Chapter 1: Texting My Nephew’s Professor

I fell for my nephew's law professor, Dr. Samuel Hart. It sounds exactly like the opening scene of a bad rom-com, but somehow, that's where my life landed—headfirst into the most forbidden crush imaginable.

Late one night, I texted him: [Dr. Hart, need a wife?] It was way past midnight, my thumb hovering above the send button like I was daring the universe to react. Then—tap. I was half laughing, half terrified, and completely reckless.

He replied with just four words, cold as ice: [I don't do marriage.] Four words, clipped and final, like a judge dropping the gavel. My phone felt colder in my hand after that.

I tried flirting for ages, but the mountain never melted. I tossed jokes, compliments, and shameless innuendo his way; the man was permafrost with a heartbeat and a glacier’s patience.

Eventually, I gave up and agreed to the blind date my family set up. I told myself I was being "open-minded," but really, I just surrendered to the matchmaking scheme because... well, losing to a mountain gets old.

On the day of the blind date, rain tapped the roof as Dr. Hart asked me to stay in his car for a talk. The timing was so dramatic—doors softly locked with a click, my nerves spiking at the sound, like I was about to step into a scene I’d only imagined. For a second, I wondered if I could just open the door and leave, but the rain and his calm invitation made it clear: this was a conversation I wasn't dodging.

His eyes were cold and sharp, but a hint of a smile played on his lips as he asked, "Didn't you say I was your one and only husband?" The question landed like a dart, and my mouth went dry, my pulse sprinting like it was trying to escape.

Earlier that semester—before that car talk—he called me about Ethan.

"Hello? Is this Ethan Miller's aunt?"

"Ethan fainted in my class. Could you come to the campus clinic?" Practical words, but the delivery had a kind of intimacy that made me sit up straighter.

The man on the phone had a mature, low voice—magnetic, deep, and smooth as velvet with a hint of steel.

It was the kind of voice that could make your knees buckle, or so they say. Mine did a sympathetic wobble, which was inconvenient on laminate flooring.

It took me a moment to snap out of it and respond, "Okay, I'll be right there." I cleared my throat, hoping I didn’t sound like I was agreeing to a proposal rather than a campus run.

Even after I hung up, that voice echoed in my mind—smooth as bourbon and just as dangerous.

With a weird sense of anticipation, I rushed to Lakeview University. My keys, purse, and sense of dignity barely kept up as I dashed to my car.

Once on campus, I kept asking for directions to the clinic. I flagged down a couple of students, got pointed past the quad, and veered around a brick building humming with fluorescent lights.

Turning a corner around the academic building, my hurried steps unconsciously slowed. Something in the cold, clean November air made me pause.

Ahead stood a tall man in a black wool coat, owning the sidewalk without even trying.

His face made my eyes widen. Handsome in a way that steals your breath first, then your vocabulary.

He had that effortlessly classy vibe—almost intimidatingly handsome. Uptown polish, zero pretense.

In my head, I gave him a top-tier rating. Absolutely top shelf—no debate needed.

I pulled myself together and walked over to greet him. My heartbeat played a little drumroll in my chest.

"Hi, could you tell me which way to the campus clinic?" I tried to sound polite and casual, as if my neurons weren’t short-circuiting.

He lifted his eyelids and glanced at me, his gaze lingering for a moment—a spotlight that burned just a little.

Maybe I'd startled him. I stepped back awkwardly, my boots scuffing the concrete. I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the way I always do when I’m flustered.

But his silence and coldness made me frown a bit. Beautiful statue, barely human—duly noted.

Just as I was about to leave, he raised his hand and pointed in a direction. Precise, no extra words—like he preferred efficiency over conversation.

I thanked him quietly, my voice coming out softer than I’d planned.

He nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint, polite smile. It wasn’t warm—more like a courtesy he was willing to extend.

Even so, my heart skipped for no reason. My brain shouted at my heart to chill out; my heart did not listen.

So handsome! Pure, unfair genetics. Someone should’ve put a warning label on him.