Calculated Exposure by Holley Trent Page B

probably for the best. Tate had a tendency to drop in on her unannounced. When he saw her Jeep in the lot, he’d keep knocking until she opened the door. She didn’t know how she would explain that situation to Curt. “ Oh, see, I was a prostitute for about five minutes at age seventeen. This John picked me up and decided to make me his project. It’s over now, but he’s my supervisor at the newspaper. Isn’t that funny?”
    Shit, it wasn’t even funny to her .
    “You have…something to do tomorrow?”
    He rubbed his eyes and shifted under the sheets to face her. “Running a study group. Department-mandated. Really stupid, since we’ve only been in school a week, but I do what the people in the ties and loafers tell me.”
    “Oh.” She found the remote and turned off the television.
    I guess that’s a good enough reason.
    She climbed onto the bed, on the other side from where she’d fallen asleep, and snuggled her backside against his front.
    He seemed to draw back for a moment, which made her tense, worrying she’d made some blunder. But, before she could analyze his stiffness, his arm around her waist pulled her closer, and he rested his chin atop her head.
    “What are you thinking about? Is that weird to ask after having sex?” she asked.
    “Maybe a little.” He trailed his fingers down the arm she held on top of the covers and let them linger at her hip. “But, to answer you, I was just thinking about your curves. Curves give mathematicians problems.”
    “My curves? What kind of problems could my curves possibly bring you?”
    He flattened his palm against her hip. “The addiction kind of problem.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means you’re an extraordinary woman.”
    That was the kind of thing she’d always craved to hear. But why did it sound like it came with a caveat? She held her breath.
    “Who I could become very entranced with.”
    “But?”
    “But I’m not in a position right now to entertain distractions. My life is somewhat chaotic at the moment.”
    Distractions, did he say? Was that all she was? A diversion? Had he really driven all the way down to Kannapolis for a fuck and cuddle? A trick ? She ground her teeth and concentrated on counting her breaths.
    Get a grip, pendeja . Not every hook-up comes with a promise.
    At least he was being up front. And what was she doing? Lying through her teeth and pretending to be some outgoing temptress she most certainly was not . She assumed that’s the sort of woman he wanted: someone fearless and bold.
    She was neither of those things.
    She was the type of woman who constantly needed rescuing, and was damned tired of it. Still, she wanted to savor what she could of the moment. If this was the only time she’d get to lay in his arms, she didn’t want the memory to be sullied by her running off at the mouth. Her mother had always said her mouth would get her in trouble.
    * * * *
    Curt had tried slipping out of the bed quietly to not wake Erica, but it had been a pointless exercise. He’d wanted to leave without a goodbye. It would have been easier. However, she’d fallen into a deep slumber on top of one of his arms and had her face buried against the crook of his neck. When he’d pulled his arm free, she pushed up onto her arms and squinted at the alarm clock.
    “You have to go now ? Well, let me make you breakfast.” She swung one long, nude leg over the bed’s edge and the distraction of her tan thighs rendered him idiotic enough he couldn’t refuse, even though he had to. Then his phone rang. He snatched it from the nightstand and reached down to scoop up clothes before pressing the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
    “That Curt Ryan?”
    “Yes. Who’s speaking?”
    “I’m calling from the paper,” a woman’s cigarette-ravaged voice reported.
    He wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder and stepped into his boxer shorts and jeans. “I’m sorry, which paper?”
    “ Cork Tribune . I have the recorder turned on,