The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

As I typed, Ronan’s intelligence came through loud and clear, though in an understated way. Simple but powerful sentences. His empathy for the nearly fourteen hundred people who died in a stampede thanks to poor planning bled through too. It was more than a paper on a tragic event but a convincing argument that Nicholas II’s time as Emperor was doomed from the start.

“How did you get so fast?” Ronan asked after a few minutes.

“Practice,” I said, eyes on his paper while my fingers flew. “I don’t like things that slow me down.”

He made a sound that might’ve been a chuckle. “I guess not.”

For the next ten minutes, I typed as fast as I could, conscious that the clock was ticking and that Ronan was behind me, relying on me to help save his grade.

“What’s this say?” I asked, holding up the paper where his pen ink had smudged a word.

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nbsp; “Commemorative,” he said. He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “Shiloh…You don’t have to do this. It’s not worth it.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “Your spelling could use work and your commas are a disaster, but the paper itself is really damn good. And if Baskin can’t see that, he’s an asshole.”

“But…”

“Hush. I’m working.”

Ronan snorted a small laugh, and twenty minutes later, I was done. I hit print, and we dashed from the library to the Admin building.

Inside, office staff were at their desks or talking in small groups. We hurried to Ms. Oliveri, the front desk administrator.

“Is Mr. Baskin still here?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s gone for the day.”

“Shit.”

Ms. Oliveri arched a brow.

“Come on, Shiloh,” Ronan said. “Let’s go.”

“Never give up. Never surrender.” I looked to Ms. Oliveri. “How long ago did he leave?”

“Not long. A few minutes—”

“Parking lot,” I said and grabbed Ronan’s hand. It was large and strong, calloused from work…like my shed. I tugged him outside the Admin building and was still holding his hand as we reached the faculty parking lot.

“Oh, sorry.” I let go quickly and gave him the paper instead. We scanned the lot. “There.”

Baskin was just unlocking the door to his brown Hyundai, juggling keys, a portfolio, and a coffee thermos.

“Mr. Baskin! Wait!”

He watched us approach, a frown under his mustache. Ronan offered the paper to Baskin who took it with narrowed eyes, his gaze taking in Ronan’s worn-out jacket and the tattoo peeking from under the sleeve. He scanned the pages; the more he read, the more the stern lines in his face softened. He glanced up, unable to keep how impressed he was off his face. Then his judgy frown returned.

“How much help did you give Mr. Wentz?”

“No help. I typed it. A little proofing. That’s it.”

“I wrote it,” Ronan stated.

Baskin’s eyes narrowed again. “Plagiarism is a very serious offense, Mr. Wentz…”

I gaped. “He didn’t…”