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PRESENT PERFECT JULIE OLIVIA

Copyright © 2021 by Julie Olivia julieoliviaauthor@gmail.com www.julieoliviaauthor.com All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Editing by My Brother’s Editor Cover Photo from DepositPhotos Cover Design by Julie Olivia

Contents

About “Present Perfect” Playlist Present Perfect (n) 1. Delaney 2. Asher 3. Delaney 4. Asher 5. Delaney 6. Asher 7. Delaney 8. Delaney 9. Asher 10. Delaney 11. Asher 12. Delaney 13. Asher 14. Delaney 15. Asher 16. Delaney 17. Delaney 18. Asher 19. Delaney 20. Asher 21. Delaney 22. Asher 23. Delaney 24. Asher 25. Delaney 26. Asher Epilogue Nice to See You! Also by Julie Olivia Acknowledgments

About the Author

About “Present Perfect”

Present Perfect is a full-length, standalone contemporary small town romance! It is the second book in the Foxe Hill series.

DELANEY I’m a good girl who makes good decisions.

He’s my professor with eyes that see right through me.

Everyone says he’s charming.

I say he’s entitled.

Is he a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or is that alluring smalltown smile real?

I don’t know if I want to find out.

I’ve spent my whole life working for what I have.

One captivating professor can’t change that now.

ASHER I’m the English department head.

She’s my beautiful student in the mentor program.

The dean says she’s a perfect fit.

I say she’s too perfect.

Is she a strait-laced Bo Peep, or is there fun lurking behind those eyes?

I shouldn’t want to find out.

We exist in a gray area where the lines are blurred between student and colleague.

But what might happen this summer is forbidden for either relationship.

Playlist

“Warped Window” - Anna Mieke “Blue Ridge Mountains” - Fleet Foxes “Beeswing” - Richard Thompson “Ain’t No Grave (cover)” - Treva Blomquist “The Chain” - Fleetwood Mac “Are You Listening” - Kopecky “Ooh La La” - Faces “Hunger Of The Pine” - alt-J “The Killing Moon” - Nouvelle Vague “Holocene” - Bon Iver “Closer To Fine” - Indigo Girls Listen to it on Spotify!

For my sister-in-law.

You’re the 1 that my 4 needs.

Thanks for being my best friend.

Present Perfect (n)

A grammatical combination used to express an event that happened in the recent past though the e ect is still felt in the present

ONE

Delaney

I

did not come to Foxe Hill to make friends.

It may sound like I’m on a reality television show, but if I’ve learned any lessons from watching Survivor, it is that boiling water is crucial, that you do not get close to a bonfire unless you intend to fall into it, and that you make alliances —not friendships.

Although I only plan to keep this philosophy for the six weeks that I’m here, I can tell by one look at the dean of Foxe Hill Community College that she must live her entire life by the code of alliances.

Dr. Deborah Fairlace, dean of FHCC, is a woman who could not be more di erent than her gentle surname. She is composed of sharp lines, thin bones, and an immaculate pantsuit. If one weren’t already impressed by the cut of the tailored outfit, one would at least be impressed by the severe trim of her black bob. I can’t tell if this woman will be an amazing mentor for the next six weeks or an absolutely ruthless one.

I sit across from her in the booth of a comfy roadside diner—a place that exudes welcoming small-town vibes with clientele wearing cowboy boots to overalls to simply a t-shirt and ripped jeans. The place contrasts with Deborah’s

aesthetic so much that it might spit her out if she would allow it.

“Delaney, let’s be frank with each other,” she says to me.

I look away from the rest of the diner and back to her just as her words cut across our booth like a knife. If she threw a dart, I bet it’d land in the bullseye.

“Yes, absolutely,” I say, folding my hands in my lap, maintaining a form of composure that I know looks both relaxed and professional all at once. Six years in elite colleges have at least taught me how to keep up with people like Deborah. Sharp, precise, and not breaking eye contact for even a moment. Just like with animals, they can smell blood in the water. Predators detecting weak prey.

“What are your goals this summer?” she asks.

“Well, I need to finish up my credits, first and foremost —” “Yes,” she interrupts, taking a small, controlled sip of the black co ee next to her. “Your mentor told me.”

Of course he did.

