“Well, I know we discussed that you needed to drop assisting Mr. Play’s seminar here because of your course load, but …” And the way her voice fades off tells me that he has definitely worked his magic charm on her.

“I told her I couldn’t do it without you or the cool tricks you had to make class more interesting.” I don’t even want to turn my head to look at him because if I do, I’ll risk either sarcastically commenting that he’s full of shit or falling momentarily comatose to his good looks.

I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of either of those reactions.

Plus, I know he’s bluffing but I’m not exactly sure why. We were hostile toward each other, not flirtatious, combative not friendly…. So why would he request me when he could most likely have all of those things I’m not with another TA?

Sure he’s attractive and could probably serenade a pair of panties to fall off without a person even knowing it, but if our first meeting was any indication, he knows I’m sure as hell not going to let that happen.

In disbelief I keep staring at Carla, my mind buzzing all the while trying to shove my libido back into hiding. And the crappy thing is that I’m more mad at myself than anything else because I’m standing here like a doormat not arguing my case when normally I’m like a battering ram knocking the door down.

“Quin, there’s no one else available and there’s really not a lot of assisting required beyond class time,” Carla says with a sheepish smile when she finally tears her gaze from his to meet mine. The look in her eyes acknowledging she’s throwing me into the fire.

“But …”

What can I say to that when she’s perfectly right? Sorry Carla but he was a prick and I don’t think it’s safe for the two of us to be in close proximity because one of us is bound to get physical with the other—in some form or another. Yeah, fist or fuck, because that screams professionalism.

When my only response is to nod my head in silent resignation, she shifts her focus back to Hawkin. “See? I told you she’d reconsider. Now, you guys need to get going so you have time for Quin to give you the complete rundown.”

Of course she has no idea the double entendre she’s just given him about me giving him a complete rundown, but I know Hawke catches it. I manage to resist the urge to stomp my feet in frustration and storm out of her office like a toddler. Instead I give her a tight smile before turning and walking out of the office and then the department.

I stand there in the sunshine, waiting for him to get his ass in gear and quit wasting my time. When I finally hear the door open I just start walking and the sound of his boots is the only indication that he’s following.

“I’ve got longer legs than you Trixie,” he chides from a few feet back. “But feel free to keep swinging your hips like that, and I’ll stay right here behind you and enjoy the show.”

I bristle at the comment. At the moment there’s no authority to be respectful of, no damage that can’t be undone.

“A show?” The pitch of my voice escalates as I whirl around to face him—sunglasses on, hair disheveled, and I wish I hadn’t turned around because damn, he’s just that devastatingly fine. I’m quiet for a beat as we both appraise each other from behind darkened lenses. His dark hair, tanned skin, and cocky smirk pull at those parts of me I don’t want to be pulled. “You want to talk about a show.” I grit the words out, trying to push my physical attraction to him from my mind. “Let’s talk about your little performance for Dr. Stevens.”

“I know. I’m good, huh? Sorry, but a man’s got to do what he’s got to do…. Besides, I wasn’t done with you yet.”

My mouth falls lax and I’m momentarily flabbergasted. “Done with me yet?” I sputter the words when I’ve recovered my wits at his arrogance run amok … but I can’t deny the little flutter in my belly at his comment. There’s just something about him aside from the whole I’m a rock star thing that makes me desire him in a way I can’t put into words.

“Yep,” he says casually as he unwraps a Starburst and pops it into his mouth. And I hate that I’m fascinated with watching his mouth suck on the sweet candy. Luckily he speaks so I can distract myself from the captivating sight. “I’m pretty sure you have a usefulness…. I’m just trying to figure out what that is.” He licks his lips. “Well, besides the obvious, that is …” Smirk is handily in place and I hate that ache starting to simmer in my core.

“Why don’t you go suck a—”

“Relax,” he says, angling his head to the side and emitting a laugh as he steps closer to me. “I’m just teasing you. You’re so damn easy to rile up and so hard to resist. Plus you’re even hotter when you’re pissed. I like it.” He shrugs an apology, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans with a sheepish grin that softens all those hard edges and makes me sigh with the contrast of characteristics. He holds a red Starburst out to me as a peace offering. “C’mon, you know you want to be the star to my burst.”

