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The clocktower bell echoes across the quad, and I shake off my dark thoughts. Today is the first day of my advanced English class, and I’m beyond excited to get back to writing. I had toget special permission to even enroll in a junior-level course, but I’m hoping that I’ll be able to churn out some portfolio pieces to submit to a summer publishing internship in New York with Rosewood Publishing. More than anything, I want to be a book editor and an author, and the opportunity would be a huge step toward that dream.
I enter the humanities building, which naturally also houses the library. The smell of books assailing my nostrils is delicious. It’s a rare smell these days with everyone (myself included) reading on their iPads and Kindles. I can only get my fix sitting in a library or a Barnes & Noble, sniffing the air like a crack addict.
I walk into the lecture hall, choosing a seat a few rows from the back. I don’t like unwanted attention, so I tend to avoid sitting in the front. My high school English teacher Mr. Shockley always insisted I was such a talented writer because I’m quiet—good at blending and observing.
I pull out my MacBook, preparing to take notes as my new professor strolls into class. He’s fairly young, maybe in his late thirties or early forties. He flashes a friendly smile as he drops his briefcase on the floor and perches on the edge of the desk.
“Hello, everyone,” he says. “I’m Dr. Jackson. Welcome to English 305 and Film 311, Fiction and Screenplays.”
Did he say film?
I frown and glance around. It’s a pretty large group for a junior-level class.In some stereotypical ways, you can pick out the English majors from the thespians and film geeks. A boy in front of me leans back, passing me the stack of syllabi going around the room.
“If you’re an English major, you may be confused right now.” Dr. Jackson gives a knowing smile when some students start looking around the room. “Our theater and film department lost a professor suddenly, so the university made an adjustment andcombined the fiction and screenplay classes together. It’s a bit unorthodox, yes, but in the future, you’ll spend your careers working with people from other backgrounds—designers, programmers, marketers, producers, and so on—so take this as an opportunity to mirror the real world.”
I vaguely hear the door opening behind me, and then, I can smell him—spicy, earthy, and crisp. Sweater weather in a scent.
Don’t sit next to me.
The chair to my left scrapes against the floor, and I glance over at Lincoln freaking Evans sitting next to me in all his broody glory.
Dammit.
I turn back to the professor, trying my best to concentrate. Lincoln reclines in his chair, and his knee brushes my leg with a zap of heat. I jump.
He chuckles darkly. “If it isn’t Elizabeth Bennett’s plain doppelg?nger.”
I glare at him from the corner of my eye.
“Such a ray of sunshine,” he whispers. “Still just as uptight and self-righteous, I see.”
“Do you mind?” I snap. “I’m trying to listen.”
He frowns, probably unaccustomed to someone deflecting his bullshit.
Entitled asshole.
“Hello, folks in the back. Am I interrupting your conversation?”
My stomach bottoms out, and blood rushes to my cheeks. “No, Dr. Jackson. I’m so sorry.”
So much for not drawing attention.
“That blush looks good on you,” Lincoln murmurs, and I kick him under the table.
“What’re your names?” Dr. Jackson asks pointedly.
“Charlie Bennett.”
Lincoln smirks. “Lincoln Evans.”
“Ah, Mr. Evans. A family legend around here, aren’t you? Perhaps you would like to start off the partnering process with Miss Bennett.”
I feel the color drain from my face.No, no, no…
“Sure,” he says. He seems almost gleeful about this horrible turn of events.
“Great,” Dr. Jackson says, and he starts pairing off film majors with English majors.
