Page 89 of Stranger to Love

She let out a short huff, a smirk playing on her lips as she rolled her eyes. "My name is Caroline," she clarified, her tone mock-serious. "It’s 'Carrie' to those who know me well."

She paused, levelling me with a pointed, warning look that still managed to be incredibly attractive. "And it is never Carol."

I chuckled, the sound low in my throat as I tested the weight of the name on my tongue. "Caroline. Carrie."

It felt more intimate than any touch we had shared that day. To have a name for the woman behind the title made the walls between us feel even thinner.

She smiled so softly at me—a look that was so unguarded and warm it sent a violent jolt through my chest. For a heartbeat, she just looked at me, really looked at me, before she quickly turned back to the dinner she was prepping.

I stayed quiet, leaning my chin on my hand as I watched her back. Caroline.

"So, Carrie," I said, my voice dropping an octave as the mischief returned to my brain. "What exactly did you do for the Grantham Team to deserve such a nice bouquet?"

Carrie kept her back to me, but I could see her shoulders relax as she focused on the task at hand. "They’re a small local charity," she explained, her voice losing that sharp academic edge and softening into something more personal. "They support families with children who have complex special needs—respite care, equipment, that sort of thing. I did some pro-bono consulting to help them restructure their financial model and helped secure them a rather substantial donation from a private trust."

I watched her as she moved, a quiet realisation settling in my gut. While I was fucking busy thinking of her as this ice-queen professor who lived to fail students and look terrifying in a lecture hall, she was spending her spare time helping families stay afloat.

"You're a good person, Carrie," I said quietly.

She paused, her hand stilling over the vegetables she was chopping. She didn't turn around, but I could see the tips of her ears turn a faint pink. "I’m an economist, Alex. I just saw a way to make their numbers work better."

"Right," I smirked, leaning further over the island. "Because economists usually do high-level charity work in their spare time just for the fun of the data entry."

She finally turned, pointing the knife at me with a playful, warning glint in her eyes. "Don't make it into something sentimental. It was an interesting puzzle to solve."

"Sure it was," I chuckled, raising my hands in mock surrender. But I didn't look away. The more I learned about her—the more pieces of 'Carrie' I got to hold onto—the harder it was to remember why I was so fucking scared to stay.

She watched me for a second longer, her expression softening before she turned back to the stove. "The pasta will be ready in five minutes. Do you think you can manage to set the table without getting distracted by any more of my correspondence?"

"I'll try," I grinned, sliding off the stool. "But no promises. You're a very mysterious woman, Dr. Carter."

The dining table was smaller than the kitchen island, making the space between us feel even more intimate. I took my first bite and practically groaned at the taste. "Oh my god. If you ever get tired of the university, you could definitely open a restaurant. This is incredible."

Carrie chuckled, a genuine, relaxed sound. "I'm glad it meets your high standards, Alex."

We ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the clink of silverware against porcelain. It was a comfortable quiet, but my mind was racing. Learning about her—about Carrie—and the work she did for families who were struggling... it shifted something inside me. I’d spent years pretending I was just like everyone else, hiding the stress of my home life behind a fucking smirk and a leather jacket.

But looking at her then, I realised I didn't want any more secrets between us. Not after that day.

"I'm really poor," I blurted out.

The words hung in the air, blunt and heavy. I didn't mean for it to sound so clinical, but there it was.

Carrie paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. She didn't look shocked or pitying; she just lowered her hand and looked at me with total focus, giving me the floor.

"I mean, not 'student' poor," I continued, my voice shaking just a little. I looked down at my plate, tracing the edge with my thumb. "I mean... my family. We struggle. My Mum's been sick, and my Dad works himself to the bone, and every penny I earn from my job goes straight back to them. That's why I'm so stressed about these modules. I have to get this degree. It’s the only way out for all of us."

I finally looked up, expecting to see her uncomfortable or ready to change the subject, but her eyes were soft—shining with a deep, quiet understanding.

"That's why you were so worried about being home tonight," she said softly. It wasn’t a question.

"Yeah," I whispered. "I feel like an arsehole being here, eating this amazing food and staying in this beautiful house, while they're back there counting pennies. I’ve never told anyone that. Only Mia. It’s easier to just be the girl who doesn't care about anything."

Carrie reached across the table, her fingers brushing over my knuckles. "Alex, look at me." I did. "There is no shame in working for your future. And there is no shame in taking a night for yourself. You carry a lot of weight for someone your age. I admired your intellect before, but now..." She paused, a small, proud smile touching her lips. "I think I admire your heart even more."

I let out a long, heavy sigh, the weight of the truth finally out in the open. "I know I shouldn't feel ashamed, but it’s not that straightforward. I’ve never really had anything, Carrie." I rolled my eyes, though there was no humour in it. "That laptop you gave me for my birthday? It’s probably the most expensive thing in our house right now."

I looked back at her, seeing the way she was watching me—not with the distance of a professor, but with a terrifyingly focused empathy. I decided to give her the rest of it.