This is the part where I try not to beat myself up over stating the obvious, but we’ll see how that goes later when I’m ruminating over it in the silence of my temporary bedroom for the summer.

“Yes, my mentor also mentioned you have a project in mind?” I ask, trying to regain my footing in the conversation.

“Let’s not beat around the bush here,” Deb says, leaning forward on the table and steepling her hands. They’re just as thin and spidery as the rest of her. “You’re looking for good references. You want to get a nice job once you graduate and I’m your ticket.”

I try not to let the surprise show on my face—a feat I struggle with since my expressions are so easily worn.

Admittedly, this type of honesty is definitely more my speed

but the bluntness of her position and arrogance of it makes me shift in my seat. It reminds me of countless study hall hours when I would be the last one up working. My cohort members left early, having nothing to lose if our project was simply passing, while I had my entire scholarship on the line if we didn’t ace it.

“Yes,” I say. “I was told this was an excellent opportunity.”

“Excellent, indeed,” she says, her black eyes squinting. I don’t miss the slight smile rising up to those prominent cheekbones of hers making me think maybe my answer was exactly what she wanted to hear. “Theo tells me you’re looking to become a dean yourself.”

“One day,” I answer shortly. “Making a di erence.

Serving others. Being an advocate for the people. That’s the dream.”

She smiles and I try to mimic the same expression.

I’m not naïve enough to think my dream won’t come with some politics on the side. I’ve learned the game. I know the steps. I’ve fought to learn them, and it seems like she knows that which makes me wonder what else my mentor Theo told her.

“Good,” she says. “Well, listen, I have a project for you this summer, in between your class. If it goes well, I have connections you can use and I’m happy to supply them. If not, well…”

Yes. She definitely knows my position. She wants me to squirm. I won’t.

“We were allocated a large budget,” she continues. “I’m looking to you to divvy it out. I’ll provide you all the statistics you need, the constraints, and current needs of the college. And, if it goes well, then stellar references you shall receive. Obviously, I’ll be the final approver. We can talk

about things as you go, but I need a jumping-o point that hopefully you can provide.”

My soul feels like it’s been granted wings to fly, but all I do is give a curt nod and say, “Fantastic.”

Deborah smiles back, but the movement tugs at the edge of her mouth like a hook pulling on the side of a fish’s face, caught in a strained expression like maybe she’s not sure how to genuinely smile.

She looks down at the table, lifting her elbows from the tabletop and sneering as if it o ended her.

“Oh, lord, these sticky tables,” she says, hu ng out a breath of air. “I’ll be back.”

She lifts herself from the booth seat, walking across the diner, disappearing behind the counter and into the kitchen with confidence like I’ve never seen. I don’t know why I’m not surprised she can just waltz into anywhere, including kitchens of diners she does not own. Though, who knows.

Maybe she does own this place.

I lean back in my seat, exhaling a rush of air that felt caught in my throat the second I sat down at this booth.

After eleven hours, one quick motel pitstop for sleep and shower, and too many long highways later, I’m ready to settle in. Theo told me Deborah was intense, but I didn’t know she was a machine.

I close my eyes for a second, letting the scent of the bacon-filled diner wash over me, before finally opening them again to take a good look around. It’s exactly how I imagined it would be. Last year, a documentary about smalltown America featured Foxe Hill and this diner joint was a highlight. I remember their specialty being the French toast brunch I intend to devour whenever I can place my order.

Who knows when that will be since this place is bustling with people.

According to Theo, it wasn’t always like this. The documentary I watched put this town on the radar and that’s exactly why I’m even here. FHCC is getting additional funding because they need it. People are dying to move here, increasing the college’s attendance, and they’re struggling to meet demands. Cue me to apparently allocate them in exchange for Deborah’s stellar connections.

I can see why people want to move here, though. There’s the buzz of the warm summer breeze, the smiles of the people walking around, and the overall quaint nature of it, especially their Main Street because of course they have an adorable Main Street.

I only got to see it for a moment, but I spotted a movie theater with classics plastered on the sign outside, the words likely plucked up letter by letter. I noticed the corner sandwich shop surrounded by mostly windows, looking straight out of an Edward Hopper painting. And I almost lost it passing the corner café adequately named Hole in the Wall.

They sell donuts. Swoon, I know.

