The Dean by Cassie Mint

Two

James

When I agreed to host Parker Young’s little girl for a few months, in my head, she was still sixteen. A sweet girl, funny and smart, but a girl. Someone to look out for and keep company, but no one that would turn my world on its head.

More fool me. Because funnily enough, Charlotte is not sixteen anymore. Time did not stand still since the last time I saw her. She’s a young woman now, all hints of adolescence gone, and from the moment I picked her up at the airport, I’ve been cursing my poor judgement.

The way she looks at me with those wide, pale eyes… She’s triggered something inside me. Dark, primal urges—to touch, to protect, to claim. To stamp myself all over her as surely as she’s written on me, and to never let her out of my grip again.

What would Parker say if he knew the way my heartbeat races around his daughter? If he knew how my hands ache to touch her waist, how my fingers long to twine through her glossy blonde hair?

She’s been here just over a month, and already I’ve jacked off more times than I can count. Just catching whiffs of her feminine scent around my house, seeing her gorgeous hourglass figure bend over her desk at the office—

It’s torture. I need her gone.

And yet, I got her a job in my office, ensuring I’d see her every weekday. And yet, every time Charlotte finds a potential apartment, I pick holes in it. Find excuses to keep her here with me.

I know she’ll go eventually. Hell, I’ll help her move; I’ll install a security lock on her door. But even though it makes me the worst kind of man, I can’t help but drag this out as long as possible.

Because once she’s gone, once my house is cold and empty, devoid of her scent again… My life will be black and white once more. Without color.

“Charlotte.” I press the button on my office phone which puts me through to her. It’s dangerous, having a direct line to her this way. I have to stop myself from eavesdropping on her calls, listening to her sweet voice. “Come here for a moment, please.”

Through the wall, I hear the scrape of her chair. Her light footsteps, muffled by the rug. The Dean’s office has an old-fashioned layout—my office in the center, then my assistant’s in an antechamber outside. All it means is that Charlotte is constantly in the most maddening place possible—out of sight, but within earshot. On my mind, but not within reach.

How am I supposed to get any work done when I can hear her sighing with boredom? When I can hear her fingertips tapping against the keyboard, and picture them drumming down the rigid muscles of my back instead?

A brief knock interrupts my thoughts, then the door swings open.

“Yes?” She smiles at me brightly, always so pleased to be summoned. So naturally giving. I shift my chair further under the desk to hide the swelling in my pants.

“There’s only an hour left. I have no other tasks for you today. You might as well take an early finish.” Her face falls. I talk quickly, wanting to reassure her. To bring that bright smile back. “You’ll still be paid for the full day, of course.”

But her mouth stays turned down. “What about you?”

I clear my throat. There’s no way I can tell her the truth. That I need a few hours without her here so I can think straight and get some damn work done.

“I’ll be home late. Go ahead and eat without me.”

Her face crumples.

Fuck.

I stand quickly, alarmed, my arousal forgotten as fast as it came. Charlotte wraps her arms around her waist, hugging herself, struggling to rein in her emotions. She’s dressed in a white blouse and a pencil skirt, the fabric of her blouse sliding under her arms., and behind her, through the open doorway, the distant hum of conversation drifts down the corridor.

“Charlotte? What is it?”

She shakes her head. Forces a smile—but not the genuine one I want. It’s superficial. Pained.

“Nothing.” She hiccups a laugh, and it sounds bleak. “Don’t worry. It’s pathetic.”

“What is?” I round the desk in three strides, crossing straight to her. The moisture brimming in her eyes cuts through my usual caution, and I take her by the elbows. Rub the pads of my thumbs over her arms. “Charlotte. Tell me what’s wrong.”

We’re standing in the open doorway. Anyone walking past could see this—the college Dean standing too close to his assistant, his hands on her bare skin. It’s inappropriate, more wrong than anyone here could possibly know, and yet I can’t step back. Can’t put distance between us.

“Crap, this is embarrassing.” Charlotte sniffles, staring at the center of my chest. Then, quietly, she admits: “I miss you.”

God. God. I’ve been so wrapped up in ensuring I don’t cross any lines, so determined to keep my attraction to her a secret, that I’ve let her feel neglected. Let her be lonely, like she was as a child.

Fuck. My breath saws in and out of my chest. The sounds of the corridor are muffled, like they’re coming from far away.

“Forgive me.” The words are choppy, but she rolls her eyes. Peeks up at me with a small smile.

“Don’t be silly. There’s nothing to forgive.”

I squeeze her elbows. “Forgive me.”

Her eyelids flutter closed, her sooty lashes casting shadows over her cheeks. “Okay,” she breathes, so quiet I almost miss it. Then: “I’ll see you tonight.” She gathers herself, pushing her shoulders back.

“No.” She jerks at my sudden harsh tone. “Change of plan. I need you here.”

They’re the words no assistant has ever wanted from their boss, but a flush spreads over Charlotte’s cheeks. She’s glowing. And ten minutes later, when I carry a chair in for her and set it at the end of my desk, she practically bounces over and flings herself into the seat.

“What are we working on?”

“Research funding,” I mutter. It’s always goddamn funding.

“Sounds boring.”

I snort as I hand her a stack of forms to look through. “It is.”

If I thought she was distracting through the wall, it’s nothing compared to having her in the corner of my eye. Especially when she starts swinging her foot, the toe of her ballet flat brushing my leg.

