“You don’t look like a teacher.” Rafe Cameron said, as he saunters into your empty classroom long after the other parents have left, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. The sleeves of his expensive button-down are rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and his cologne lingers in the air—woodsy, rich, and entirely too distracting.

You arch a brow, keeping your expression neutral despite the way your pulse spikes. “And you don’t look like a responsible parent.”

He smirks. “Touché.”

“Didn’t realize teachers did private meetings,” he murmurs, shutting the door behind him. The click of the lock sends a shiver down your spine.

You cross your arms, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “I make exceptions for parents who never show up.”

Rafe chuckles, slow and low, like he enjoys getting under your skin. “Busy man. You sure you’re not just looking for an excuse to get me alone?”

You scoff, but the way he steps closer—casual, confident—makes your body betray you.

“Luke needs structure, Mr. Cameron,” you say, forcing your voice to stay even. “He needs discipline, and you—”

“Me?” His voice dips, and suddenly, his fingers brush the desk beside you, his presence overwhelming. “You gonna teach me a lesson too, Miss?”

Your breath catches.

His eyes darken, flicking down to your lips.

You should end this. You should.

But when Rafe plants his hands on the desk beside you, caging you in, and murmurs, “C’mon, Miss. I can be a good student if you teach me right,” you don’t pull away.