So far, Deborah seems to be the only thing inconsistent with this town’s adorable features. She’s a square cut trying to fit in the round, bouncy environment.

I glance out the window, leaning forward with my elbow on the table, cradling my chin in my palm. I can feel the sticky counter tugging at my sleeve, but I don’t care. The birds chirping outside are positively idyllic. There could be worse places to spend my summer.

A large black truck pulls into the lot outside, the crunching of gravel signaling its arrival. Floodlights decorate the top, and though it looks like it is designed for splashes of mud to adorn the sides, the doors are in pristine condition, like a luxury car for this small country town. The engine cuts o and a black boot pops out of the open door.

I’m ready for some new character. Maybe someone with a beer gut. Maybe a massive cowboy hat. Okay, I’m spitting stereotypes here, but I’ve counted far too many cowboy boots up to this point to feel bad about it. But, this man is not the man I expect because, good lord, is that the type of younger men they breed here?

This man. This cowboy. Whoever he is… he’s gorgeous.

This type of man doesn’t exist back in Boston. Honestly, I thought this type of man only existed in movies. He wears a plain black t-shirt and, dang, that thing gives him ‘I wrangle cattle’ biceps to the point of being unfair. Like the hero of an old western. A hero only here to lasso the hearts of every woman looking his way.

My eyes follow him as he swaggers across the lot, swinging his car keys over his fingers before tucking them into the back pocket of his scu ed denim jeans. Even from here, I can see that he’s tall, but not too tall. Tall enough to be right on the money.

I twist in my seat to watch him cross the threshold into the diner just as the door’s bell chimes his welcome. I hear the clunk of his boots—or maybe even feel them through the flooring—as the radiating heat from his sheer manly presence finds its way to me. Or maybe it’s just the heat from the constant cooking in the diner finally getting to me.

The man goes to the front counter and leans across it, tapping his boot behind him. A man of elegant swagger, glancing around like he owns the place. His hair is the color of dark co ee, neatly cut but still noticeably thick. It has a slight swoop to it, like he dries it naturally after a shower.

Ugh, this man fresh out of a shower…

His curved jaw is still visible beneath his trim beard that borders between a five o’clock shadow and enough facial hair to run palms over. His eyebrow is furrowed in a straight line as if he’s slightly concerned that he has to be here. But then,

like a crack in the shielded demeanor, his face splits into a smile and if it isn’t the most boy-next-door white-toothed lifelong dental work smile.

Oh boy.

He says something to the woman behind the counter, but I can’t make it out. I’m just watching his mouth move as he talks, the dip above his jawline and just below his cheekbones… the way the words seem e ortless leaving his mouth, like sentences were only meant to be formed from him and him alone.

The woman throws a thumb over in my direction and his head turns to find me.

Wait, me? Is he looking for me? How? Why? What did I do?

Am I dreaming?

Did I fall asleep at the wheel and I’m imagining all of this? I know those highways to Foxe Hill were long, but there’s no way I’m dreaming.

So, why is this cowboy now walking toward me?

I try to be polite, but I can’t keep my eyes o of him. The way his broad chest fills out the shirt, how his forearms twist when he pockets his cell phone, how he gets larger and larger once he’s only a few paces away from where I sit, stopping right in front of my booth.

“I’m sorry, this might seem forward, but are you here with Deb?” His voice is heavy just like his boots. Part of the syllables swing. Strong and confident but with a fun little twang at the end.

“Deborah?” I ask stupidly.

His face breaks into a lopsided smile again as he nods.

Good god.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Good,” he says. “Then I’ll just settle in.”

“Wait, what are you—”

The words come at me too fast to fully register how di erent his presence is across from me as opposed to Deborah. Whereas she took ownership of the booth with her attitude alone, this man takes up half the booth with his bulk, his energy, and his boyish smile.

“You look familiar,” he says, squinting.

A buzz runs from the top of my head down to the pit of my stomach. His eyes are so green. They push me to the back of my seat.

His gaze. His voice. Just him. Everything about this knocks me o balance.

“It’s my first time here,” I say.

He squints harder, like he’s trying to place me, then he snaps his fingers together, upsetting my cool composure so that I have to sti en to get myself back in place again. I squeeze my hands together in my lap, trying not to falter even more than I already have.

