Amanda Gardner fingered her grandmother’s filigree heart on its chain at her throat, her anxiety heightened by Carlton’s recent unpleasantness. Why couldn’t he be nicer? Today, as she strode out of the English department of Buckley College on her way to the student union , she was nearly jumping out of her skin. So much rested on the coming fall quarter.Like maybe her entire life?
Her grandmother. Now there was a woman who never seemed afraid. I have to be more like her—brave, not so afraid of the unknown.Leaving Iowa and moving west had been an adventure of sorts. No storms in the middle of the Atlantic to worry about, just the one flat tire halfway through Nebraska. I just need to do my job and make friends among the faculty. Except for her officemate, Carlton Winslow, they seemed very nice. How long would it take before she felt comfortable, on campus, in Shoreville, Washington, so far from her home in southern Minnesota? Was it simple bad luck she was sharing an office with a man whose mood seemed so dark whenever she was present, who insisted on taking up most of the space in their office?
“Just get out of my hair, Amanda. I’ve got work to do here.” He had turned his back on her and begun moving her files from the second drawer of their shared cabinet to the bottom drawer, as if he owned the top two sections.
But his words to her when she left made her wonder. He’d complimented her on nine-year-old Cecelia’s picture that adorned their shared desk. Actually, it was her daughter he’d complimented. Right before he made clear he considered their shared space his office.
Maybe he’ll loosen up. Be nicer, more accommodating. It’s his first year, too.
Amanda crossed the campus, nodding to a group of students and their parents as they passed.Up ahead she saw one of the instructors she’d met at the dean’s new faculty gathering. He was talking with another man, tall, with sandy hair. When they entered the science building, she saw them in profile. That journalism guy, the tall one—he’d passed out questionnaires for everyone to fill out. Questions she hadn’t answered yet, she realized with a guilty jolt. Marcus Dunbar. He had blue eyes—just like Dylan’s.
Stop that!she berated herself. The last thing she needed was to compare men to Cecelia’s father.
Even fully dressed, the man had a body any woman would drool over. His neatly pressed slacks fit him perfectly. His spotless, white golf shirt emphasized his tan and well-developed pecs. She decided he must lift weights to build those muscles, or run in his off hours—something other than pushing a pencil or pounding a laptop.
Except she hadn’t taken this job to ogle men. Her first teaching appointment was critical, the key to establishing herself in her chosen field, providing for her daughter and paying off her student loans. She’d accepted the job at Buckley College—so far from home, her mother kept reminding her—to work, not look for a man. Although that’s exactly what her mother kept pushing her to do.
Amanda entered the student union and looked around. Spotting two of the other English faculty members, Scott and Jim, she headed for their table.
“Glad you could make it, Amanda. Coffee or tea?” Scott moved his briefcase off her seat. “Where’s your officemate? We invited him, too. But he’s not exactly the friendly sort, is he?”
Amanda shrugged. “He was filing when I left.” But he’d acted more put out than busy when she’d reminded him of the invitation.
Jim grinned as he rubbed the top of his balding head. “What was with the full-name bull when he introduced himself at the faculty meeting? Did you see how his cheek kept twitching when he answered Greg’s questions? He needs to chill. Wanna bet he demands that his students call him ‘Professor’ even though technically he’s not entitled?”
Scott reached for the sugar canister. “How much work does he have to do with classes almost a month away? I’m surprised Greg hired Winslow. His dissertation isn’t even finished.”
“You know Greg didn’t have much choice—after Harvey died,” Jim said. “Poor guy. One week sick and the next week gone. Greg had to fill the position so we wouldn’t be short-handed.”
Amanda’s glance bounced from one to the other of her colleagues. “That’s terrible. I don’t believe I met Harvey when I interviewed.”
“You’d have liked him. But I think we’ve got a winner in you, Amanda,” Jim’s expression was friendly, admiring. “Those magazine articles you submitted when you interviewed? Nice style, breezy but factual. Kind of halfway between literary and journalistic.I think the students are going to like working with you. Maybe you’ll snag some of the better journalism students for our department.”