Nick tries not to focus on all the reasons this can’t work and instead on all the reasons it already is.
They can do this. They just have to be careful.
By Monday, it seems the chatter around campus has quieted down. TheUs Weeklyarticle, published over the weekend, was anothing of a piece, meriting only a forward and awell-handledemail from the dean. A fellow psych professor ribbed him about it when they passed each other in the hallway.
“Now the readers ofUs Weeklyknow how committed you are to upholding grading standards,” he said with a chuckle, and Nick found it easy to join in.
And when another email shows up in his inbox, from some anonymous gossip account, all he does is hit delete and try his best to forget about it.
Which turns out to be surprisingly easy when his first class is Ramona’s.
When she arrives, she lingers by his desk for only a moment, the press of her hand on the smooth wood so slight, it could be accidental.
But the way her eyes catch his, the subtle bite of her lip—that’s all on purpose.
“I have your essays to return today,” Nick says when class starts, facing a collective groan. “These were quite impressive, actually.”
He passes back Ramona’s paper with a more than respectable B+ circled in red at the top, along with a sticky note:
You want to come over tonight and see my vinyl collection?
The thrill of it zips up his spine. There’s something psychological going on there, he knows—to be so worried about the risk while also getting off on it. He’s never done anything like this, always prided himself on being the guy who follows the rules.
At the base of it is this: How can it be wrong when she makes him feel like he’s the fucking sun? When being around her makeshim certain he’s been sleepwalking through the past few years of his life?
He has to bite back a smile as he watches her read it, a gorgeous flush on her cheeks.
When she turns in a pop quiz later, she’s written him a note back.
That is highly inappropriate! I am appalled!
Also: yes.
—
Nick rushes home from school,spending the whole afternoon tidying up. It’s not that his place is a mess—he’s just very, very aware of the way it’s going to look in comparison to hers, though there is significantly less space to tidy.
Maybe he even bought a couple new throw pillows on the way home.
Lexi and Audrey are out to dinner and then a parent-teacher night, so the big house is empty when Ramona’s Range Rover pulls up to the curb and parks, barely looking out of place.
Nick lets her in through the gate, then indulges a brief panic over whether to kiss her hello. It almost feels too casual, and he doesn’t know where she’s at with it—if she even likes PDA, if this is even that P. Jesus Christ, it’s like he’s never dated before in his life.
In the end, he settles for a quick hug, and immediately regrets it when she looks a little disappointed.
Shit, he should have kissed her.
“Nice area,” she remarks, and the small talk settles like a rock in his stomach.
“Can I take your coat?” he asks as he lets her inside. She’s not even wearing a coat, just a knitted cardigan. Still, she shrugs out of it, exposing a navy silk tank top and her bare shoulders, as if she knows just how much he likes the freckles there.
He’s hit with a wave of peach shampoo.
“So, I experimented with some mocktail recipes and found a few that are pretty decent, though most of them are really sweet. Or maybe that’s a good thing?” Nick opens the small fridge in his half kitchen. He doesn’t have much here to impress her, but he’d really rather she not come away from this thinking he’s a complete loser. “I also have some sparkling cider, if you prefer. And seltzer, obviously! Or if you’re hungry, we could order something, but we should probably do it soon since the apps get busier the later it gets.”
Ramona’s just staring at him, mouth kicked upward. “Nicholas Navarro,” she says, and the sound of his full name in her voice is sheer poetry. “Are you nervous right now?”
He exhales a shaky puff of air. “What gave it away?”