“That’s right; you’re the intern,” he says.

I blink rapidly, not sure what he’s talking about.

“What?”

“Deborah’s protégé for the summer.”

Oh. I laugh. “Word gets out fast.”

He shrugs and laughs with me, allowing his throat to bob like it’s an inside joke with everyone else but me. “Small town.”

Part of me feels mocked. Part of me feels like I’m getting initiated into Foxe Hill.

“It’s a mentorship,” I say, my stomach rolling at my need to correct the term ‘intern.’

“Ah, right.” He shifts a bit, and I can feel that it was slightly out of line, but he doesn’t seem too bothered, so at least there’s that. “Well, are you just here for the summer?”

“Yes, I’m renting an attic. I’m the attic ghoul.”

Great, now he thinks I’m a rat.

Why the words leave my mouth, I’m unsure, but all the years I’ve worked so hard to build my strength into a woman so well-composed seems to be slipping through my fingertips with each passing second.

“Oh, good. Every attic needs a good ghost,” he says with a smile. “How long?”

“Only until I resolve my unfinished ghoul-like business, of course.”

“Of course,” he mirrors. “Looking for a lost lover?”

“Solving my own murder,” I say back.

“Ah. I hear that’s a tough one.”

“You have no idea.”

His eyes wash over me, from my pointed chin up to the ends of my carefully trimmed fringe bangs.

“Funny,” he comments.

“Sometimes,” I say.

Am I flirting? Is this flirting?

My stomach drops despite my growing smile. It feels like the humidity is seeping into my soul and veins.

“Oh no, Asher.”

Deborah’s voice pulls me back. She stands over our table, one hand poised on her hipbone, the other holding a thick white cloth, as her gaze shoots daggers over to the cowboy across from me.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he says, an even larger smile breaking across his face as he exaggerates the greeting, like he’s doing it for comedic e ect. Like he knows he can push her buttons.

He slides closer to the window, allowing her room to sit next to him in the booth. With a gaze that darts from him to the vacant seat below and back again, she lowers herself down, running the cloth over the table’s surface. Aside from

her torso twisting, it’s the most robotic, sti motion I’ve ever witnessed.

“How did you hear?” she asks, her tone slow and skeptical.

“The English department knows all,” he says, lifting an eyebrow in her direction. He places his hands on the table, entwining his fingers. They’re practically the size of bear paws—bulky but seemingly uncalloused.

Okay, so maybe not a cowboy.

“No,” Deborah sneers. “No, you’re just too buddy-buddy with Max.” He shrugs. “I can’t help that librarians like gossip.”

She lifts an eyebrow, and he tilts his head down making her laugh with reluctance.

He went from boy-next-door-likable to an absolute goofball. Is this the way to Deborah’s sti soul? Have I just been doing it wrong all morning?

“Come on, Deb…” “Asher,” she says, almost a warning. “Don’t be pushy.”

“Listen, maybe I would be less pushy if my crew could sleep just once in our lives.” He holds his hands in the air in surrender.

Deborah sighs, a hint of actual empathy almost passing through. “I don’t know where we’re putting the funds just yet. But Delaney here, does.”

My face warms at the mention of my name. The two pairs of eyes across from me swivel to meet my gaze, pinning me against the back of the booth. It’s funny how cold Deborah’s black eyes look in comparison to the cowboy’s soft greens.

“Delaney, this is Asher,” Deborah says, waving a hand to him. “Head of our English department.”

Definitely not a cowboy then.

“Delaney,” I say instantly, shooting out my hand. He glances down to my hand with a smile before nodding slowly

and shaking it. My hands look positively childish in his large ones. But the warmth that flows up my forearm and to my chest is instantaneous.

“Asher,” he says. “And I’m the first here?”

“You are the first,” I say, not exactly knowing what that means but finding myself agreeing all the same.

“The rest of the departments are to follow, I’m sure,” Deb says with a roll of her eyes. “I swear, if Curtis stops by…”

I’m not sure who Curtis is or why that seems like the greatest inconvenience, but it’s hard to focus when the man I now know as Asher is still shaking my hand. I pull it away and place my hand back in my own lap.

“The English department is short sta ed,” he says. “We sure do need that funding. I can make a business case if you need it.”

