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I paused in the doorway to turn and briefly look back at him to ask what he meant, but he was already halfway up the stairs again, humming as he went.
I WASN’T SURE WHAT I’d been thinking when I bought Whitney a book. She’d been the first thing on my mind when I saw it, or, although I had a hard time admitting it, she’d been on my mind, and the book just happened to be one of the first thing I’d seen after zoning out and replaying our exchange in the library.
Something about her had me transfixed. It was her mind I was drawn to, surely. Sharp and witty with a hint of argumentativeness. She would go far in whatever career path she chose, whether that be public service or research.
But there was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on, and that something was eating away at me.
On my way back from town, and from my encounter with Bill, the strange bookseller, I crossed directly through campus with an idea in mind to go to the coffee shop and crack open the copy of the Iliad. I hadn’t read it in years, and an escape from the monotony of day-to-day campus life was exactly what I wanted. Then I saw her.
Whitney sat on one of the benches in the sprawling outdoor area outside of Hollis Hall. Half shielded by an umbrella, I almost didn’t realize it was her until I passed within feet of where she sat, a textbook on her lap.
“Do you always study in the rain?” I asked, and she looked up immediately at the sound of my voice.
“Have you been to the library on Saturday evening yet? It’s madness.” She closed her textbook and folded her hands on top of it.
“I’m guessing the sorority house is a similar state of chaos on the weekend?”
“Much, much worse.” That feline grin stretched her full lips, her green eyes taking on a shocking deep shade in the dreary gray light. “If I wanted to study in peace, I needed to find a place where no one would be.”
“So you chose outside in the rain.”
“Yes,” she confirmed with a grin, then crossed her legs and blinked up at me. “And what exactly are you doing out here in the rain, Professor Ellis?”
“It’s Rhys, remember. At least when it’s just us.”
One dark brow raised, but her expression didn’t change. In fact, the only thing that shifted on her face was the look behind her eyes, going from playful to something heated and flirtatious.
Damn. I could not cross this line.
“All right, Rhys. What is that in your jacket?” she asked after a moment, tilting her chin as she looked down her nose at me. I looked down. I hadn’t realized I’d been reaching inside to pull out the book I’d found until I had it in my hands and was hanging it to her. “Woah, where the hell did you find this?”
“A bookshop in town.”
“Which one?” She furrowed her brows as she glanced from me to the book, opening it and thumbing through the pages, her eyes alight with wonder and excitement.
“I believe it’s just called Book Shop. I didn’t even see a sign for it.”
“Oh, that one,” she chuckled, closing the book and attempting to hand it back to me. “I’ve been there a few times, but no one ever comes to the counter. It’s a mess in there!”
“It’s a treasure trove, and I got this for you, actually.”
“For me? Why?”
“Oh, I just—” I ground my teeth, realizing how stupid this might have been in retrospect. “I don’t know the specifics about the kind of art you like to study, but I’ve always been fascinated with the Gothic Art movement, especially—”
“In the 1300s,” she concluded, and I nodded. “Me too. This is... very nice, Rhys. Thank you.”
Something like relief bloomed in my chest but was quickly staunched by a shadow falling over us, blocking out what little sun touched us through the dense clouds.
“What is this? Another book?” Christian Brockford stepped up to the bench and snatched the book right out of Whitney’s hand. “Gothic art? Are you going to start wearing all black and going to metal shows now?”
Whitney opened her mouth, then promptly shut it, her face twisting into her signature scowl. Christian turned to me then, looking me up and down with a look of smug understanding on his face.
“She’s always been a teacher’s pet, haven’t you, Whit?”
“Christian—” Whitney stood up, trying to get the book back from him.
“You better get in line, Professor. She’s had the hots for her art history teacher since sophomore year.”
