Page 21 of Stranger to Love

I didn't deny it. To deny it would be a lie, and she was far too smart to believe it. Instead, I ignored the dangerous edge of her flirtation, pivoted, and picked up my trench coat from the back of my chair.

“I am concerned about my students, Alex,” I said coolly, throwing the coat over my arm. “That includes protecting them from undue harm.”

I walked toward the door, forcing her to follow me. “Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear,” she replied, stepping ahead to hold the heavy door open for me.

We stepped out into the empty, echoing corridor. The department was quiet at this hour, the afternoon sun cutting through the high windows in long, dusty shafts.

Alex couldn't resist one last dig. I could hear the smirk in her voice before she even spoke. “So, when should I start sending you daily safety reports, or just the occasional late-night SOS?”

I stopped walking. I turned slowly to face her, intending to deliver a final, crushing reprimand to put her back in her place.

But as I turned, my eyes involuntarily travelled down to her jacket pocket. The fabric was slightly taut, outlining the small, neatly folded piece of paper Miss Davies had slipped her only minutes before. A sudden, sharp prick of possessiveness—hot, irrational, and entirely unbefitting of my position—tightened my throat.

I looked back up to her face, her brilliant blue eyes watching me, waiting for my reaction.

“Use your discretion,” I said. My voice came out entirely different than I intended—husky, low, and thick with a subtext neither of us was allowed to voice.

Without waiting for her to reply, without giving her another second to dismantle my defences, I turned on my heel and strode down the hallway. The decisive clack of my heels echoed off the stone walls, a sharp, rhythmic shield against the terrifying realisation that I was already entirely undone.

The heavy oak door of my office clicked shut, cutting off the rhythmic echoing of my heels and instantly plunging the room into a sterile, familiar silence.

I dropped my briefcase onto the desk and sank into my leather chair. The immaculate composure I had maintained down the corridor shattered the moment I was alone. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the glass surface, and began aggressively massaging my temples, where a sharp, tension-driven ache was beginning to bloom.

“Get a grip,” I muttered aloud, the sound of my own voice crisp but hollow in the quiet room. “Just get a grip.”

I stared blankly at the neat stacks of marking, forcing myself to voice the cold, analytical reality of the situation.

“You are just old, lonely, and entirely too intrigued by a young woman who happens to remind you of your younger self. All sarcasm, wit, and defensive bravado.” I closed my eyes, exhaling a ragged breath. “But she is clearly clever. And she works hard. Get a grip.”

I sighed, sitting back, and pulled my phone from my pocket. The screen lit up with a single notification.

Richard: Hey CC, can you give me a call?

I stared at the text for three seconds. I didn't reply. Instead, I swiped left and deleted the message with a quiet, bitter scoff. I knew exactly how that conversation would play out. Richard wouldn't be calling to ask how I was, or what was going on in my life. It would be exactly like every other interaction with my family. He would want money, or he would want connections, or he would want some sort of leverage I could provide that they apparently couldn't find for themselves.

I went to lock the screen, but before my thumb could hit the button, the phone began to vibrate in my palm. The display changed.

Clive.

I answered immediately, my voice instantly shifting back into its authoritative, business-minded register. “Any news?”

Clive didn't waste time with pleasantries. As the logistics manager for my construction projects, he knew exactly how I liked to operate. While the university paid me a handsome salary, it was the property investments and the consulting firm that ensured my particular level of comfort—and Clive was my absolute right hand when it came to keeping that machine running smoothly.

“We’ve got the clearance on the Shalesmoor site,” Clive’s gruff voice came through the line. “But the steel suppliers are pushing back on the delivery timeline for the third phase. They’re claiming logistics delays at the port.”

I narrowed my eyes, the academic completely vanishing as the businesswoman took over. “Tell them if the materials aren’t on-site by Thursday morning, I’m invoking the penalty clause in section four of the contract. We factored market volatility into the agreement, Clive. They don’t get to re-negotiate the timeline because they failed to secure their supply chain.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Clive replied, a faint note of amusement in his tone. “I’ll put the screws to them. On the residential side, the tenant in number twelve Heeley Street is breaking the lease early. Moving back south.”

My thumb twitched against the desk. Heeley Street. The exact corner I had dropped Alex off at on Wednesday night.

“Ensure the inventory is checked thoroughly,” I said, keeping my voice entirely flat, entirely unbothered. “Get it listed immediately. Raise the rent by five percent to align with the current market valuation for the quarter. I want a new contract signed by the end of the month.”

“Understood. I'll have the paperwork drawn up. Speak soon, Dr. Carter.”

“Goodbye, Clive.”