The proposal is friendly for the most part, but something about him now seems closed o , like his muscles tighten at just the knowledge of my newfound power over his future.

And his eyes look heavy as if he hasn’t quite caught up with sleep yet.

Something about him, the straight line of his lips, the furrowing of the brows, and the way his hair is so beautifully tousled makes me wonder if maybe his happy-go-lucky nature is all just an act. I can practically feel my walls getting plastered together, building and building until I’m closed o in my room of neutrality. The chirping birds outside are still pleasant. I don’t think they got the memo.

I’m not here to make friends.

“So, you’ll keep the English department in mind?” he asks.

I haven’t even started, and I already feel crowded. I want to make an informed decision on the project I just received literally two seconds ago, but this man is staring me down

like he already has the funding in his grasp. I don’t like feeling cornered. I don’t like feeling as if I’m under the thumb of someone else.

“We’ll see.” It’s all I say, but his smile that was already in jeopardy falters completely.

He nods with a small shrug and a new smile that looks too casual to be real.

“Fair.”

Is it?

Something tells me the words leaving his mouth are not genuine. But everything else about him so far tells another story, like I can’t imagine him being anything but genuine.

There’s no point in finding out.

Yeah, I did not come to Foxe Hill to make friends.

Especially with attractive, potentially two-faced department heads.

TWO

Asher

A

fter nearly two years in an understa ed English department, I’m accustomed to my o ce being overwhelmed with paper. My papers, my students’ papers, my sta s’ papers…. In fact, my o ce just isn’t my o ce unless I simply can’t use it.

This past semester, I was forced to extend my workspace out to the library. Now the back desk, shrouded in the corner by bookshelves, is constantly coated in papers that are also mine. Though, at least now I have the self-guilt that comes from inconveniencing our librarian, Max, to ensure I clean up afterward.

“Finishing just in time for the summer semester, huh?”

I blink up at the voice of Max, sighing as I splay my hands over the mess of ungraded papers from the spring semester.

“Don’t give me too much credit. Summer semester starts in three days and then I hop on the roller coaster once more.”

“I will say, this seems like more than usual,” Max says, waving his open palm to the mess on the tabletop. He scoots back the wooden chair opposite mine. It bumps into the shelves behind it, knocking a book down which Max picks up in one smooth motion, placing it back on the shelf as if the

action is just part of the routine of sitting down. Which, honestly, for him, it is.

Max is a bulky guy with broad shoulders and beefy build, looking more like a football player than the nose-in-a-book librarian that he actually is. If cameras were actually installed in this library as opposed to the decoys to fend o students from stealing, they would likely capture all the moments during the day he spends picking up books o the floor from shelves he’s bumped into. Being a big man in such a small space was never destined to bode well for him.

“Lori wanted to go on vacation,” I say, capturing the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “I told her I’d finish grading for her. You know how her kids have been excited about Birmingham since last summer.”

“Oh, she’s going to England?”

“Alabama.”

“Huh. Weird. Well, at least she’s lucky to have such a benevolent department head.”

I glance up from the papers and smile despite myself.

“Speaking of which,” he continues. “How’d the conversation with Deb go?”

Happiness lasts two seconds before I’m groaning into my hands once more.

“The conversation went,” I say with a heavy sigh. “And then barreled away.” I flatten my palm and shoot it o as far as it will go, as if disappearing. “Down the tracks in oblivion.”

The moment Max received an approval to order more textbooks to the campus bookstore, he texted, called, emailed—likely would have sent a carrier pigeon too—until I answered to let me know about our incoming increased budget. Recently, my sister’s booming documentary about small towns was purchased for a streaming platform. Since Foxe Hill was the centerpiece of the film, we’ve been in a

growth spurt and that includes Foxe Hill Community College.

Max knew I was not about to pass up additional funding for my department, not when my team has worked our asses o over the past year with our increased workload and understa ng.

Approaching Deb was supposed to be my ticket to relief.

Supposed to be.

Max cringes, running his hand over his short buzz cut.

“That bad, huh?”

I think back to this morning and the brunch that could have been. A simple conversation. Agreements on an additional hire for our department. Easy peasy. Except now I have a new girl that somehow holds my future in her tiny clenched fist.

