Break Your Heart (6 page)

“Dr. Muramoto,” I murmured.

He chuckled, and a dimple popped up in the corner of his mouth. “We’re not in class. You can call me Nick.”

I swallowed. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a teacher, not a dead man. I love good music and dancing.”

A laugh slipped from my lips. “Fair enough. My roommate is the DJ. I came with a friend.”

“Where is he?” The question was light; I couldn’t read into it.

“
She’s
dancing with some guy she just met.”

Nick took a fraction of a step toward me, and I did the same. We were only a couple of feet apart now. Music throbbed in the space between our bodies, filled my pores, made me feel light and free. I found myself moving. Our movements flowed together; his eyes were locked on mine, seeking, intense.

I couldn’t look away.

When our chests brushed against each other, I realized we’d moved together again without me knowing. All the noise and anxiety and frustration fell away from my mind. My body became my focus—my body and his proximity, the weight of his gaze. He kept his hands off me, but his eyes roamed me freely.

It was a visual caress that made me throb.

Sweat slid down my skin; I barely noticed. I was in this bubble with Nick, absorbing all those small details about him I hungered to know. The light scent of his soap wrapped around me. His lips were parted ever so slightly, breaths coming out in small huffs to brush against my cheeks. Even in my boots, I noticed he was a few inches taller than me.

“There you are!” a giggling voice said from behind him. Redhead wrapped her arms around his torso and tugged him back, away from me. “I wondered where you went off to.”

He paused and tore his gaze from mine to eye her, murmuring something in her ear as he disentangled himself from her grip. But he kept his hand in hers.

And just like that, the spell was broken. I stood in place, drowning in disappointment.

This was crazy anyway. What was I doing? Trying to hit on someone who would only ever view me as a student? This was far too desperate for me.

I needed to go home. Right now. Frustration tightened my chest. I turned away from them, dug into my purse and grabbed my keys. Snagged my coat off the rack and thrust my arms into it, then stepped out into the cold night. The wind stole my breath, slapped my cheeks.

I crammed my hands in the coat pockets and tucked my neck deeper in the collar as I made my way to my car. A hand on my upper arm stopped me.

It was Nick—
Dr. Muramoto . . . stop that, Megan!
—concern flooding his eyes. “Hey, wait. Where are you going?”

“I’m driving home,” I said, unable to keep the petulance out of my tone. I hated that he made me feel this unsure of myself, this unsteady. I’d never experienced that with a person before.

His lips thinned. “How much have you had to drink?”

“I’m fine,” I shot back as I removed my arm from his grasp. Even as I said it, I could feel myself sway a bit. Okay, “fine” was a little off the mark. Maybe I could walk home then.

“No, you’re not.” His voice was low and soothing. The music from the club was less intense from here, and we were alone at the corner. A soft light from a nearby street lamp cast us in a golden glow. “Let me take you.” I opened my mouth to protest, and he said, “Either me or your DJ friend. But you shouldn’t drive, and she’s working.” He paused. “Unless there’s someone else you want to call.”

I didn’t want him to feel like he was obligated to take care of me. But I knew he was right. I found myself shaking my head and following him to his car.

W
e pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex. Nick let the car idle in the spot. Neither of us had spoken on the ride back. All of my emotions had been overwhelming me, probably not helped by the beer I’d chugged.

Nick raked fingers through his hair, mussing it up. He turned to look at me. I could see the highlights of his face through the streetlights in the parking lot. “Megan . . .” He stopped, closed his eyes for a moment. Rubbed his brow.

I lifted my chin. “Thanks for the ride,” I managed to say. I put my hand on the door handle to open it.

“Wait. Shit. This is going badly.” He huffed a sigh and looked at me. I felt pinned to my seat. “I wasn’t expecting to see you at the club tonight, so I’m a little thrown off. My academic realm is usually separate from my private life. I’m afraid of crossing a line I can’t uncross. There’s a lot on the line for me right now.” There was a tinge of vulnerability in his voice that made my heart squeeze in sympathy.

He sounded so conflicted. Could I be upset at him about that when I was too?

“What’s on the line for you right now?” I asked in a tentative voice.

He blinked. One hand dropped to his lap, the other toying with the ball of the stick shift. “I just got accepted for tenure track. I applied back in the fall, but I didn’t think I had a chance.”

