“Not at all,” I said, settling into the chair across from him. “I’m due for a break anyway.”
After ordering–a caesar salad for me, a sandwich for him—Adrian pulled out a folder with what appeared to be
course materials.
“So, about those first few classes you missed,” he began, spreading some papers between us. “The foundation
concepts are important, but I think your natural talent will help you catch up quickly.”
I felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment. “You’re being generous. That bowl I made was hardly a masterpiece.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” he said, eyes crinkling. “You have a natural feel for materials and form. That’s something that can’t be taught.” He paused, studying me for a moment. “The way you described rediscovering your passion for design… that resonated with me.”
“It’s been strange but good,” I admitted. “For years, I felt like I was sleepwalking through life, letting others define me. Picking up a sketchbook again felt like… waking up.”
Adrian nodded, understanding in his expression. “That’s why I wanted to encourage you not to let this opportunity slip by. I’ve seen too many talented people abandon their creative paths for what others consider ‘practical.“”
As we continued talking about design concepts and creative processes, I felt a genuine connection forming. Not romantic–nothing like what I felt with Dominic–but a shared understanding that was refreshing. Here was someone who valued art and self–expression in a way that reminded me of why I’d loved design in the first place.
“Have you considered entering the department showcase next month?” he asked. “Students submit work for faculty review, and selected pieces are displayed. It could be a good opportunity for-”
“Well, well. What a cozy little scene.”
The voice cut through our conversation like a blade. I looked up to see Elizabeth Collins standing beside our table, immaculate in a cream suit. Her lips were curved in a smile that didn’t reach her cold eyes.
“Elizabeth,” I said, surprise making my voice higher than normal. “What are you doing here?”
“Having lunch,” she replied smoothly. “Though I didn’t expect to find Sterling’s ‘special assistant‘ on a date during work hours. She emphasized “special” with such insinuation that heat rushed to my face.
“This isn’t a date,” I said firmly. “Professor Lane is my design instructor. We’re discussing coursework.”
Elizabeth’s perfectly manicured hand moved to her designer purse, withdrawing her phone. “How interesting. I’ve already sent photos to Dominic. I wonder what he’ll think of his assistant’s ‘academic discussion.” Her smile widened. “He’s quite protective of what’s his, you know.”
My stomach dropped. “There’s nothing inappropriate happening here,” I insisted, though anxiety was already
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Chapter 113
building in my chest.
:
🙂))
“Of course not,” she said with mock sympathy. “I’m sure he’ll understand completely when his human is cozied up with another man. Werewolves are so reasonable about these things.”
Before I could respond, the atmosphere in the café seemed to shift. A prickle ran up my spine, and I knew without turning that Dominic had arrived. The way Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction confirmed it.
42
I turned slowly to see him standing in the doorway, his tall frame rigid, eyes scanning the room until they locked on our table. Even from across the café, I could see the blue glint in them–his wolf, close to the surface. In three long strides, he was beside us.
“Dominic,” I started, but the words died in my throat at his expression.
His gaze swept over me, then fixed on Adrian with predatory assessment. The air around him seemed charged with tension, and I noticed several other patrons shift uneasily in their seats, unconsciously responding to the Alpha energy he was emanating.
“And who is this?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft, each word precisely controlled.
Adrian, apparently oblivious to the supernatural undercurrents, stood and extended his hand. “Adrian Lane. I’m Rebecca’s professor at City Arts Academy.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Adrian’s hand, then shook it with what looked like measured restraint. “Professor Lane,” he echoed, placing his other hand possessively on the back of my chair. “And what academic matters require a private lunch with my assistant?”
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