The tightly wound girl. Delaney. She was too perfect. Her posture too elegant, her gaze too cutting. Her dusty blonde hair and purposefully, delicately mussed-up bangs that stopped just before her hazel eyes—those same eyes that wouldn’t break eye contact with mine for more than a few seconds at a time.

I couldn’t tell if I was entranced by her or if she was caught o guard by me.

“Deb’s got her mentee or whoever in town now,” I continue, shaking my head. “And apparently, she’s in charge of budgeting.”

Max whistles low. “Well, that could be good. A neutral party, right?”

“In theory,” I say, rolling my head to the side, working out the kink in my shoulder. Though, whether it’s from hunching over this table or the stress of this morning’s memories, I’m not sure. Her cutting comment of, We’ll see, was like nails on a chalkboard. “She’s like a tiny Deborah in training.”

Max leans back in his chair, stopping just before the back of it hits the shelving, even tossing a quick raise of his eyebrow as if to say ‘ooh, see that?’ I chuckle and shake my head, running my palm over my jawline and down my scru that is noticeably a bit overdue for shaving.

Max shrugs. “Hey, I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“I’ve just been schmoozing Deb for too long to be thrown to the wayside now.”

“If the new girl is looking at the facts, she’ll see you’re understa ed and allocate funding to you.”

I shake my head, running my knuckles over my jaw.

“Nah, I bet ten bucks all of it goes to the math department.”

“Ah, Curtis. Your mortal enemy.”

“He’s not my mortal enemy,” I mutter, but even I can taste the bitterness on my tongue.

Curtis, the head of the math department, is defined by his chalkboard-stained pants, his too-tight suspenders that pull his pants up to hug his crotch, and by the smelly reheated salmon he insists on eating for lunch every single day. He also, coincidentally, gets anything he asks for. I guess that’s what happens when our math department is our biggest draw. We’re a springboard school, sending those interested in tech universities with the core knowledge they need, and math is obviously key.

“He’s got a bigger o ce,” Max says.

“He does have a bigger o ce.”

“He’s tenured.”

“He is tenured,” I agree reluctantly.

Max snaps his fingers. “Wait, didn’t he even win the sta cooko last year?”

“Okay, my spinach dip should have won, and everyone knows it,” I say, pointing an index finger at him. “But that’s beside the point. He’s not my enemy. Plus, if I were to have

an enemy, that new girl is climbing the ranks… but, no, no enemies.”

“Come on, let me have this,” Max croons. “I love a good competition, doc.”

I cringe every time he calls me that. Hell, anytime anyone calls me that. And my friends know it.

While some academics relish in it, having the letters “Dr” before “Asher Ellis” makes me feel uncomfortable. I like English. Learning. Teaching. Helping students find their way.

Sure, I had to get my doctorate to be in my position, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever be comfortable readily using the title.

At the end of the day, I’m still the same guy I’ve always been. A Foxe Hill local through and through.

“If you love competition, then go watch sports at the high school,” I say, shu ing through my papers, gathering them up into a messy stack.

Max lowers his thumb at me. “Boo.” “I’m gonna head out, man,” I say, pulling up my bag and tossing them inside along with my pens. I take a couple textbooks but distinctly notice one missing. And not just a book but the book.

“Damn,” I say, sighing. “Have you seen my orange book?”

“Oh, have you finally lost it?” Max asks, eyes widened as he grabs a pen to start twiddling the cap.

“Finally?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow at him before remembering game night with Lily the night before and snapping my fingers. “You know what? I think I left it at Lily’s.”

Max continues to play with the pen cap, but I don’t miss the way his attention suddenly gets hyper focused on the object when I mention our friend. He always gets weird when she’s brought up. I’m not sure he even notices.

“Oh, does she coddle it too?” Max asks absentmindedly.

After a moment, he looks back to me with a grin.

I stand from the desk, tugging the bag’s strap over my shoulder.

“Hey man, I’ve had that book since high school.”

“Move on,” he jokes, cupping his hands around his mouth. I shake my head and paperclip the remaining pages together before tucking them in the side pocket.

“Why, when I’m finally able to use it?”

“Oh look, it’s finally coming full circle. How poetic.”

Teaching Beginner’s Poetry with my own poetry book— my pride and joy—as the teaching material. Indeed.

