Riley smiled and winked at the large amused crowd that had gathered and released the neck that had been resting comfortably in the crook of his arm.

“Bastard,” Carter muttered. The gathering dispersed disappointedly when they realized that it really was all in good fun and that no one was going to have their ass handed to them.

Riley snorted. “Cheat.”

“Touché,” Carter conceded with a wry smile.

“Yo, Miss L!” Riley boomed, startling Carter.

He turned around to see Peaches walking from her car, half-hidden by a huge bag, toward the main entrance, waving discreetly toward Riley. Carter let the right side of his mouth rise in a small smile in her direction and frowned when she dropped her head and hurried on her way. Carter rubbed his stomach when a twinge of something uncomfortable curled deep and heavy. It’d been plaguing him for days.

Riley dropped his arms. “What was that about?” He stared, waiting for an explanation.

Carter rubbed his face before walking over to his regular seat and pulling out a cigarette. He lit his smoke, inhaled, held it, and exhaled with a shake of his head.

“She’s been weird for a couple of weeks,” he confessed, nodding toward the car lot.

“Miss Lane?” Riley clarified, to which Carter nodded and passed the smoke over to him.

Carter had tried to ignore Peaches’ behavior, but it’d been getting progressively harder with each session they had together. It’d started a few sessions after the initial parole meeting with Diane. She’d come into the tutoring room, barely looking or speaking to him for the entire hour. He hadn’t pushed the issue, sensing it was something that he maybe didn’t want to know about. But after two weeks, Carter’s patience was rapidly disappearing.

“Do you think it has something to do with your parole?” Riley passed the cigarette back.

Carter feigned indifference, even though he was petrified that was the reason behind her sudden distance from him. Maybe she was regretting having agreed to tutor him outside of the facility. Maybe she wanted to pull out but didn’t know how to.

Carter was no stranger to being let down, but, fuck, could Peaches really be like that? He hated the feeling of powerlessness she brought to him. It wasn’t even the thought of not being granted parole—even though that would suck major ass. It was more to do with the fact that he wouldn’t have a legitimate reason to see his Peaches outside of Arthur Kill.

He blew the smoke down his nose in a huff of annoyance, knowing the circle he was going in inside his head would not change one fucking iota until he said something to her.

“Just ask her, Carter,” Riley offered, looking out toward the fields at the back of the facility.

Carter snorted. “Yeah, sure, Riley.”

Riley clicked his tongue. “Pussy.”

“Whatever,” Carter retorted, dragging the last of the smoke for all it was worth before blowing it into Riley’s smug face. “Loser.”

Riley’s thunderous laughter and his palm slamming into Carter’s back in jest ensured Carter’s determination to confront her that very afternoon.

But fuck it all to hell if Peaches wasn’t wearing the most delicious gray skirt and pastel pink silk top when she walked into the session room five hours later, making all the coherent thoughts and blood in his head run in one very specific direction. Goddammit. He exhaled and mumbled something profane as she dropped the resources and Carter’s smokes on the table between them.

“Something wrong?” she asked with a quick look in his direction.

Carter chuckled into his hands and shook his head. “Nothing at all. Carry on.” The woman would be the death of him.

Carter cupped his face in his hands and watched her almost bury herself inside the Mary Poppins bag she’d brought with her.

“Peaches,” Carter muttered around the filter of the smoke resting on his bottom lip. His name for her had stuck well, and he used it liberally. Deep down he was stoked she let him get away with it without questioning how or why.

“Mmhm?” came the mumbled reply from the dark depths.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Peaches froze before she rose slowly from the cavernous monstrosity and gave a small, embarrassed smile. “Just—um, looking for something.”

Carter grinned. “What, Jimmy Hoffa’s necktie?” He raised his eyebrows at the guard, who hid his laugh behind his right hand.

Peaches rolled her eyes at the two of them. “No, smart-ass.”

She pulled out her chair next to him as she did during every session and laid out Carter’s work. She paused before explaining the comments she’d given him and asking questions raised by his answers. They were still very much involved in The Merchant of Venice.

“You say here that the character of Portia is the most intelligent character in the play, but you don’t explain why,” she said, reading over Carter’s work. He watched her tuck her hair behind her ear. “Could you explain?” She sat back, putting some distance between them while averting her stare.

“Why do you do that?” Carter blurted out.

“I’m sorry?”

“That,” he repeated, pointing at the way she was sitting. “Why did you move away like that?” His eyes widened when after a few seconds she hadn’t answered. “Forget it,” he murmured, pulling his work closer.

“No,” Peaches said firmly, placing her hand on the same piece of work. Carter’s eyes met hers. “What did you mean, Carter?”

He mumbled again, grabbing the pack of smokes to fidget with. Peaches waited patiently. “Are you wigging out because of my parole?” he snapped.

His question appeared to shock the hell out of her, but he didn’t give her time to respond.

“Because, frankly, I would much rather you be honest with me and tell me now. I mean, fuck, I don’t wanna be standing in front of those smug losers all hopeful and shit, for you to turn around and say that you ain’t gonna see this through because of … whatever.”

* * *

Kat blinked. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged. How could he think that she would wig out on him? Hadn’t she proven her commitment to his case and parole with all the work she’d been doing?

Yes, she’d been behaving differently with him, but there was no way she could explain to him why. She’d rather die first.

The truth was, two weeks ago, Kat’s nightmares had stopped. She would have been eternally grateful, if they hadn’t been replaced by the most sensual dreams she’d ever had. They’d started tame enough, but over fourteen nights they’d become steamier and steamier. Usually, this wouldn’t have been a problem—she’d had racy dreams before, of course; however, the man starring in her personal porn show was none other than one Mr. Wesley Carter.

Ever since she’d started having the dreams, she’d officially been in hell.

How could she have such mind-blowing dreams about a man she hardly knew? And what the hell was she going to do about the fact that she was potentially going to continue seeing him for at least another twelve months, outside of the guarded, well-monitored, keep-your-hands-to-yourself-and-we’ll-all-get-along-fine environment of Arthur Kill?

Not that she would ever dream of putting herself or Carter in a position such as that. No way. She was still his tutor and he was her student. She was in a trusted position and she wouldn’t jeopardize what she’d worked so hard to build. The nonfraternization policy would no doubt be enforced during his parole, too.

“Why do you think I wouldn’t see this through?” she asked finally. “What gave you the impression that I didn’t want to help you get parole?”

“I don’t know. Shit, you just seem different. Like you’re worried about something or nervous. I didn’t know whether it was the thought of carrying on with our sessions that had you freaking out.”

He hid the hurt in his voice well, but his eyes betrayed him when they dropped to the table. He’d noticed her distance. Suddenly, Kat didn’t know whether to feel flattered or terrified that he had noticed at all. She swallowed down her panic and moved closer to him.