He tucks my hair behind my ear and drags his fingertips down my neck. “Like you’re worried about something. Did your tour with the football player go okay?”

Swallowing, I nod. “It was fine. I wasn’t thinking about that, actually.”

“Then what?” He lowers his mouth to my neck and flattens me against the door.

He’s definitely hard. And definitely looking to do something about that now. In here.

Earlier in our relationship, I would’ve been turned on by the thought of him touching me in his office, but today, with my mind so tangled up in my future—and, let’s be fair, with Easton—sex in George’s office is the last thing on my mind.

“Tell me what’s bothering you,” he murmurs against my neck, his hands busily unbuttoning my coat.

I bite my lip. I should ask about the ring. I should tell him that Easton kissed me Sunday night. “Did I ever tell you that sometimes I write fiction?”

He pulls back and looks down at me with wide eyes. “I don’t think you’ve mentioned it. That’s great. Have you thought about sending it to literary journals to diversify your CV?”

Of course he’d reduce this confession to its value on my curriculum vitae. It’s the resumé for academics, which we try to make as long as possible by including every accomplishment we’ve ever come by just to prove our worth. “It’s not the kind of thing literary journals would publish.”

“You’re being modest.” His gaze sweeps over my face, lower, settling on the bit of décolletage exposed by my shirt, and I want to smack him for not focusing on the conversation at hand. Doesn’t he understand this is important? “You’re more talented than you think.”

“I’m not being modest. I’m saying it’s not right for a literary journal because it’s not literary. It’s genre fiction. I’ve been writing for years and have a few novels completed.”

“There’s nothing wrong with writing stuff like that for fun.” He lowers his face, kissing the swell of cleavage as he tugs ineffectually at the hem of my pencil skirt.

I brace my palms on his shoulders and gently push him away. “George, I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”

His eyes are hazy with lust, but he takes a deep breath and backs up to his desk, leaning against it and folding his arms. “Sorry.” His lips twitch. “Tell me about your genre fiction.”