L ILY ’ S COTTAGE IS CRAMPED NINETY - NINE PERCENT OF THE TIME , BUT as of right now it’s a disaster.

Her once living room is now a dedicated art studio coated in various layers of drop cloths, paint cups, and canvases— both in-progress and completed, the final products leaning against the wall in organized stacks.

I shu e past the ones in the entryway, attempting to gingerly close the door behind me without a ecting any other materials that might be scattered around.

“How has this gotten worse since last night?” I ask with a laugh.

Lily sits in the bay window, a picture-perfect image of an artist in overalls, hair strewn in a bun, overlooking the panoramic view of her garden. The puzzle we were working on last night has been shifted to the edge of the table to make room for two steaming mugs with tea bags hanging from the side.

I’ve been friends with Lily for nearly fifteen years now and she knows I don’t like tea. That drink isn’t for me.

“Waiting on someone?” I ask, tossing my keys from one hand to the next before pocketing.

“Your book is over there, mister,” she says, nodding toward the lone entryway table. “And yes, today is the day!”

“The day?” I ask, walking as directed toward the entry table where my orange poetry book sits on top, tattered and weather-worn but just as tra c cone orange as it ever has been.

“My renter, Asher!”

“Oh, right!” I say, slapping the book against my palm. “I forgot about that! Is that today?”

Lily’s nodding head and beaming smile follow suit. Her cheeks are like round apples, pink and delighted.

After quitting her teaching job and delving into her hippie side, Lily has been addicted to the less conventional side of life. Hosting out-of-towners is her latest attempt at trying something new.

Tires on gravel sound from the street and Lily’s eyes widen, her ear to ear smile growing wider.

“Oh, oh, there she is!” she says, bouncing in her seat.

“Oop, sorry, want me to leave?”

“No, no, another friendly looking face will be good!” she says, waving her hands at me. “I don’t wanna scare her o .”

“Aw, you think my face is friendly?”

“Friendly enough,” Lily giggles.

I grin, leaning back against the wall. “Okay, I’ll say hi.

Then I promise I’ll cut out so you can play host.”

I pull the curtain beside the front door to the side, peering out. But as the car parks and a woman steps out, I instantly notice the dusty blonde locks and something along my spine tickles, like even my nerves know those hazel eyes are about to find mine once more.

And they do. Quick and fast and sudden.

Delaney, Deb’s protégé, said she was renting out an attic for the summer. She’s staying in Lily’s attic.

I remove my hand from the curtain to let it close.

“Well, is it her?” Lily asks.

“I don’t know. What’s she supposed to look like?”

“Uhh… blonde? Perky boobs?”

“What?!” I ask, swiveling my head to her.

“I’ve been practicing figure drawing lately!” Lily says, her eyebrows turning inward and her cheeks flushing red.

“That’s what I notice now! Sorry!”

A knock on the door makes both of us jump and it takes a sharp peep from Lily to get me to open it.

And there she is. Full lips slightly parted, eyes squinted in confusion, and back sti ening more and more as the seconds roll on.

“Welcome,” I say, trying my hand at a smile because what the heck else do you say when you open your friend’s door to the woman who, yes, has very perky breasts.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

Delaney opens her mouth to speak, looks behind her, then back to me.

“Is this the right house?”

“Depends, what house are you going to?”

She squints more, as if trying to decipher what I’m thinking. I find I’m doing the same, both of us just inexplicably staring at one another.

“Does Lily live here?” she asks.

“Yes. This must be the attic you’re haunting for the summer.”

She looks at the number painted on the trim beside the door then back to me. “I believe so.”

“Are you Delaney?” Lily calls from behind me. “Did you find the place okay?”

I step to the side, clearing my throat and waving Delaney in. She walks past me into the small cottage smelling like sweet vanilla. It’s nice, somehow comforting.

“Yes, found it just fine!” she answers. “You’re Lily? Nice to meet you.”

When I turn back around, she’s already sitting across from Lily at the table, hand shot out to her just as she did to me hours earlier. Her eyes cut back to mine as if checking that I’m still here.

“Oh, that’s just Asher,” Lily says with a wave of her hand and a polite smile. Everything about Lily is polite in a delightful, sunshine way. It’s charming. Not like Delaney whose legs are crossed at the ankle, sti and unnatural.

