Four Of A Kind

Chapter 33: [2.6] Seventeen Professional Boundaries

3:10 PM. The Hartwell library. I sat at an empty table in the back corner, a calculus textbook open in front of me that I wasn’t reading. My phone screen displayed the message I’d sent at 2:45 PM.

To: DO NOT CONTACT UNLESS EMERGENCY – Library. 3 PM. Tutoring.

Read at 2:47 PM.

Ten minutes ago, I’d called her number. It rang twice before going straight to voicemail. The universal sign of “I saw your call and actively chose to ignore you.”

Professional.

I tried Harlow next. Voicemail. Right. Fashion Club meeting. I’d literally just organized her schedule and already forgot.

So this is the game she’s playing.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling tiles that probably contained more asbestos than the EPA would find comfortable. Seven previous assistants had quit. Seven people who’d probably started exactly where I was now, sitting in an empty library, waiting for Cassidy Valentine to show up to something she had zero intention of attending.

The difference was that I had a 0.5 GPA increase clause hanging over my head like a guillotine scheduled for semester’s end.

I closed the calculus textbook. Returned it to the shelf. Mrs. Chen glanced up from her desk as I passed but said nothing. She’d learned not to ask questions about my comings and goings during work-study.

The hunt was on.

I replayed the lunch conversation with Harlow in my head. “I should make sure she actually shows up instead of hiding in the tennis team’s locker room again.”

That sentence had sounded like a joke at the time. Now it sounded like reconnaissance intel.

The athletics building sat on the north side of campus, a modern structure with glass walls that looked expensive to heat in winter. The tennis courts were visible from the entrance. Empty. The September sun beat down on the green acrylic surface, creating that specific shimmer that happened when heat met manufactured materials.

I found the door labeled “WOMEN’S VARSITY LOCKER ROOM.”

Paused.

This was a line. A major line. The kind of line that separated “dedicated employee” from “registered sex offender.”

If I go in, I’m a pervert. If I don’t, I fail the performance clause and lose my job. They gave me an impossible task and are now setting me up to fail so they can terminate the contract without cause and avoid paying severance.

Classic rich people move. Respect.

I made a decision based on pure spite.

I knocked. Loudly. Three times.

“Cassidy Valentine. This is Isaiah. We have a tutoring session scheduled.”

Silence.

Not the silence of an empty room. The silence of someone holding their breath on the other side of a door, waiting for the annoying person to leave.

I knocked again. Harder.

A faint rustling sound. Movement. She was definitely in there. Just ignoring me with the confidence of someone who’d never experienced real consequences.

Fine. Two could play.

I pulled out my phone and opened my messages. Started typing.

To: Vivienne Valentine – Reporting that Cassidy has missed her scheduled 3 PM tutoring session. Am currently outside the women’s locker room where she is reportedly hid—

The door flew open before I could finish the word.

Cassidy stood there in a black sports bra and tiny purple athletic shorts that should’ve been illegal in seventeen states. Her wine-red hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, black streaks visible against the brighter strands. Sweat glistened on her collarbone, her shoulders, the defined lines of her abs.

She yanked me inside by the front of my shirt with surprising strength and slammed the door shut behind us.

“You wouldn’t DARE.”

Her face was inches from mine. Purple eyes blazing. Chest heaving from whatever workout she’d been doing. The locker room smelled like chlorine, expensive body wash, and the specific musk of athletic exertion.

“Contract clause 3.2,” I said calmly. “Report all obstacles to job performance to primary supervisor. You’re an obstacle.”

“You manipulative piece of—”

Voices. Female voices. Approaching from outside.

Cassidy’s eyes went wide. Genuine panic flickered across her face.

The cheer team.

Her rebellion had just transformed into a scandal that would make headlines. “Valentine Heiress Caught Alone in Locker Room with Male Student.” I could already see the tabloid covers.

“Shit.” She grabbed my wrist. “In here. NOW.”

She shoved me toward the shower area. Individual stalls with white plastic curtains. She picked the one furthest from the entrance, threw the curtain aside, and pushed me inside.

The space was designed for one person. Maybe one and a half if they were friendly.

She followed me in and yanked the curtain closed just as the main locker room door banged open.

Female voices. Laughter. The sounds of bags hitting benches, shoes being kicked off.