“Wow, that’s great. You must be thrilled.”

“I am . . . It comes with a lot of pressure. Meetings. I’m being scrutinized in a way I never have been before. My workload has doubled.” His eyes raked over mine, then drifted. He gave an awkward laugh. “I feel like I’m whining. I’m not, really. I’m in a job I love, and they’re basically offering me job security. Can’t get any better than that.”

He was open and talking to me right now, and my curiosity flamed. I wanted to know more. “What do you do when you’re not working? How do you de-stress?”

“I work on home renovation—just bought an old house last year. And I have an antique car I’m restoring.”

“And create your own coded messages,” I added lightly.

His lips quirked, and for the first time since we’d left the club, he seemed to relax. “Yeah, I’ve always been fascinated by codes. My dad used to write them in Japanese for me, and I’d spend hours trying to crack them.”

“So are your parents Japanese?”

“My dad is from Japan—he moved here with his parents when he was a kid. My mom’s relatives are from Hong Kong, though she grew up in Ohio.” His lips curved into a soft smile. “Our family reunions are crazy fun.”

“I can just imagine. Do you have any siblings?”

He shook his head.

“Me neither. But I have a bunch of cousins. They felt like siblings growing up.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

I nodded. It was funny how comfortable I was feeling around him now. The anxiety from earlier had seeped away. In its place was a glow in my chest that made the car seem intimate and cozy.

“Why math? You seem like you could be good at anything. What made you choose this field?”

I laughed. “If you met my parents, you’d understand.” I explained how both of my folks worked together in a very math-driven industry—construction. How my mom had reared me on blueprints. How Dad took me to work with a little hard hat and explained the math and physics behind renovation. “They taught me a love of precision,” I said, smiling. “Math is constant. It’s ordered. It’s comforting. And, frankly, it gets a bad rap. I think we need more women in math. We need more people of color in math.” With that, I gave him a knowing look. “Haven’t we had enough of old white men in the industry?”

He tipped his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You make good points.”

The easiness of conversation between us, plus the alcohol still lingering in my system, made me brave. I leaned forward a touch. “Tell me something no one else knows about you.”

He paused at that and seemed to consider my request. I was afraid he was going to say no, he was silent for so long. I bit my lower lip as I waited.

“I hate pretzels.” He blanched. “God, that was lame, wasn’t it? Not exactly earth-shattering conversational skills here.” His chuckle was awkward.

“I’m not a big fan of them either, unless they’re smothered in chocolate,” I said in an effort to ease his discomfort. “I’m also picky about wine. I find it pretentious and overly sweet. I never told anyone that before. My parents always drink wine, so I have it with them, but . . . I prefer beer.”

“Maybe you just haven’t had the right kind,” he said, the corner of his mouth turning up. “There are a lot of sweet types, but you might enjoy a drier wine.”

“You’re probably right.” I snorted. “But in the meantime, I just smile and sip.”

The heat kicked up, probably in response to the dropping temps outside. I tugged my zipped coat away from my neckline, then unzipped it. As my zipper moved down, his eyes followed the path.

My pulse throbbed in my throat and my lips parted. With the renewed surge of heat was another whiff of his soap. Clean and fresh. I wanted to bury my mouth along the pulse at the base of his throat. Taste his skin.

“Megan,” he said in a low groan. His eyes looked tortured.

In a rush, I leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his. He froze and I heard his rapid inhale. Then he opened his mouth and we fused together in a rush of heat and desire. My skin tingled all over as I swept my tongue along his.

He deepened the kiss, slanted his lips over mine. Devoured me, set me on fire. My nipples hardened, and my body reacted with a vivid slam of lust.

Then he was pushing me away, his breath coming out in ragged pants. “No. Absolutely not. This cannot happen.”

It was a bucket of cold water over my head. Mortification swept over me, hard and fast. Oh God, I’d thrown myself at him. I scrabbled for my zipper and tugged it all the way up. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I’m going now.”

With that, I ripped the door open and left his car like the devil was on my heels.

I keyed the door of my apartment and went in, leaned back against the door. Hot tears burned the backs of my eyes. Idiot! I smacked my forehead. What was I thinking, kissing him like that?

I’d never had a guy physically push me away before, like he’d been repelled by me.

