Chapter 2: The Professor Who Says No

Inside the clinic, Ethan Miller was sitting on the bed, looking worried. Under the bright lights and crinkly paper sheet, he looked smaller than usual.

When he saw me, his eyes lit up. Relief flashed across his face like someone flipped a switch.

"Aunt Rachel, why are you here!" he said, voice jumping from anxious to glad in a heartbeat.

I walked over and looked him up and down. "What happened? Your professor called and said you fainted." I checked his pulse like I knew what I was doing.

Ethan looked guilty and gave me a look—a look that said he’d been caught doing something dumb.

He whispered, "I pulled an all-nighter hiking in the next state this weekend. I dozed off in class today, and when they couldn't wake me, they thought I fainted." Translation: he was fine, just spectacularly sleep-deprived.

"When I woke up, I was too scared to admit I'd just passed out from sleep, worried the professor would mark me absent or report me." He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish.

"I didn't expect Dr. Hart to call you." That sounded more like a lament than a statement.

After hearing this, I flicked him on the head—not hard, just a light tap. He yelped anyway.

Before I could scold him, Ethan suddenly straightened up and called out, "Dr. Hart." Respect and fear tangled in his voice.

I turned to follow his gaze. The air in the room shifted.

My heart fluttered. Yep—same man from the sidewalk.

Dr. Hart, the man Ethan was talking about, was the one who'd given me directions earlier. My stomach did a graceful swan dive.

Dr. Hart's eyes landed on me, his attention cool and exact.

He spoke gently, "Hello, I'm Ethan's law professor, Samuel Hart." The voice from the phone, now in surround sound.

Dr. Hart's voice was even better in person, making my ears tingle. It was like a perfect pour—rich, deep, and a little dangerous.

That tingle crawled straight to my heart, making my chest itch. Attraction as a physical symptom—annoying, but undeniable.

At twenty-eight, I was suddenly aware I was genuinely attracted to someone—for his voice and his looks. Like a teenager in a grown-up body, no shame, full swoon.

Turns out, I’m just as shallow as anyone, powerless in the face of absolute beauty. My feminist essays did not prepare me for this level of cheekbone.

My defenses crumbled. All my single-life philosophies went out the window. Minimal resistance; maximum curiosity.

Dr. Hart had those captivating eyes and that killer voice, but his expression was cool and distant—a classic untouchable. A museum piece you’re warned not to touch, and I was already reaching.

I smiled, dimples showing. "Hello, Dr. Hart, I'm Ethan Miller's aunt, Rachel Sullivan." My smile was eager and sincere, working overtime.

"Sorry for the trouble my nephew's caused you. Thank you." I tossed in gratitude like a peace offering.

Dr. Hart replied politely, "No trouble at all." His words were gentle; his tone wasn’t.

He checked his watch. "I'll leave Ethan with you. I have class soon, so I'll head out." Practical to the core.

He nodded at me, then turned to leave—smooth pivot, long stride. Leaving was his specialty.

Before I could think, my body moved and I caught up to him. My mouth outran my judgment.

"Dr. Hart, can I add you on Messenger?"

"Ethan’s had anemia since he was little and sometimes faints. If I had your contact, it'd be easier to reach you if something happens."

I made up an excuse using Ethan. Sorry, kiddo—classic aunt betrayal, light edition.

Dr. Hart looked at me, gaze cool—no flare of interest, just frost.

"Ms. Sullivan, university professors aren't like high school teachers."

"I'm just Ethan's elective instructor; he only has my class once a week." Translation: I’m not his keeper.

"If you're worried, it makes more sense to add his roommate or advisor." Sensible, clinical, and somehow mortifying.

His tone was apologetic, but every word was distant and cold. Courtesy, frozen solid.

His words made my face flush—red-hot embarrassment under harsh fluorescent light. Fantastic.