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Isaiah followed his darting gaze to the painting. Oh, that. “Crap.”
The guy grinned harder. Oh Christ. He had dimples.
The soft scent of soap washed over Isaiah as the guy leaned toward him.
For a moment, Isaiah thought he meant to sweep in and kiss him, like this was some bizarre—and totally welcome—dream, but he reached for the painting instead.
Long fingers gripped the edges of the frame, and wood scraped against the wall as he righted it gently.
Isaiah had opened his mouth to say something when the assistant reappeared from where she’d been hunched over a drawer of files, and he sobered. This wasn’t the time or place for flirting.
He could not meet the university president sporting wood.
The guy dropped his lingering gaze, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and backed toward the exit.
Thank him. Something. Oh God, where were his words? He jerked a thumb at the painting. “Didn’t mean to move it.”
Those dimples reappeared, and they slammed Isaiah with goosebumps. “Great-Great-Grandpa was straight,” he said with cheek. “Think he prefers to stay that way.”
He disappeared into the hallway.
Isaiah looked at the painting again, his smile waning. “Wait. Great-Great-Grandpa?”
That meant the guy was . . . “Oh, fuck.”
The guy was the last person he should be flirting with.
Darren Gage.
That was Darren fucking Gage.
Isaiah put his head in his hands and groaned. How fucked-up was his life right now?
A buzz came from the assistant’s desk. She picked up the phone and mumbled an acknowledgment. A second later, she put the receiver down and looked at Isaiah.
“President Jenkins will be with you shortly, Mr. Nettles.” She got up and entered the office.
He forced himself to focus. His education, and—by extension—his entire life, were hanging in the balance. He’d keep his mind on the prize.
The door opened and the assistant stepped through, leaving it ajar. “President Jenkins is ready to see you.”
Isaiah pushed himself to his feet, and his stomach tightened so much he nearly threw up.
He sucked in a lungful of stuffy office and exhaled. He wasn’t going to be expelled. This was one of the formal requirements of the application.
Putting one foot in front of the other, he moved through the rarified air of Harrison’s inner sanctum of the president’s office.
Jenkins sat behind a massive desk. The sleek, nearly bare surface reflected bits of warm light from a lamp on the right-hand corner. Far from inviting, the effect reminded Isaiah of a police interrogation in a cheap crime thriller.
By contrast, in the corner of the room were leather couches and a coffee table filled with cheeses and grapes.
Isaiah smiled stiffly. He got it. That corner was reserved for guests the likes of Darren Gage.
Isaiah ignored the slight and held out his hand. “Good evening, sir.”
Jenkins pointed to a seat.
“Sit, Mr. Nettles.”
Isaiah retracted his hand and took the chair indicated. He sat straight, refusing to be cowed.
Silence lingered for several seconds as Jenkins stared at him. Finally, he sat back and slid a sheet of paper across the desk until it was right in front of him. “Mr. Nettles, the consequences of your complaint are going to be severe and lasting.”
“I raised a valid complaint based on the requirements of the program.”
“What do you know about the program?” He waved a finger to cut off a response. “Darren J. Gage helped found the university with two friends. He endowed the school with funds to help students such as yourself. The Gage Scholar Program was not part of that endowment. It was . . . is meant as a training ground for his heirs first. Everyone else comes second.”
“That isn’t in the description,” Isaiah said. “If I’d read that, I never would have filed my grievance.”
“You wanted a chance to compete. Well, you got your wish. You’ll be competing against Darren.”
“Darren, and . . .?”
“Just Darren.”
Oh. He was the only one to have complained?
“Here.” Jenkins slid the paper toward Isaiah. “There is your first meeting. Tuesday at 6:00p.m., here in this building. We will go over the schedule of events and projects you will undertake as part of the application process. You will also meet the supervisors and mentors assigned to help you with your tasks. Don’t be late.”
“Tuesday? I have class Tuesday nights. We’re going over the assignments for our fall concert.”
Jenkins smiled tightly. “There is no way to rearrange everyone else’s schedule. Let this be your first lesson. You’ll need to balance the program’s demands with your school requirements. For your business and music degrees. Failure to maintain the necessary GPA will affect not only your ability to be the Gage Scholar, but also whether or not you keep your scholarship.”
Jenkins rose.
Wait, that was it?
He’d skipped work for barely five minutes? For a meeting that may as well have been done over the phone?
“Have a good night, Mr. Nettles.” Jenkins gestured to the door with a look that suggested he knew he’d put Isaiah out. “Until next Tuesday.”
