You think the most mortifying thing is accidentally sending lingerie photos to your professor ex?
Wrong. The most mortifying thing is him showing up at your door minutes later, eyes blazing with hunger. When my pipes burst and he's helping me fix them—soaking wet, muscles straining against his shirt—I figured we were headed straight for round two. Until my brother walks in with his spare key, casually calling me "sis."
I watched the blood drain from his face in real time. He thinks he's been lusting after his own student's girlfriend. His whole moral code just imploded. Now this ridiculously upright, devastatingly hot man is caught between wanting to devour me and hating himself for it, running scared from his own desire.
So here's my dilemma: Do I keep enjoying watching him completely unravel over me, or do I put him out of his misery and tell him the truth—that the "rival" he's been losing his mind over is actually my brother?
