A Fling With My Silverfox Professor

Chapter 1

Sienna

I slam my laptop shut, the library's lights burning my tired eyes. Three classes, a four-hour shift at the campus bookstore, and now this endless pile of case studies. My shoulders ache from hunching over textbooks all day.

"Five minutes until closing." The librarian's voice echoes through the nearly empty space.

Perfect. Another day where I barely scratch the surface of my to-do list. I stuff my books into my bag, my mind drifting to the unpaid electric bill sitting in my inbox. The reminder came this morning—third one this month.

My phone buzzes. A text from Isaiah.

"Can we talk? I miss you."

Delete. Block. Done.

The memory of walking in on him with my former best friend Rachel still twists my stomach into knots. As much as it feels like a fucking bullet to the chest, I don't have time for that drama. Not when I'm drowning in coursework and barely making rent.

"Heading out, Sienna?" Professor Samuels passes by my table, arms full of legal journals.

"Yes, just finished reviewing the Mitchell case for tomorrow's class."

"Good. Your analysis in class today was sharp. Keep that up—firms notice students who can think on their feet."

I force a smile, though his words fuel the fire in my chest. That's exactly what I need—recognition from top firms. A chance at a real future, not this paycheck-to-paycheck existence.

The night air hits my face as I push through the library doors. Campus is quiet except for distant laughter from the freshman dorms. I check my watch—11:45 PM. Just enough time to get home, review one more case, maybe grab four hours of sleep before my morning shift.

My apartment's heating is still broken, but I can't afford to bug my landlord again. I'll just add another layer, like I have been all week. What matters is staying focused. Eyes on the prize. First in my class, prestigious internship, then associate position at a top firm.

I dig through my bag for my car keys, fingers brushing against loose papers and pens. The parking lot's motion sensor lights flicker, casting eerie shadows across the empty spaces. My ancient Honda sits alone in the far corner, a testament to another late night at the library.

The engine groans to life on the third try. "Come on, baby. Just get me home."

I blast the heat, but cold air shoots through the vents. Great. Another thing to add to my growing list of problems. The dashboard clock blinks 11:52 PM as I pull onto the main road.

A metallic rattle starts under the hood. I grip the steering wheel tighter, willing the noise away. Not tonight. Please not tonight.

The rattling grows louder. The engine sputters once, twice—

"No, no, no—"

The car jerks, losing power. I coast to the side of the road, hazard lights blinking in the darkness. The engine gives one final wheeze before dying completely.

I slam my palms against the steering wheel. "Fuck!"

The silence that follows feels suffocating. I try the key again—nothing but a weak clicking sound. My hands shake as I pull out my phone. The mechanic's bill from last month's repairs still sits unpaid on my credit card.

My vision blurs. All the stress, the exhaustion, Isaiah's betrayal, the mounting bills—it crashes over me like a tidal wave. A sob catches in my throat.

"Keep it together," I whisper, but tears spill down my cheeks anyway. "Just keep it fucking together."

I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, shoulders shaking. The hazard lights cast an orange glow across the empty street, matching the rhythm of my ragged breaths.

After a few minutes of quiet sobbing, I wipe my eyes, smearing mascara across my fingers. Fuck no. I'm not going to sit here crying like some helpless damsel.

My phone's map shows O'Malley's Bar just two blocks away. After calling roadside assistance and learning they won't arrive for at least an hour, I grab my purse and start walking. The neon beer signs in the window cast a warm glow against the brick exterior. Some alcohol should do me well. I fucking need it.

Inside, classic rock plays at a decent volume—loud enough to feel alive, quiet enough to think. The wood-paneled walls and worn leather booths give off an unpretentious vibe. Perfect.

"What can I get you?" The bartender wipes down the counter in front of me.

"Double whiskey, neat."

He raises an eyebrow. "Rough night?"

"You could say that." I slide onto a barstool, dropping my heavy bag at my feet. "My car decided to die on me. Just add it to the list."

The bartender places my drink down. The amber liquid catches the dim light, promising temporary relief from the chaos in my head. I take a long sip, letting the warmth spread through my chest.

A group of guys in suits laugh at the far end of the bar—probably corporate types unwinding after work. Must be nice, already having made it. Meanwhile, I'm still climbing, scratching, fighting for every inch of progress.

But tonight, I'm not thinking about case studies or bills or Isaiah's lying ass. Tonight, I'm just going to sit here, drink my whiskey, and breathe. One night won't derail my plans. One night to reset before diving back into the grind tomorrow.

I pull out my phone to check the time. The roadside assistance text shows they're still forty minutes out. Good. More time to decompress.

"Another?" The bartender gestures at my empty glass.

I nod. One more won't hurt.

The bartender works quickly to bring me another fresh glass, making me send an appreciative nod his way. I take another sip of whiskey, letting the burn distract me from my shit show of a night. Movement catches my eye as someone slides onto the barstool two seats down.

My breath catches.

He's older—maybe late thirties—wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like it was molded to his broad shoulders. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms marked with a subtle tattoo peeking out beneath his cuff. Dark hair peppered with silver at the temples gives him a distinguished look that makes my stomach flip.

He loosens his tie with one hand while ordering a scotch, his voice deep and gravelly. The kind of voice that could command a courtroom. When he turns slightly, I catch his profile—sharp jawline, straight nose, and lips that quirk up slightly at one corner like he's permanently amused by some private joke.

Everything about him radiates confidence and control—exactly what I'm lacking tonight. I try not to stare, but my eyes keep drifting back to his hands as he picks up his drink. Long fingers wrap around the glass with an easy grace.

The chaos in my head quiets a bit, replaced by a different kind of tension. He must feel my gaze because he glances over, catching me looking. His eyes are a striking gray-blue, intense but not cold. The kind of eyes that see right through bullshit.

I quickly look down at my drink, swallowing down the knot at the back of my throat. But not from embarrassment—from something else entirely. Something that makes me hyperaware of the small space between us.

He doesn't say anything, just takes another sip of his scotch. But I swear I can feel his presence like a physical thing, steady and grounding in a way that makes my skin tingle. It's been so long since anyone has made me feel this... aware.

I should be focusing on my car problems. On my upcoming deadlines. On all the ways my life is falling apart. Instead, all I can think about is how his hand would feel wrapped around mine instead of that glass.