I risk a glance. She frowns down at the forms, absorbed.

Not touching me on purpose, then. It’s nothing. Nothing.

And of course it’s fucking nothing, because she’s a gorgeous young woman and I’m a cranky bastard twice her age. I clear my throat, roll my neck, and force myself to focus on the damn forms.

This is a job for her. I’m a boss; a family friend.

That’s all.

* * *

Three days later, I walk into my living room after dinner and find Charlotte stretched out on the rug with a camera. The little brown kitten she rescued is posed on a stack of books by the fireplace, a nearby lamp casting the scene in a warm glow.

“What on earth are you doing?”

She twists a dial on her camera, eye glued to the lens. “Pet photography portfolio.”

Right. Naturally.

“Did Truffle sign a release?”

She rolls her eyes, mouth twitching. “That’s such a dad joke.”

Silence thickens between us. The reminder of her father—of the gap in our ages—it crowds the room. I cough, suddenly awkward.

But then Charlotte rolls onto her back and props herself up by the elbows, and all other thoughts drain from my head.

She’s in my shirt. A soft, faded white cotton t-shirt that clings to her curves and pools on the rug beside her. It’s far too big for her, the neckline draping over one shoulder, and my mouth is dry. I need water. No, screw that—I need something much stronger.

“It’s for my business. For the social media channels.” She chatters away, telling me about her plans, and I am listening, damn it, I want to hear all this, but I also can’t keep my eyes off that shirt. “Oh, sorry.” She plucks at the hem. “I felt like wearing something comfy so I stole it from the laundry. I hope you don’t mind.”

Mind? Do I mind her wearing my clothes? Getting her warmth, her sweet cherry scent on the fabric? Letting it slip off her shoulder and show a glimpse of her collarbone, a stray lock of her hair dangling down from her messy bun?

My teeth ache, my jaw is clenched so hard. I shake my head. “I don’t mind.”

“Oh, good.” She smiles, relieved, and keeps talking, and I drag my gaze back up to her face. Even when her hips rock from side to side the tiniest fraction. Even when the hem slips and shows a sliver of bare stomach. She’s squirming on the rug, restless, her cheeks flushed though she doesn’t even seem to realize it. The way her body reacts to me standing above her.

I tear myself away and stride to the sofa. Sit safely away from her, where I can’t get any ideas.

“What do you think of the lighting?” she asks, and we’re back to normal. On safe topics. I breathe in hard through my nose, and answer.

* * *

Hours later, when stars shine through the kitchen window, I stand at the counter, washing up the dishes from dinner. The room is half-lit, the gloom making my fatigue worse, and I scrub at the plates with drowsy motions.

Click.

I glance over my shoulder, bleary. Charlotte leans in the doorway, her camera pressed to her eye. As I watch, she twists the lens, then presses the button.

Click.

“More for the portfolio?” My voice is quiet. As the evening wore on, a velvet hush settled over the house.

Charlotte shrugs one shoulder. “No. These are for me.”

My heart thumps faster, even as I talk myself down. She means nothing by that. She’s being friendly. Polite.

“You were better off with Truffle.”

Her laugh is so quiet. A rush of breath. “I disagree.” She cocks her head. “You make a very striking model.”

Is that a good thing? Hell if I know. So I don’t rush to do anything, drying up my hands with methodical swipes of the towel. When I finally turn and lean back against the sink, Charlotte raises her camera again.

Click.

“This is hardly fair.” Her bare toes are scrunched against the tiles. I make a mental note to bring her home some warm socks. When I look back up, her lips are parted. “I don’t have any of you.”

She takes a halting step forward.

“You could. If you like.” She holds out her camera, the expensive equipment hovering between us. I eye it doubtfully—all those settings and dials. I don’t want to mess up her business.

“I don’t think—”

She draws the camera back. “No. I guess not.”

“Wait.” I dig my phone out of my pocket, ignoring the voices screaming in my head to stop. That this is dangerous territory. “Here. Smile for me, Charlotte.”

She doesn’t smile. She places her camera carefully on the counter, then backs up to lean against the wall. Moonlight filters in through the window, ghostly pale against her stolen shirt, the hem dangling only a few inches above the bottom of her shorts. Her long legs cross at the ankles, her toenails painted ruby red, and I raise my phone.

“Perfect,” I rasp, snapping a photo. “Now we’re even.”

It’s bullshit, of course. She took some practice shots with her camera—shots that she’s sure to delete the next time she sorts through them. Whereas I stole a photo that I’ll never fucking delete. That I’ll look at every day for the rest of my life. We’re hardly even.

But that doesn’t stop me from taking another. She lifts an arm, sweeping her hair back with one hand, and I take another. Another. I’m a man possessed, bewitched by what we’re doing—by the way she’s looking at me, filled with yearning. Charlotte poses for me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like she’s read my mind and knows exactly how I’d like to see her.

Her hip cocked.

White teeth digging into her lip.

Stepping closer, her fingers playing at the hem of her t-shirt.

“Don’t,” I grind out as she begins to raise the fabric. She drops the shirt, her cheeks flaming in embarrassment. “Charlotte,” I begin, but she’s already turned on her heel, scurrying out of the kitchen.

I let out a groan, falling back against the sink. I did the right thing, stopping her. Didn’t I?

There’s no way she could know her effect on me. What she’d be tempting by pulling off that shirt.

She got swept up in the moment, the same as I did.

And I saved her from myself.