“You do?” I ask, as he failed to mention this during our texting marathon.

“Oh yeah. I like anything that screws with the mind.” He taps his temple.

Of course he does.

“Well good, ’cause now I don’t feel like a total nerd,” I say with a faux sigh.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he replies in a conspiratorial tone, and I laugh at his flippant attitude.

“So, did you want your dessert now, or after?” I ask, still standing with my back against the door, too nervous to move, as his gorgeous looks are rendering me useless.

He turns full circle and crosses his arms over his broad chest, a hint of a smile pulling at his supple lips.

“How about we get some studying done first, and then I can pass out into a sugary coma?”

“Good idea.” I smirk, and push off the door. “I don’t really have a desk,” I shyly confess, and look at where my coffee table was once visible, as it’s now strewn with books, papers, highlighters, and the occasional candy wrapper.

“That’s okay. This is like your little study den. I like it. You should have seen my room when I was studying. I lost two cats in there,” he teases.

“Well, now I feel better, ’cause at least I know where my cat is.”

Dixon laughs and I realize this is the most casual I’ve ever seen him. His relaxed attitude calms me down somewhat.

“So, shall we?” he suggests, pointing to my sofa.

“Yeah—yes, of course,” I counter, mentally giving myself a well-needed slap.

I round the sofa, while he does the same, and we both take a seat on opposite ends, our bodies pressed up against the armrests. There’s a huge gap between us, seeing as my sofa seats five comfortably.

Wow, this isn’t at all awkward. But it’s the reality check I needed, as I’ve probably made Dixon uncomfortable with my excessive staring. With that thought in mind, I kick off my sneakers and reach for my textbook.

Tucking a leg underneath me, I turn to face Dixon and almost forget to breathe when I see he’s sporting a pair of thick-rimmed, designer glasses. His incredibly blue eyes are now amplified, and the chic frames give him a sexy professor look.

“Okay, show me whatcha got,” he says, and I close my gaping mouth.

“Well, I’m having problems with Autonomic Pharmacology,” I reply, my fingers shaking as I flip open my book to chapter four.

Dixon shifts closer, looking at the open textbook I’m offering him. “This can definitely be a little overwhelming. What don’t you understand?”

“All of it,” I confess with a smile.

Dixon chuckles, and I ignore how the sound resonates throughout my entire body.

“Well, let’s start with the basics. There are four classes of medications. There are medications that turn on the sympathetic nervous system, and then there are medications that turn off the sympathetic nervous system,” he explains, holding out his left hand.

Holding up his right hand, he then goes on to say, “There are medications that turn on the parasympathetic nervous system. And then there are drugs that turn off the parasympathetic nervous system.”

“Yeah, but how do you remember which do what?” I ask, reaching for my pen.

“You know the autonomic nervous system is responsible for ‘fight’ or ‘flight.’ And ‘rest’ and ‘digest,’ right?”

I nod, because my autonomic nervous system is running haywire at the moment.

“Well, it’s easy. The sympathetic nervous system isn’t that sympathetic after all. Just imagine, it’s a beautiful, sunny day and you’re taking a hike in the woods when suddenly, a bear…”

Forty-five minutes later, Dixon has managed to explain to me what my lecturer has failed to do all semester.

“Holy shit, that makes perfect sense!” I exclaim, madly writing out critical points as Dixon speaks.

“Of course it does,” he cockily scoffs. “Are you telling me you doubted my teaching skills?” he mocks, clutching his heart.

“Well…” I taunt, giving him a cheeky sideways glance.

“For your lack of belief, you now owe me two pieces of cheesecake,” he smugly states, taking off his glasses and rubbing his weary eyes.

“I think I can manage that,” I reply, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. However, I stop mid-stride and turn over my shoulder and ask, “So, what do you know about adrenergic drugs?”

Three hours later, I know things I didn’t even know existed.

After I got over the fact that Dixon was in my house, sitting mere inches away from me, I actually learned stuff. He has turned out to be an incredible teacher, and it doesn’t hurt he’s pretty incredible to look at.

The way he spoke with excitement on topics he obviously felt passionate about just proved to me that I’m intrigued by all sides of him, which troubles me. I find myself easily slipping and forgetting that I’m in a relationship with David.

“Are you going to eat that?” Dixon asks.

“Huh?” I blurt out, his question disturbing my thoughts as I meet his amused eyes.

“That. Are you going to eat it?” he repeats, pointing to my cheesecake with his fork.

“Oh, no, you can have it,” I offer, handing my plate over to him.

He gratefully accepts, and I tell myself to stop staring at his lips as he takes a big bite. I obviously fail, however, because Dixon grins.

“I love desserts.”

“Me too,” I reply, thankful he didn’t address my staring issue.

“Yeah, I blame growing up with an Italian mother,” he replies with a smirk, licking his fork clean.

“Oh, that’s right. You mentioned your parents were Italian,” I say, remembering our texting conversation where I avoided the topic of my family like the plague. “But Mathews isn’t Italian, is it?” I ask, feeling culturally uneducated. “And neither is Dixon.”

Dixon shakes his head and he leans forward, placing the empty plate on top of a closed textbook. “No, it’s actually Di Matteo. But I changed it once I hit college to become a little more Americanized.”

The way his surname rolls off his tongue, I know he must speak Italian, as his accent is very authentic. Holy shit, I have the world’s hottest man sitting in my house, eating dessert, and he’s literally fluent in the language of love.

“And where did Dixon come from?”

He clears his throat before confessing, “I was named after my father’s fishing boat.”

I try not to smile. “Oh.”

When he sees my reaction, he clarifies. “Well, his boat was actually named Dixieland. America was his freedom. A better way of life. So when I was born, my parents mixed a little of their past roots, with their present roots.”

“I like it, it has meaning.”

He nods with a smirk. “I guess so. But honestly, I’m just glad they didn’t call me Dixie.”

I cover my mouth to stifle my laugh.

As I digest everything he just shared, a thought suddenly occurs to me.

Madison, do not ask him to say something in Italian, I silently scold.

“So, do you know any swear words in Italian?” I ask, totally ignoring my inner voice.

Dixon laughs, the muscles in his thick neck flexing. “Why is that the first question most people ask?”

I lift my shoulders into a playful shrug. “I dunno, you tell me—you’re the doctor.”

Dixon nods and moves his mouth from side to side, appearing to be in full contemplation of what to say. “You want tame? Or no holds barred?”

“Give it to me.” I smile.

“Vaffanculo.”

I have no idea what he just said, and he more than likely just insulted me, but I don’t care because that phrase just made me keel over.

“More,” I shamelessly demand.

Dixon’s lips twitch. “You didn’t even ask what I said.”

I bashfully smile, as he so knows I’m impressed. “It doesn’t matter, I trust you.”

And I really do. Dixon looks reflective, but thankfully he doesn’t comment on my over share.

Taking off his glasses, I can see him weighing up on what to say next. “Sei una bella ragazza con gliocchi belli.”