Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
The dude rolls his eyes. “They come black. Cream’s behind you.”
“Right. Perfect, then.”
The library seems like an odd place for a coffee stand, but apparently the kiosk is part of the college’s efforts to turn the library into a comfortable “hangout” space students will want to use rather than a dusty grave for research they can find online.
I turn and see a tall, bearded hipster dude smiling at Shay. He’s older—not so old that he’s given up on the gym, I notice, but definitely old enough that someone should tell him to cut off the manbun. He plops his briefcase on a table and steps close to her. It’s not exactly inappropriate, but it’s definitely inside her bubble. When he adjusts her scarf, she flashes him a grin that I haven’t seen in way too many years. It’s a grin of adoration and pure feminine satisfaction.
What in the actual fuck is happening here?
Shay says something and then nods. The hipster dude’s eyes go to me, and I hear him ask her something that sounds like “That’s him?” and Shay nods again.
“Sir?” The cranky barista nudges the drinks toward me on the counter. “Your drinks?”
“Thanks.” Giving him a smile he doesn’t deserve, I grab the drinks, add a splash of cream to Shay’s, and head over to meet the guy who seems to think he can look at Shay like . . . like she’s his. “Your coffee,” I say, handing it to her.
She gives a tight smile and takes it. “Thanks. Easton, this is Dr. George Alby. Dr. Alby is a professor in the English department and the chair of my dissertation committee. His collection of essays on Bradbury’s influence on contemporary literature just won the Reichart Prize of Excellence—one of the highest honors in our field.”
“I’m impressed,” I say with a smile that probably says I’m not. But at least I have something to smile about now. Dissertation chair, not boyfriend.
“Dr. Alby, this is Easton. He’s the old family friend I was telling you about.”
I have a large-ass list of career credentials, and she’s going to tell me about his prize while only giving me “family friend.” Fine, then. I offer George my hand. “Nice to meet you, George.” I’ll be damned if I’m going to call him Dr. Alby.
George’s attempt at a firm handshake is laughable. Dude might still know his way around the gym and have eight to ten years on me, but his hands are as soft as a five-year-old boy’s. And yeah, I’m judging. “You’re getting a campus tour today?” he asks.
“Yeah. Shay’s nice enough to show me around.”
She shoots me a death glare that says she’s not doing it out of the goodness of her heart.
“Well, you’re in for a treat,” George says, beaming at her. “Shay’s the best company you could ask for.”
“I know she is. That’s why I wanted her to do it.”
He loops his arm around her shoulders—again, not exactly inappropriate, but definitely more intimate than colleague or mentor. Body language is everything, and his says, She’s mine. I wonder if he knows about her secret boyfriend. “You played football?”
I almost laugh at his blasé tone. As if he’s asking if I played on the intermural team at some accounting firm, but I manage to keep a straight face. “A little.”
Shay rolls her eyes. “Easton was MVP this year. He’s just retired and wrapped up an impressive career with more than four hundred passing touchdowns and over fifty thousand yards.”
I smirk at her. Someone was paying attention.
“I don’t really follow sports,” George says. “Seeing grown men give each other concussions isn’t my idea of fun.”
Football isn’t for everyone, and hell, I’ve had enough concussions that I’m legitimately concerned about the future of my brain. Nobody wants to end up in a nursing home, drooling into their Jell-O before the age of fifty. And yet I bet George’s idea of “fun” is about as stimulating as watching paint dry.
George can’t keep his eyes off Shay, and it makes me want to punch him. Something about the way he looks at her is so possessive. Do most dissertation chairmen look at their students like they plan to strip them bare and fuck them silly? “Let’s meet after my three o’clock so we can talk about the chapter I want you to rewrite.”
I don’t miss the way she tenses a fraction at those words. “I can’t tonight. I promised Lilly I’d take her to gymnastics and watch her new bar routine.”
“Come by my office after you’re done giving your tour, then.” He winks at her then turns to go, not bothering to say goodbye to either of us.
Dude is so slimy I want a shower. “So that’s the chair of your dissertation committee,” I say when he’s pushing out of the library.
“Yep.” She takes a sip of her coffee.