We’ve stopped, my hands are on my hips, and the sun falls around us as he waits for me to react to his innocent little comment. Deep down I know I’m screwed. I feel an urge to smile but immediately realign my defenses. The contradiction he presents, the smooth with the rough, is the one thing that I always fall for when it comes to men.

And I’m not going to fall for Hawkin Play.

“More like the fruit to your loop,” I say with a roll of my eyes before I shift my gaze elsewhere. I have to because he’s one of those guys who when you look into his eyes you can see the ending before you even decide to begin. And hell, I’m all for fun and sex but something tells me the heartache he causes isn’t worth the pain. Then again, he is damn fine.

Lock it down Westin. I shake my head in frustration—at me, at him, over this attraction—and turn on my heel, putting all my effort into getting to the lecture hall so that I can push that image of him standing like that out of my head. Because that look makes me want to walk up to him, fist a hand in his shirt, and kiss him senseless.

I have no shame about admitting it, or even in the idea of doing it because hell, being confident in wanting a guy is a good thing. I never shy away from a man when I want him … but something tells me that this one just might knock me off my feet. And while I’m all for having my world rocked, I’d rather it was not by someone used to playing women like a guitar and then disposing of them once the song’s over.

His mocking laugh behind me breaks through my thoughts. But I keep walking, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten to me, that I can’t take a frickin’ step without him invading my thoughts.

“Quinlan! Stop,” he says. “You’re not going to leave me poor and defenseless against that fucked-up PA system, are you?”

“You’re a big boy; I’m sure you can fend for yourself just fine.”

I hear him snicker beside me and I roll my eyes, realizing the big boy comment I just handed him without thought. “You’re right, on both counts,” he chuckles, and the sound, smooth silk with a hint of strain, hits my ears and my libido in ways I don’t want it to. “But a man likes to have some help every now and again.”

“I’m sure you have plenty of willing candidates.” I’m thinking of the sigher who sat next to me at the last lecture as I keep walking, trying to focus on anything but the man beside me.

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to go back and tell Carla, then….”

I slow my pace a clip but keep moving forward, knowing he has my number. “You handle complicated stage equipment regularly and yet you can’t work a simple audio system?” I snort out a laugh of disbelief. “Sounds to me you’re so busy being pretty that you don’t like to get your hands dirty. Forget where you came from that quick, huh?”

His hand is on my arm and I’m spun around before the last word is out of my mouth. I guess that dig hit a little too close to home.

“Where and what I came from is none of your goddamn business.” Our bodies are close, my eyes behind my sunglasses flickering back and forth from his lips to his eyes as he snaps the words out. He presses his fingers a little tighter on my bicep. “Who are you to judge anyway …? Right, Trixie?”

Even though I can’t see his eyes, I know they are boring into mine. I can feel the anger vibrating off him from the nerve I’ve hit. I don’t say a word because I’ve pushed the buttons—and right or wrong—for no other purpose than to keep him at arm’s length from me.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He finally breaks his silence and asks.

“Who says there’s a problem? Just because you’re intimidated by a strong woman doesn’t mean there’s a problem,” I snip, trying to push this off on him when I know damn well that I’m carrying the chip handily on my shoulder.

“Sweetness, only boys are intimidated by strong women. Men find it attractive, a challenge, so why don’t you pull another excuse out of thin air and see if it sticks.”

I shrug my arm out of his grasp and step back, hating that he’s right in every sense of the word. It’s not like I’m going to let him know it though. “I know your type Hawkin. I know the games you play.” I look across the campus for a moment before looking back to him.

“Who said I’m playing any games?”

“Ha.” I laugh. “Your type always does, don’t they?”

He pulls a hand out of his pocket and runs it through his chocolate-colored hair, jaw clenched in frustration at the bitchiness I’m directing his way. “If anyone’s playing games, I’m pretty sure it’s you considering you go back and forth between hot and cold quicker than a faucet. So like I asked, what’s your deal?” He repeats himself, irritation laced with a trace of sadness in his soothing voice. “You can’t handle me?”