Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
“You mean when she was abducted at the carnival when you were kids?” I’m trying to follow his train of thought. The story he wrote seemed to be from an outsider’s perspective, looking in, but now I wonder if it was his adult self, looking at that childhood trauma.
“Yeah. If things had been different, she never would have gone missing.” He’s still spinning his keys, around and around, but he loses his rhythm, and they fly out of his hand, landing on the ground at my feet.
I scoop them up. There isn’t much space between his truck and my car. Only a couple of feet separate us, and when I straighten, my shoulder brushes his chest. Again, goose bumps flash over my skin, but this time they’re hidden by my jacket. “How do you mean?”
“We were supposed to wait for her.” His jaw works. Sharp angles and soft eyes. Haunted. “But we didn’t. None of us were ever the same after that.” He swallows, gaze bouncing from my hand to my face and back again. “Do you think maybe we could go for coffee or something? I can fill in some of the gaps in that story I wrote.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Maverick.”
“It’s coffee, Clover. Lots of professors have coffee with their students. I, uh, I just . . . Writing about that has kind of made it feel fresh again, if that makes sense? And I don’t have a lot of people I can talk to about this kind of thing.”
He seems so earnest, and like he could really use someone to listen. He’s not wrong about professors having coffee with students. It happens on campus all the time, especially with graduate students. The difference is most of those professors haven’t slept with the student in question.
“Just a quick coffee?” He gives me what can only be described as puppy dog eyes.
“Okay. We can go for coffee.”
“There’s a place a couple of blocks over, unless you’d feel better about going somewhere on campus. Like the café?”
“A couple of blocks over is fine. I can follow you?”
“Sure. Yeah. That’d be great.” Maverick holds my door open for me. “It’s called the Coffee Emporium. Have you heard of it?”
“I’ve been there before.”
“Okay. Drive safe. See you in a couple.” He closes the door and hops into his truck, pulling out of the lot before I can rethink this decision.
Eleven
What the Hell Am I Doing?
Maverick
I climb into my truck and shake my head as I turn the engine over and pull out of the spot, waiting for Clover to do the same before I leave the parking lot. I don’t really know what I’m doing. Or why I’m trying to get my professor to go on a coffee date.
All I know is that writing that freaking story for her class seems to have unearthed a bunch of memories I can’t shove back into a box. I can’t talk to my family about this, and I sure as hell can’t talk to Kody. Clover already knows the basics, so telling her the whole story makes the most sense, and then maybe once it’s all out, I can stop having the weird dreams, and the invasive memories will chill.
The coffee shop is quiet this time of night, so there are lots of empty spots in the lot next door and only a few occupied tables inside—a couple in the back, a man reading a paper, and two women who look to be in their thirties having a serious discussion.
We approach the counter, and I order a sugary latte and a piece of cake. “What can I get for you?”
“I can get my own. Thanks, though.”
Her smile is a little stiff, so I don’t push it. She orders a tea, and we take a seat at one of the empty booths. It’s strange to be sitting across from Clover and not in a classroom. I’ve gotten used to the invisible wall that went up as soon as I became her student, but it seems to have developed a few cracks recently. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be here.
I’m close enough to see the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. They’ve faded since the summer. Without her glasses, she looks closer to my age—mid-twenties maybe. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Seriously? That’s your first question?” She quirks a brow.
“You know how old I am.”
“My age isn’t relevant under these circumstances. You need to keep in mind that I’m still your professor.”
“For a handful of weeks. I want to say you’re twenty-six or twenty-seven, but that would make you a child prodigy. Were you?” I curl my hands around my mug, feeling the heat seep into my fingertips.
“No. And I’m older than twenty-seven.”
“By how much?”
She rolls her eyes and purses her lips. “I’m almost thirty.”