My head swam. I stumbled into the kitchen and chugged a glass of water. There were two beers inside the door of the fridge. I was tempted to chug them down, but I’d probably had enough at this point. So I went into the bathroom, stripped off my clothes and took a long, hot shower instead.

Tried to not think about how good he had tasted. How he’d made me feel alive with that kiss. The sound of his breath hitching in his throat as he’d kissed me back for one glorious minute.

I toweled off, slipped into pajama pants and a tank top and flopped in bed.

 

The next morning, my head wouldn’t stop screaming at me. Probably didn’t help that two little kids were running around like idiots in the sandwich shop while their parents completely ignored them. Morning crowds were hit and miss most of the time.

I tightened my apron around my waist and grabbed the drinks for the table in the corner. “Here ya go,” I said to the couple with a forced smile. “I’ll be back in a minute to get your order.”

Stupid hangover. I could feel my brain throbbing inside my skull. At least I’d slept it off instead of drinking away my embarrassment, the way I’d been tempted to. My stomach was still a little uneasy, so I’d eaten only toast and had a little coffee. Caffeine had a way of helping these things fade away faster.

I took the corner table’s order, relayed it to the cook, then began to roll silverware in napkins. It was brainless work, not enough to distract me from the heavy guilt in my heart.

I’d made so many mistakes last night. I was going to drive home drunk. I had kissed my professor. And then, when he’d tried to push me away, I’d run off like a kid.

Way to handle it like a grown-up, Megan,
I chastised myself. I could hardly believe how things had gone down. Yeah, he’d kissed me back . . . but probably out of shock or something. Not because there was anything there. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have shoved me away like that. I wasn’t sure how I’d live this down.

The food order came up. I served it. Fetched ketchup, poured more coffee. I was basically on autopilot. My mind was plagued with what to do now.

Only one idea came to mind.

I was going to have to quit cryptography. There was no way on God’s green earth I could face Nick—Dr. Muramoto—again. Not after I’d thrown myself on him. Not after he’d had to remind me what a bad idea that had been. The look in his eyes, the tightness of his face, had been difficult to see.

Shit. This was going to ruin my plans. Anxiety wrapped around my gut and squeezed. I was supposed to graduate in the spring. I’d already put my application in. What could I do now? All my major classes were closed at this point.

I ducked behind the counter, stopped and drew in a steadying breath. There was always a solution. My parents had told me that time and again. Life might not work out the way I wanted it to, but that didn’t mean I was stuck.

No, I couldn’t replace the class this semester. But I could take one in the summer and still start grad school in the fall. I just had to pray that there was a suitable one to fulfill my major requirement. Yeah, it would mean no graduation this spring, but what choice did I have?

Then I remembered that he was my thesis advisor. Double shit.

That couldn’t be helped. He was already my second in that position. I couldn’t see the dean assigning me a third. But I could limit our interactions to email only. He’d given me the feedback, and I was working on it now. If he was a gentleman, maybe he’d just leave it at that and not mention any of that . . . thing between us. Or my dropping his class.

The faster I finished the paper, the faster I’d be done dealing with him. I could move past this awful stage.

Even though I’d still see him around campus. Ugh. But maybe with time, the pain would lessen. It had to.

Yeah, I had a lot to do when I got off work.

The door dinged, and in came Patrick, alone. He sat at my table, so I pushed aside my stresses, walked over and gave him a big smile as I handed him the breakfast menu. “Hey, how’s it going?”

He groaned and gave me a weak smile. “Hangover.”

“I feel ya.” I chuckled. “Good night?”

“Could have been better.” There was a meaningful look in his eyes that should have made my body react. But I didn’t feel anything. It was either because I felt all busted or because of that kiss.

“What can I get ya?” I asked him smoothly. “Coffee?”

He flipped his mug over. “Yes, please.”

I came back and poured coffee in the mug.

“I know what else I want,” he said, then paused. “Your number.” He pushed the napkin over toward me as he eyed me up and down.

I bit my lip and tried to not roll my eyes at the lack of finesse in his approach. Then I grabbed my pen from my apron and scrawled my name and number down. As I walked away, I realized the enthusiasm over Patrick wasn’t there anymore. But I also knew I couldn’t sit here and think about something that was never going to happen.

The best way to move on was to move on. And that was exactly what I was determined to do.