“Rhys—Professor, stop. It’s fine.”
“Get inside, Whitney,” he snapped, and then I felt Bill’s hand on my arm, tugging me toward the shop. I let him pull me inside and watched in horror as Rhys squared up to Christian, shouting in his face, but his words were muffled by the soft music playing inside the shop.
Christian shoved him, and Rhys shoved him back, pointing a finger in his face. Whatever he said next cut Christian down enough that he backed off and walked away with his friends.
I barely had time to move away from the door before Rhys walked in, livid, his eyes fixed on Bill for a moment before they landed on me.
Bill made quick work of turning the open sign off and closing the blinds to shield us from the road as Rhys took my face in his hands and asked, “Are you alright?”
“What did you say to him?” I whispered.
He just gathered me into his arms and pressed my head against his chest, and I allowed myself to come undone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rhys
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IKNEW I WAS TREADINGwater with my situation with Whitney. One wrong move and I’d be sucked under and spit out, losing my job, watching her get reamed by Gatlington’s administration and kicked out of her degree program. That wasn’t stopping us from continuing this affair. I couldn’t even call it that anymore. Whatever we had was worth fighting for, even if we lost everything in the end.
I just needed to be careful.
Getting in Christian’s face last night wasn’t careful at all.
I ground my teeth as I gathered my course materials together for the day’s lecture. My office was nearly silent save for the heavy footsteps and drifting voices coming from the hallway through the open door. I barely slept last night. I lay awake, texting Whitney, who was worried beyond belief about what had just occurred in the street with several witnesses. I’d told Christian I’d rip him to shreds if he ever spoke to Whitney again, if he ever looked in her direction again. It took every ounce of willpower I had to stop myself from putting my hands on him and showing him that I wasn’t just some professor who sat around reading books about philosophy and art.
I’d been a college student once. I’d chased girls, been in my fair share of fights, and squared up to men twice his size and won. I’d been held at gunpoint and had things stolen from me by pirates and gangs who came into my camps during expeditions.
Christian lived a sheltered life where he could run to his father when things went south. I never had that luxury, so I fought my own fights.
I tucked my materials into my briefcase, clipped it closed, then headed out for the day, closing and locking my office door behind me.
I made it three steps before someone called my name, and I turned to see the Dean of the Humanities Department hurrying toward me, sidestepping around a group of students lingering in the hallway.
“Professor Ellis,” he said with a brief nod, his cheeks tinged pink from exertion. Robert Courtright stopped a foot away from where I stood. “Do you have a minute to talk?”