's absolutely spectacular, even in the more-than-modest dress she's wearing. The sleeves cover her arms, though it's far too warm outside to need them, and the neckline barely shows a millimeter of her collarbone. The white cotton garment trails down to the ground, designed to cover the entirety of her figure – yet it doesn't do a bit to hide her curves.

Purity is the kind of classic beauty that can't possibly be hidden. She could be wearing a paper bag and stand out in a sea of women wearing designer clothing. The floor-length dress skims over her curves, somehow managing to look even more indecent than if she was wearing a miniskirt.

She's dressed in white, a symbol of innocence and purity – her namesake – yet in an instant I can only think of her in exactly the opposite way. In fact, the second her eyes meet mine, every single impure thing I'd like to do with her flashes through my head, a series of filthy images playing on a reel in my mind.

Her on her knees, taking me in her mouth. Me, parting her thighs and dipping between them, running my tongue along her slit. Me, sliding my hands under those thighs and carrying her to the nearest wall and thrusting myself inside her.

Dirty, inappropriate, and just plain wrong.

The most wrong things I've ever thought about in my life.

Heaven help me for thinking about Purity that way. Heaven help me for thinking about a preacher's daughter that way. I half-expect the ground to open and swallow me up, or lightning to crack down from the sky and incinerate me right now.

I'd deserve it for the way I can't seem to stop looking at her breasts.

"Gabriel?" says Alan.

I swallow hard, tearing my gaze away from Purity to focus on her father.

Her father, I remind myself. My childhood friend. I've known him my whole life – even if I haven't spoken to him since my mother died years ago and have grown to personally despise the man. Hell, I've known Purity her whole life – even if I haven't seen her in years, not since I turned my back on South Hollow.

She's only eighteen.

"Alan." I choke out his name, quickly clearing my throat to cover my discomfort as heat rises to my face. This is not me. That did not just happen. I'm not that guy, a sleazy middle-aged man looking at a barely-grown woman that way, even if it was only for a split second.

I've taught college here for the last five years – taught hundreds of young women – and never had a filthy thought about any of them. I've never once thought about them the way I just did about Purity a moment ago.

What the hell does it say about me that those thoughts just crossed my mind about her?

"Alan. Purity. I didn't expect to see you here. It's…" My voice trails off as my eyes meet Purity's again and I struggle for a word to finish my sentence. All of the words I used to know seem to have fled my brain, though. That might have something to do with the fact that all of the blood in my body appears to have gone south. "It's… unexpected."

Unexpected.

That's one way of putting it.

Seeing them here is unexpected.

Seeing Purity all grown up, the way she looks now, is fucking unexpected.

It's also unexpected that the normally verbose writer is standing in front of an eighteen-year-old woman stammering like an idiot and struggling to find words. My ability to use the English language seems to have completely disappeared in a matter of seconds since Alan and Purity showed up in my office doorway.

Alan laughs, the sound echoing through my office and the hallway. The sound should be warm and comforting, with him being a preacher and all, but it's not. Instead, it's icy-cold, just the way I remember it. "Unexpected? Purity is registered for your class, Gabriel."

Say what?

My eyes flicker to Purity, in her modest white dress with the faintest tinge of pink flushing her cheeks. She's the picture of innocence and wholesomeness – and in a single moment I have the irresistible desire to own that innocence. I want to take that purity.

I want to completely defile her.

"She's in your class, Gabriel," Alan repeats again.

Fuck. This girl – too young, completely off-limits, and the daughter of a preacher, no less – is a student in my class?

I'll be damned.

Probably straight to Hell, considering what I want to do her.