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“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she whispers. The vibration of her words runs down my chest, and I have to shift to avoid the oncoming erection. “I’m just embarrassed.”
“Ah,” I say, disappointed by the gravelly tone of my voice. I lean my head forward.
My lips brush against her temple as I speak. “It was an accident. Believe it or not, even I’ve tripped on occasion or two.”
She laughs, a motion that thrusts her breasts harder against my chest. All the blood in my brain has started to retreat. I’m not sure how much longer I can make rational decisions.
She raises her face to meet mine, and something deep within my chest gives way.
It’s her,that small voice within me says, making declarations it has no intention of seeing through.
She’s the one.
All the pleasure coursing through me subsides. There’s that irrational thought process taking hold of me already. The one that acknowledges such things as fate and love. Talk like that leads to other foolish notions.
Like marriage.
I slip my arm from around her, propping her back up against the frame of the shelving. “Are you going to be ok?”
She nods. “I’m fine. Really. I think my shift is about over anyway.”
She’s still noticeably shaken. My hand slides down her shoulder to her arm. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“No. I can walk myself.” She moves out of my hold and places several feet of distance between us. “You should get what you came here for.”
I’m trying. But she keeps putting up these walls.
An idea strikes me. I dig into my pocket and remove Marianne’s business card from my wallet. I always keep a few extras with me to pass out to potential volunteers. “Take this.”
She glares at the small card as though I were handing her a writhing python. “I don’t think-”
“It’s not mine,” I assure her. “It’s Marianne’s. She’s the one who runs the center. You talk to her about the flowers. She’s been looking for some volunteers. Maybe you can show the others the ropes.”
She stares down at the card in her hands. A smile plays at her lips, and I secretly deem this a victory. Her hand thrusts outward. “Aly.”
I clamp down the grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. My hand claims hers. I ignore the powerful current of energy flowing from the meeting point of our palms. “Zach.”
Progress.
Chapter Seven
Aly
Istare up at the tall building leading into the lecture hall.
It’s at least three stories high, and I feel so minuscule in comparison. It’s stupid to compare myself to a building, to compare myself to Jackson Riley even. But this meeting with my advisor has my stomach, and my brain, all twisted in knots.
I swear I’ve headed down the existentialist plight of, “Why am I here? Why are any of us here?”, at least three times. Not to mention, I booked it through several sequences of a nervous breakdown before eventually transitioning through the five stages of grief.
This professor is supposed to be a nightmare. I thought Lyndsey was making it all up, but apparently, stories run rampant about him all throughout campus.
He is a perfectionist,one student claimed before shoving their headphones back over their ears and ignoring my existence. Likely to avoid answering any more questions about the man rumored to collect the souls of his students.
You’ll learn a lot,another student added, just as shifty-eyed and visibly broken as the first. What was that even supposed to mean? Weren’t all professors supposed to teach you things?
Thirty minutes before my class with him starts, and I am still no closer to understanding the character behind the man who holds my future in his hands. I will meet him for the first time once this class starts, seeing him face-to-face once and for all. Then directly after the class is my appointment.
