Maxwell Wilde was everything I could ever want in a man. Perfect teeth, a whole foot taller than me, green eyes that looked like they could slice through glass, that low-key athletic build hidden under tweed jackets, and—best of all—the man was brilliant. Not just “oh, he reads a lot” smart, but professor of philosophy could ruin my GPA and my life in the same hour kind of smart.

The perfect ten.

But here’s the kicker: the man hated me. At least, that’s how it felt. And the worst part? I could swear we’d never even spoken directly. He ignored every suggestion I raised in class, returned the tie I...