We were trapped.

The shower stall measured approximately three feet by four feet. White tile on three sides. A chrome showerhead above. A single drain in the floor. The curtain in front.

And Cassidy Valentine pressed against me from chest to thigh.

Her back was to the curtain. I was against the tile wall. She’d braced her hands on my chest to keep her balance when she’d stumbled into me. Now those hands stayed there, fingers spread across the white fabric of my uniform shirt.

I could feel everything.

The damp heat radiating from her skin. The surprisingly solid muscle in her thighs where they pressed against mine. The way her chest rose and fell with each panicked breath, her ribs expanding and contracting against my torso.

My hands had automatically gone to her waist to steady her. My fingers pressed into bare skin just above the waistband of her shorts. Warm. Impossibly soft.

This is fine, my brain lied. Nothing unusual about being trapped in a shower stall with your half-naked employer who threatened to ruin your life four days ago.

Outside the curtain, the cheer team had begun their pre-practice routine. Lockers slammed. Water started running in other shower stalls. Conversations about boys, homework, and weekend plans echoed off the tile walls.

Cassidy looked up at me.

Her face was maybe six inches away. Purple eyes locked on mine. I could see the barely visible freckles across the bridge of her nose that makeup usually covered.

Her lips parted slightly. She was breathing through her mouth. Short, quick breaths that made her chest press against me in a rhythm that was going to kill me if this lasted much longer.

Think about something else, I commanded myself. Train schedules. The Dewey Decimal System.Literally anything except the fact that Cassidy Valentine is ninety percent naked and pressed against you like shrink wrap.

It didn’t work.

Her fingers curled slightly against my chest. Not pushing away. Just… there. Feeling the fabric. Maybe feeling what was under the fabric.

Time stretched. The sounds of the other girls showering and changing became background noise. White noise. Irrelevant.

Her gaze dropped to my mouth.

Mine dropped to hers.

For one second, something hovered in the air between us. Something dangerous. Something that would make the situation infinitely more complicated.

Then the main locker room door clicked shut.

Silence.

The other girls had left.

We were alone again.

But neither of us moved.

The spell held. Her hands still on my chest. My hands still on her waist. Her body still pressed against mine in a way that violated approximately seventeen different professional boundaries.

She looked up at me. Something flickered in her eyes. Vulnerability maybe. Curiosity. Fear.

Then it vanished.

Her signature smirk appeared. Slow. Predatory.

“You know,” she whispered, her voice lower than usual. Husky. “For someone who’s so calm, your heart is beating pretty fast.”

Was it?

I became aware of the rhythm in my chest. The way it pounded against my ribs. The way she could probably feel it through the thin fabric of my shirt.

Damn.

“Adrenaline,” I said. “Natural response to potentially getting caught and expelled.”

“Mmm.” She tilted her head slightly. “That all it is?”

Her hand moved. Slid from my chest to my side. I thought she was going to push away. Finally end this insane situation.

Instead, her fingers found the shower knob.

She twisted it.

Hard.

A blast of ice-cold water hit me square in the chest.

I recoiled with a sharp hiss that I couldn’t suppress. My hands left her waist. My back hit the tile wall.

In that split second, Cassidy ducked under my arm and bolted out of the shower stall.

Water cascaded down my shirt, my pants, pooling in my shoes. I stood there like an idiot, dripping, while the cold soaked through to my skin.

Footsteps. Running. Then they stopped.

I looked through the gap in the curtain.

Cassidy stood at the locker room door, one hand on the handle. She turned back.

Her eyes raked over me. Slow. Deliberate. Taking in the transparent white shirt now plastered to my chest, the water dripping from my hair, the way I was just standing there completely drenched.

Her grin was victorious. Predatory. Absolutely delighted with herself.

“Tutoring session’s over for today, scholarship boy.” She paused. Bit her lower lip. “See you tomorrow.”

She winked.

Then she was gone.

I stood in the shower stall, water still pouring down on me, and stared at the empty doorway.

My phone buzzed. Waterproof case doing its job.

A text from Cassidy.

Same time tomorrow. Don’t be late. 😈

I looked down at myself. Soaked uniform. Ruined shoes. Probably pneumonia in my future.

Ten thousand dollars a month.

I reached up and turned off the water.