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The outside air was wet and frigid against my skin as I walked back to the sorority house and stalked up to my room. I took a brisk shower, scrubbing the memory of Christian’s hand on me from my skin.
This would end tomorrow. I didn’t care how. I wouldn’t spend any more time trying to avoid what he believed would be inevitable. His being a year behind me in college had given me an edge in our relationship, but now he was doubling down on what Nicole had dubbed “Ring by Spring.”
I quickly dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, tying my wet hair into a messy bun at the top of my head. I needed to get out of here, even if it meant falling asleep face down in a textbook at the library. I gathered my books and headed out. The party had moved from the frat house to the street and now spilled into the sorority house. I passed Nicole’s room and paused.
I heard the sound of her headboard beating against the wall and muffled grunts and whispers.
Arching my brows, I smirked to myself as I walked more quickly than I needed to through the hall and down the stairs. At least Nicole was having a good night.
Chapter 12
Rhys
THERE WERE ONLY A HANDFUL of faculty members close to my age. Most of them were adjunct faculty who taught the entry level courses offered at Gatlington University or worked in various areas of research. Tonight, I found myself at a quiet bar in town with a cold pint in my hand, settled between two professors.
One of them, Henry Johnson, a newly tenured professor in Gatlington’s psychology department, had been going on a thirty-minute-long rant about the students at the school.
“I’m not saying they’re all bad,” he amended after calling his undergrad students spoiled, rich babies. “We’re just set up for failure from the beginning. You take Gatlington, this historical college that was founded before the Revolutionary War, and you make it damn near impossible to get in unless your billionaire grandpappy left part of his estate to the school in his will. It’s not even Ivy League, yet it’s a bloodbath for admission.” He leaned forward, locking eyes with me. “I have this one student, I’ll call him... James, okay? He is about as sharp as a fifty-year-old butterknife. That kid? He’ll graduate this year by the skin of his neck and step right into a CFO position at his father’s brokerage firm on Wall Street making more money than any of us will ever see in our lifetime. Will he have a degree in finance? No. psychology. Because everyone thinks psychology is so easy.”
There were nods of agreement from the other professors gathered around the bar.
After half a semester at Gatlington, I was starting to understand what they meant, especially after coming face to face with Christian Brockford and his cronies.
“You’re lucky you teach graduate classes,” Andrew Gates, an adjunct business professor, said to me with a gentle nudge. “You get the serious students, the ones worth teaching.”
“I know,” I laughed, unable to help myself. “Trust me, I figured that out quickly.”
“It’s the same wherever you go, I’m sure,” someone else said down the bar, and soon the conversation trailed off into a different topic.
No one seemed too keen to return to campus on a Saturday night, but I was more than ready to head back to my cottage and zone off to a book. I stood and shrugged on my jacket, saying my goodbyes.
“Keep your head up on the trails tonight,” Andrew said, shaking my hand. “Big party on Greek Row from what I heard.”
“I avoid it if I can,” I told him, then left the bar and started the long walk back to campus.
It was a clear, crisp night with no fog for once. I could see the lights of campus clearly, and the air was thick with music as I walked the trails through the sycamore trees back to faculty housing.
I tucked my chilled fingers in my pockets and watched the night unfold. Every lecture hall and common building was dark and empty, but the library was a light with students spending their weekend catching up on homework and studying for their upcoming midterms.
I couldn’t believe the semester was halfway over already.
A group of students walked ahead of me and turned toward Greek Row, laughing and taking swigs from cans of beer. I remembered those days, my early days at Oxford when my roommates and I would stagger home from a local pub to whatever party took place in the dorms that weekend.
I glanced at the group as they walked out of sight and found myself alone.
Almost.
“Whitney,” I called out to the shadowed figure walking briskly several yards ahead of me. She turned, her mouth twitching into a smile. She looked tense but relaxed her shoulders as I walked up to her.
I’d never seen her so casual before. Normally she was dressed to the nines, made up, without a hair out of place. Tonight, a touch of frost dusted her wet hair, and she wore heather gray sweatpants a matching sweatshirt beneath her long, black puffer jacket. Not a speck of makeup touched her face.
She looked absolutely beautiful.
“Is this our official meeting spot?”
“Must be. You don’t have glitter in your hair this time, and I’m not scraping your books off the bike trail, though.”
Her cheeks went a rosy pink. “I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d go to the library tonight, at least until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.”
