Professor’s Convenience Girl

The convenience store was stifling, the Miami summer heat pressing in like a heavy blanket. I leaned against the counter, my cheeks flushed, legs trembling as my math teacher worked his magic beneath it—right in front of the oblivious customers.

When the last one finally left, Vincent Langley emerged from under the counter, his breath hot against my ear as he murmured, "Did you enjoy my techniques, Rosalie?"

My name is Rosalie Laurent, the so-called "campus sweetheart" of the dance department at one of Miami's most prestigious art schools.

This summer, I was stuck working at my parents' convenience store as part of some "real-world experience" internship—earning a measly hundred bucks a day.

The pay was a joke, but with the school closed, business was dead. Most days, I just scrolled through my phone behind the counter, counting the minutes until I could escape the suffocating heat.

And God, the heat. My parents, ever the penny-pinchers, refused to install AC.

Some days, it got so unbearable that I'd sneak behind the register and—well, let's just say my vibrator and I became very well acquainted.

Today was worse than usual. A brutal heatwave had turned the store into a sauna.

I'd already ditched my bra, but sweat still plastered my white tank top and shorts to my skin, turning the fabric practically see-through. Every curve, every dip of my body was on full display—not that there was anyone around to notice.

After what felt like hours of silence, I finally cracked. The street was empty. The coast was clear.

I grabbed my trusty little friend and ducked behind the counter, losing myself in the moment—until the door chimed.

"Hey, do you have any Super Glue?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin. The vibrator slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a mortifying clatter.

When I finally dared to look up, I met Mr. Langley's stunned gaze—his dark eyes burning with something far more dangerous than surprise.

Humiliation scorched through me. My face burned so hot I wished the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

Oh God. Kill me now.

But I had to pull it together.

Fumbling with my damp clothes, I forced myself to stand, willing my voice not to shake.

"Mr. Langley… h-hi. Yeah, it's… under the counter."

I kept my eyes down, refusing to meet his gaze.

Not that it mattered. The sweat-soaked fabric left nothing to the imagination—and I was still braless.

If he looked, he'd see everything.

And he was looking.

His breathing turned rough, his gaze dragging over me like a physical touch. Under that predatory stare, I bit my lip, my pulse hammering.

Was he… enjoying this?

Was he imagining bending me over this very counter?

Only when he crouched to search for the glue did I finally exhale, stealing a glance at his broad shoulders.

Embarrassment warred with something far more dangerous—excitement.

The truth? My parents had suggested closing the shop for the summer. But I'd insisted on keeping it open.

Because I had a secret.

I'd been in love with Mr. Langley for three years.

This was my chance to finally talk to him.

I adored everything about him—his towering frame, his sharp features, the way his wire-rimmed glasses caught the light when he lectured in that crisp Oxford shirt.