Free Creep by Jennifer Hillier Page A

damn well this wasn’t about Leanne. Fine, he wanted to play it that way, so be it.
    “No, it can’t.” Her voice was still quiet, but she spoke with authority. “Whatever the hell’s going on between us, you still work for me, and you still need to do your job.”
    Ethan laughed, and the sound echoed in the large auditorium. He didn’t care who might be listening. “You’re ballsy. I always liked that about you. Always so professional.”
    “Ethan—”
    “So why don’t you do my job as well? From now on, I’ll redirect all student concerns to you. You can handle that, can’t you?” He cocked his head to one side. “I know how much you care about your students, Dr. Tao. You’d never let them down. Especially me.”
    The three students still chatting in the lecture hall were watching them, perplexed looks on their faces. Sheila didn’tthink they could hear anything from where they were standing, but there was no way to know.
    Ethan leaned in closer and she could smell his cinnamon breath. “I watched our video again last night, Sheila, and I am this close to making you famous. Go ahead. Push me.”

CHAPTER : 8
    N ormally Sheila would complain about spending all day Saturday watching college football in Morris’s gigantic living room. She had nothing against football, but it wasn’t her idea of a fun time.
    However, she couldn’t bear to protest. Her days with Morris were numbered. Any moment now, it would all come crashing down, and she wanted to enjoy what happy times they had left. Watching football with him was the least she could do.
    He was yelling at the TV, clutching an old football in his hands as he always did when the Longhorns played. He had no idea how beautiful he was. She loved everything about him—his thick brown hair with a touch of gray at the temples, the crinkles around his blue eyes that gave him character. He was dressed in jeans and a half-unbuttoned white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his strong forearms. He caught her staring at him and winked.
    The game went to commercial. Putting the football down, Morris leaned toward her, cupped her face in his big hands, and kissed her deeply. He smelled the way he always smelled—a blend of fabric softener, soap, and spicy citrus aftershave.
    Butterflies fluttered in her stomach—they always did whenhe kissed her like that. She parted her lips, slipping her tongue inside his mouth, and let her hands wander down to his belt.
    From somewhere nearby, wherever she had dropped her purse, her BlackBerry chimed. She had a new e-mail.
    “Don’t you even think about checking that.” Morris’s hands were under her shirt.
    “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
    She continued to kiss him, but then it occurred to her the e-mail might be from Randall. She’d been in contact that morning with a sweet-sounding woman from the New York branch of Amnesty International who’d promised to get back to her with new contact info for Morris’s long-lost son.
    The game came back on and a moment later a loud cheer erupted from the TV. Morris turned his face toward the screen midkiss.
    “Yes!” he barked in her ear. “He makes the extra kick and they’re going into overtime. Are you excited?”
    “Oh, hell.” She pushed him away and stood up, looking around for her purse. “I can’t check my phone while we’re making out, but you can watch football?”
    “Aw, honey, it was just one quick look.” He feigned sorrow but his eyes were still on the TV.
    “Where’s my purse?”
    “Kitchen.”
    She found it sitting on the shiny black granite of the large center island. She loved this kitchen. Morris had designed it himself because he loved to cook. It was one of the things they often did together. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was huge, with cabinets that stretched up to the ceiling, sleek stainless steel appliances, a chef’s cooktop and double wall oven, even a pot rack hanging over the island. She wouldn’t miss her