Well, shit.
Harper
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“For what, exactly?”
We’re standing in the now-empty classroom. At least when I stand a few levels of seating above him, we’re at eye level. And too far apart for me to do something stupid like grab his arm again, like I did outside the library. Idiot, I remind myself, yet again.
Mary Kate lingered by the door long enough to mouth, Catch you later, and now it’s just me and him. Me, him, and the looming tension in the room, which I cannot be imagining.
“For not just dismissing me outright as an option.”
His hands clench on the desktop, and his jaw works so strongly I can see the muscles stand out in his neck, the pinch of his cheek where his teeth grind at it. “It wouldn’t have been fair to disqualify you just because of . . . ”
I swallow hard. “Well. Thanks.”
Outside the door, the halls bustle with life between classes. I should be on my way to my next class, a seminar on medieval English history (I needed an elective, so hey, when in Rome—or Oxford, as the case may be). But he asked me to stop by his desk for a moment to discuss the research aid position, and I sure as hell am not missing this, elective course be damned.
“So—” I start at the same time he says, “We’ll have to—”
We both pause, glance at each other. I’m tempted to laugh, except he doesn’t look amused. He looks downright furious.
At me?
My teeth edge around my lower lip, an old, bad habit that I really need to work on breaking. His eyes follow the motion, linger on my lips for a split second, before he stares pointedly at the door behind me.
“You will report to my office tomorrow morning at 6:00 a.m. sharp. I assume your schedule is free then?” He still doesn’t look at me, but he must be able to see me in his peripheral vision, because when I nod, he continues. “Bring a laptop, a notebook, and coffee.”
The last word makes me sputter, anger sparking in my chest. “Ja— Professor, if you just want someone to fetch you drinks—”
“The coffee will be for you. I’m a morning person; most of the students I’ve worked with in the past tend to not be. And I’ll need you sharp tomorrow, if we’re going to do this. Be prepared.”
Presuming he knows me. Acting like he’s stuck with me. Maybe he won’t have anything to worry about after all, I tell myself. This side of Jack Kingston is not a side I enjoy. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I prefer mornings, too.”
His eyes flicker to mine for a split second, finally meeting my gaze as if I’m an actual human being. There’s something more than just anger in his voice, something almost like regret.
I don’t stick around to find out. I whip around on my heel and march out of the office, hands clenched at my sides. By the time I make it to my history class, I’m still fuming. To make matters worse, I’m ten minutes late, and Professor Butler, the petite blonde woman who runs this classroom the way some dictators run small countries, shoots a glare so fierce in my direction that I can practically feel the points she’s docking from my grade spiraling down the drain.
It’s only an elective, yes, but it can still totally crash my GPA if I’m not careful.
I sigh under my breath, flip open my textbook, and try to pay attention to the intricacies of thirteenth-century British politics.
Jack
At least she wasn’t lying about being a morning girl. I’m starting to wonder if I spoke too soon, bragging about how much better I work in the a.m., when here’s Harper, looking the very picture of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (complete with messy auburn ponytail that looks just the right size to grab in my fist . . . ), already pointing out discrepancies I missed.
She leans closer to me—I pulled my chair around thinking it would be less awkward for us to work side-by-side, both of us on the same side of the desk, reading the same copy of the poem. But the end of her ponytail brushes my shoulder, and I can already tell this was a bad decision. I should’ve left the desk between us, some sort of barrier.
I don’t know if I can trust myself to stay in control like this. She even smells good, for fuck’s sake.
It makes me want to devour her.
“This stanza.” She taps on it with the end of her pencil, and I’m yanked back to attention. We’re only a couple stanzas into the first of the sheaf of twenty poems we’ve got to work with. There’s no time to space out yet. “Really reminds me of the kind of fragmentation Eliot uses in other poems. Only I’m not sure what it would be referencing. It sounds like a partial, distorted quote of something, I just can’t . . . ”