Short story, life is kicking my ass.
I round a corner a little too fast and nearly bump into the one person who can kill dreams with a single slicing glare.
And just like that my dazzling good mood sours when a pair of familiar green eyes lock with mine. My clouds burst underfoot one by one until I feel the bite of winter.
Crap.
I step back so fast I almost tumble into the snow. “Dean Kelly,” I acknowledge the older man with his modestly graying hair and metal rimmed glasses as I right myself. I’ve learned to never call him father. The tongue lashing that earns me makes it not worth the effort.
His eyes dodge around me checking for anyone who might spot us together no doubt. It stings, sure, but after three and a half years of the same thing the heart hardens after a while. But there’s still a sliver that beats for the day I can feel his arms wrap around me.
“Jemma.” No warmth. “Have you heard from your brother?”
His terseness isn’t lost on me nor are the deep lines around his eyes and mouth. You’d think him to be sucking on a lemon.
I clutch the straps of my computer bag a little harder than necessary. “Yes. He’s fine.”
There’s an awkward silence between us and I fight to just blurt out why he’s not asking, ‘Hey sweetheart how’s your thesis coming along? Should we make a honey ham or roasted turkey for graduation dinner in the spring?’
But I bite my tongue.
A curt nod is all I get, dashing my hopes. The man I wish could see me for who I am instead of how he wants me to be brushes past me. Without turning around he calls back, “Call your mother. I’m tired of feeding her reports on your welfare every night.”
To anyone looking on we appear to be student and dean having a simple conversation. The man can erase the tiniest drop of emotion from his voice on the warmest of days. He and my mother are the perfect fit—the rigid scientist and her impeccable career and my father’s razor edged, his way or no way approach to life.
Note to self: Take the back way to the library from now on.
My brow furrows as I watch Mr. Frost himself walk away. I touch the snowflake charm on my bracelet and remind myself some people are shitty because they choose to be. Cold-heartedness is by choice, not inherited.
I drop my hand, noticing my watch. “Shit.”
After hurrying for the library, I push through the door and weave down the aisles. It’s a massive building with row after row of books on every topic under the sun. Seriously, there’s no end to how many books this place houses. It’s one of the main reasons I applied for my bachelor’s in computer science at Westmoore. The library. I get lost in here in the back rows where no one ever ventures among all the dusty books. Back here is the quietest and my happy place for the most part.
After a little hassling, the administration finally agreed to pull together a sitting area for study groups. Today it’s all mine. Only a few among fellow coders know about it and they’re all gone on break.
I slip down the stairs and take a left under an archway and into a dark section, the hidden lounge area just past another row of books.
A large body crashes into me. Or rather I crash into it. Either way I yelp, stumbling back into another wall that has similar arms and impeccable pecs beneath my palms.
“Oh, crap.”
I jerk my hands back with a gasp, unable to get a clear view of either man, I guess. I mean, unless Thor is back here, that is.
My heart races and adrenaline hammers through my veins. “I, um, sorry. I didn’t see you there.” Like at all. Why don’t they ever have the damn light on in this section of the library?
“Ms. Angelo.”
Slowly my eyes adjust at the sound of my maiden name, but I don’t need my eyes to recognize the voice to go along with that baritone.
“Professor Preston.”
I legally go by my maiden name. A change my parents insisted on.
Crap.
“Ms. Angelo, what are you doing back here and all by yourself this late in the evening?”
Touché.