Chapter 60
**Sara**
I sat at my desk, surrounded by a sea of textbooks and papers, my laptop screen glowing with the half-finished assignment that was slowly driving me insane. I'd changed into my comfiest pair of sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, my hair piled into a messy bun.
My eyes darted to the clock on my laptop for what felt like the hundredth time. 8:23 PM. I frowned, tapping my pen against the desk in an irritated rhythm. Where was he? Didn't professors pride themselves on punctuality?
Not that I cared, of course. This was supposed to be a stern, professional call. Nothing more. So why did I keep checking the time like some lovesick teenager waiting for her crush to text?
"Get a grip, Sara," I muttered, forcing my attention back to the assignment. I managed to type out another sentence before my gaze traitorously flickered to the clock again. 8:25 PM.
Maybe he'd forgotten. Or perhaps he'd come to his senses and realized how inappropriate this whole thing was. That would be for the best, right? Then why did the thought make my stomach twist with disappointment?
I groaned, letting my head thunk against the desk. This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. Here I was, a grown woman, obsessing over a phone call from my professor, as if it was prom night, and I was waiting for my date to show up.
"You don't even want him to call," I told myself sternly. "You want to focus on your studies and maintain a professional—"
My phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with an unknown number. My heart leaped into my throat.
I stared at the phone, suddenly frozen. Should I answer? Should I let it go to voicemail? What was the proper etiquette for a definitely-not-a-date call from your incredibly attractive professor?
The phone continued to buzz insistently. I snatched it up before I could overthink it further and hit the answer button.
"Hello?" I said, wincing at how breathless I sounded.
"Sara?" Tom's deep voice came through the speaker, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
"No, no," I said quickly. "Just working on an assignment. You know, being a diligent student and all that."
"Ah, yes. Very admirable," he said. "And here I am, distracting you from your studies. How terribly unprofessional of me."
"That was the point of this call, wasn't it? To discuss professionalism?"
"Was it?" He sounded amused. "I thought it was because you couldn't resist my charm and wanted to hear my voice again."
"In your dreams, Tom," I scoffed, trying to ignore how my cheeks heated up at his words.
"Oh, trust me," his voice dropped lower, "in my dreams, we do much more than just talk."
"Tom! That's... that's completely inappropriate!"
"You're right, I'm sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Please, go ahead with your stern warning about professional boundaries. I'm all ears."
I opened my mouth, ready to launch into the speech I'd been mentally preparing all day. But suddenly, faced with saying the words, I was at a loss.
"I... um..." I stammered, my mind going blank.
"Yes?" Tom prompted, and I could practically hear the smirk in his voice.
"You're my professor," I finally managed to get out.
"An astute observation," he replied dryly. "Is that the extent of your warning?"
"No!" I huffed, frustrated with myself. "I mean, we can't... we shouldn't..."
"Shouldn't what?" he asked softly.
I swallowed hard. "We shouldn't be doing this. Having late-night phone calls. Flirting. Any of it."
"And yet, here we are," Tom said.
"Here we are," I echoed, suddenly feeling small and confused.
There was a moment of silence, heavy with all the things we weren't saying.
"Sara," Tom finally spoke, his voice gentle. "If you want me to stop, to keep things strictly professional, just say the word. I'll respect your decision."
I took a deep breath, my heart racing. The words "keep things strictly professional" echoed in my mind but felt hollow, like a lie I desperately tried to convince myself of.
"I... I don't know," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and I could almost picture Tom's expression - that infuriating half-smile he always seemed to wear when he knew he was getting under my skin.
"You don't know?" he repeated. "That's not a no, is it?"
"It's not a yes either, smartass."
"Fair enough. You know, if you're having trouble making up your mind, I could always come over and help you decide."
"Oh really?" I scoffed, trying to sound unimpressed. "And how exactly would you do that?"
"I have ways," he purred. "I can be very... persuasive."
I bit my lip, torn between desire and common sense. This was such a bad idea. But then again, when had that ever stopped me before?
"You know what?" I said suddenly, surprising even myself. "Why don't you come over?"
There was a moment of stunned silence on the other end. "I... what?"
I grinned, enjoying the fact that I'd managed to catch him off guard for once. "You heard me. Come over. We can go out for ice cream."
"Ice cream?" he repeated, sounding both confused and amused. "It's nearly 9 PM."
"So? Are you telling me the great Thomas Blackwood is afraid of a little late-night sugar rush?"
He laughed. "Hardly. But I thought you wanted to keep things professional?"
"Hey, there's nothing unprofessional about two adults enjoying some frozen dairy products together," I said innocently. "Unless you're planning on doing something inappropriate with that ice cream."
"The thought never crossed my mind," he said, in a tone that suggested it absolutely had. "Alright then, ice cream it is. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
As I hung up the phone, a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbled up inside me. What was I doing? This was crazy. Reckless. Potentially disastrous.
And yet, I couldn't wipe the grin off my face as I hurried to my closet to change. After all, a girl couldn't go out for ice cream in sweatpants, could she?
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