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“Why are you studying sociology when you have such a passion for art?” He tucked the book he’d been holding against his chest as he looked down at me.
“I like them both. I didn’t want to have to choose between them.”
He smiled softly, nodding.
“Are you doing anything tonight?” I asked, not quite ready to turn and walk away from him. This moment felt like fate, and I couldn’t ignore it. When would I be alone with him next? Why did I want to be alone with him so badly?
“Nothing,” he breathed, shrugging. “Reading. Mentally preparing to grade whatever term paper you turn in before fall break.” His voice dropped an octave, something heated and teasing lining each word.
“Hm.” I smiled up at him. “Poor thing. I’ve been told I’m wordy.”
“Why does that not surprise me?”
Silence settled between us. I’m not sure how long we stood there just looking at each other. I could see why people fawned over him. He was the handsomest man I’d ever seen in my life. But I wasn’t single, and he was my professor. Whatever I felt wasn’t something that I could act on, even if I wanted to.
And I wanted to.
He pulled me in like a magnet with those eyes, and I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t move.
I had a crush on him. There was no denying that.
“It’s Friday night,” he said. “Are you not doing anything?”
“Do you think I’m just some party girl, Professor Ellis?”
“Rhys,” he said, looking down at the book in his arms before meeting my eyes again. His cheeks colored a bit, shades of ruddy pink breaking through his suntanned skin. “Professor Ellis sound so formal when you say it.”
“Isn’t Professor Ellis what I’m supposed to call you?” My voice trembled a bit, and for whatever reason I felt like we were getting closer. “Or do you prefer I call you Rhys?”
His mouth parted, but he said nothing for a moment. His eyes dropped from mine and settled on my lips for a fraction of a second. “Professor Ellis is fine when we’re in class, but Rhys is... for moments like this, when it’s just us.”
Time felt like it moved very, very slowly. But voices caught our attention at the same time, and the spell snapped, reality rushing in in full force. We stepped away from each other. I hadn’t realized how close we were standing until two women walked by. They looked at Rhys, smiled, and then giggled as they turned a corner and disappeared from sight.
My heart thundered in my chest as I looked up at him and then quickly away, blushing uncontrollably. Speaking louder than I needed to, I said, “I was wondering... Would I be able to come in during your office hours sometime? I’m having trouble with a certain subject...” I trailed off, trying to find anything his class had covered that I didn’t quite understand and needed help with.
Before I could continue, he replied, “Of course. That would be fine.”
I met his eyes again and saw a silent understanding there. I didn’t need his tutoring. I needed to save face in case those women had seen us. “Great, thanks. Uhm, bye!” I whirled and walked hastily through the stacks and toward the stairs.
Why did I feel like we’d just entered dangerous territory?
Chapter 8
Rhys
THE SLEEPY COLLEGE town of Gatlington, New York rose in shades of silver and slate gray above the winding coils of fog. It reminded me of the small, medieval suburbs outside of Oxford with its vine-covered stone buildings and uneven, sometimes cobbled, streets. Gatlington, like the university named after it, was a college town through and through. Bars stood on every corner, as well as bookshops, restaurants, and hotels.
Amber light pouring through a pub window I passed on the sidewalk cut through the dreary, rain-soaked afternoon. Groups of people milled about on the sidewalk in front of a weekend market, which featured a wide variety of vendors selling thrifted clothing, art, and books as well as several booths featuring local food, beer, and wine.
I stopped at one booth on my way through the market. An elderly woman wearing a bright orange goose down jacket and matching hat lounged in a camping chair behind the plastic table as she sorted through a weathered cardboard box of books by her side.
“Looking for anything in particular?” she asked in a heavy Boston accent.
I smiled down at her with a shrug. “Just browsing. This is quite a collection.” I picked up a leather-bound copy of the Iliad and turned it over, noticing the rough edges of its worn spine.
“You should see the shop they come from,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Bill Livingston is a pack rat, as was his father and grandfather before him. This”—she motioned to the haphazardly stacked books on the table, the white plastic tent shielding them from the rain—“is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“What shop?” I reached into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out my wallet, handing her a five-dollar bill for the copy of the Iliad. It was an old copy, printed in the early '20s from what I could tell, and could easily fetch a much higher price at auction. The idea that a book like this would be sitting on a damp plastic table with a sigh that said five dollars taped to the edge made me incredibly curious to see what other books this Bill Livingston had in his collection.
