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He nods as he moves to go. But then he pauses, hands shoved deep in his pockets, icy eyes capturing mine.
“And Summer?”
“Yes?”I sound normal, right? That wasn’t super high pitched and breathless. Not at all.
“Thiscar.” He seems to have trouble saying the word and I scowl at him. But he doesn’t let my evil eye stop him. “And the bus aren’t your only options.”
I push back. “It’s too far to walk to work.”
His lips tighten, then relax into an almost smile.
“When you need a ride, call me. I’ll be there for you.”
Then, finally, he strolls away.
And I’m left wondering who exactly Cole Allemand is.
Chapter Twelve
COLE
I don’t hate Dr. Marlin, I remind myself.
It’s hard to remember though, with Summer grinning up at the man and using her breathy voice whenever she responds to his questions.
Dr. Marlin heads the library’s writers group, and he tends to be one of the few people I put the effort into having a cordial conversation with. The guy is an ingenious storyteller, with a Ph.D. in creative writing, and a tenured position at the local university, where he teaches semester-long courses I would kill to be able to afford. Still, I get the benefit of his wisdom every Thursday evening, and I should count myself lucky for that.
Normally I do. But Summer is staring up at the man like he cured cancer and wants to name the drug after her. I don’t think she’s doing it on purpose. The gold wedding ring shining bright as a warning from his finger would make the man off-limits to a standup woman like Summer.
The problem is that Dr. Marlin is an author. Two of his books have made it to theNew York TimesBest Sellers list in the last decade.
As I wander back to our meeting room, I can’t help remembering another instance of Summer interacting with another man who had similar credentials.
The library was hosting an event, a visiting author reading passages from his latest book before participating in a Q&A with the audience. Since it was my day off of work, I showed up, taking a seat toward the back, interested to hear what someone who has a successful writing career would talk about.
Summer and her friend, who I know now is Jasmine, sat in front of me, not seeming to realize I was there.
“Oh my gosh, I might faint.” Summer’s frantic whisper grabbed my attention.
“Stop being weird,” Jasmine said.
“I can’t. We’re in the same room as him. Holy crap. I just want to ravish him.”
My whole body tensed, drowning in curiosity and jealousy.
“Are you serious?” Jasmine asked.
“Did you read his books? They’re so good. The last one made me cry.”
“Yeah, he’s a great writer. That doesn’t explain you wanting to sleep with him. He’s like twenty years older than you and has a mustard stain on his shirt.”
Summer shrugged, then leaned forward, her gaze adhered to the talented-yet-frumpy writer at the front of the room. “Authors are like rock stars to me. I can’t promise not to throw my bra at him when he starts reading.”
“Please don’t.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself.”
If I had thought I wanted to be an author before that day, it was nothing compared to after. Hearing how mad Summer was for some random old dude who wrote a good book, I couldn’t help imagining what her reaction would be like if I casually slipped into conversation that I had a publishing deal.