“Asher, this is Delaney.”

“I know,” I say at almost about the same time Delaney says, “We’ve met, actually.”

“Oh,” Lily says, her head bouncing back. “Really?”

“We’ll both be at the college this summer,” I say with a closed smile to Lily.

“Oh fun!”

Fun might be a bit too strong of a word, but I don’t say as much and judging by Delaney’s close-lipped smile I wonder if she’s thinking the same.

Aside from the one and only table nestled in the small nook next to the bay window, any remaining space in the kitchen is taken up by plants—some strung throughout the banister, over the cabinets, and even one lazily looping on top of the sink. The plants would be crowding the space on their own, but the added presence of Delaney and the sti air around us is overwhelming to say the least.

“Awesome,” Lily continues, none the wiser. Or if she is, she doesn’t say as much. “Well just a couple things, Delaney.

I’m very much a morning person so I’ll be up early. But so will the chickens, so be prepared for that.”

“The chickens?”

“Yes, the chickens.”

Delaney’s slow nod causes me to stifle a laugh. This tightly wound woman who looks like she is accustomed to city sounds and small apartments is about to be serenaded by chickens each morning.

“I’ll also always have tea ready if that’s your thing,” Lily says.

“My body is ninety-percent tea or co ee, so that’s perfect.”

“Only ninety?” Lily says with a smile.

“Fine, ninety-three, you caught me.” Delaney laughs.

I tilt my head to the side. I wonder if she’s this nice to everyone she meets. I wonder if her cordial behavior is practiced over time, like how Deb’s laugh is—a laugh that seems less and less apparent nowadays.

No, there’s no point in getting curious about a six-week protégé.

“Well, I should get going,” I say. “Thanks for the book, Lily.”

I open the door to leave. Delaney doesn’t say anything, but I notice how her mouth stays slightly parted as if she wants to. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. What I don’t imagine is how her eyes follow me, locked on and sending my neck hair standing on edge.

I can’t tell if I like it or hate it. But it is interesting.

“Oh, wait, Asher, are you coming to First Stop tonight?”

Lily calls after me before I can fully close the door.

“Yeah,” I say. “I should be finished grading by then.”

I attempt to close the door again but hear Delaney speak up.

“First Stop?” she asks Lily.

“Oh, yes, you should totally come if you—”

But I don’t hear what would warrant Delaney coming to First Stop before closing the door on the conversation. All I know is that Lily can make friends faster than Mr. Rogers and if she just invited the new girl then there’s a sure chance she’s coming.

Something about that makes me shiver as I walk back to my truck in the heat of summer.

THREE

Delaney

I

actually didn’t find Lily’s house easily at all, but I don’t say that. I don’t talk about how her idyllic cottage is nestled right o the beaten path. Literally. A beaten path that looks like it was only recently cleared with a machete of some sort. But when we leave for the local bar later that night, I realize a lot of the town is like that until you get to Main Street.

We park outside that cute sandwich shop and walk over to a rickety looking building, something that resembles a repurposed barn. When we walk in, it’s crowded, and I should have assumed as much with how full the parking lot was. There’s a huddle of people line dancing in front of an occupied stage accompanied by the twang of a female singer echoing through the speakers. Most of the barstools are occupied but Lily and I shoulder past people to them anyway.

Something in me feels restless. And before I can wonder why, I know exactly.

Because I see him. Again. Somehow for the third time on my first day here.

I swear this town is too small.

We walk up to where Asher is leaning on the bar counter, looking ever the image of a swoony cowboy that he is—or

should be, maybe. He’s wearing the same black tee but now covered in a flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. They’re devastating on display. But not as devastating as his smile as he reaches across the counter to pat another handsome man on the shoulder.

“Don’t keep your hopes up, Max,” he says with a laugh.

The bartender—Max, I guess—looks over at a woman line dancing with another man. The man, the beer gut type of guy I expected Asher to be earlier, wraps his arms around her waist, casually flipping o the bartender. It seems all in good fun, but I’m honestly not sure.

Max runs a hand through his hair, tossing a bar towel over his shoulder. “What’s the point of a night bar gig if I can’t hit on the women?”

“Is being the mysterious librarian not enough for you?”

Asher asks with a grin. It’s so playful, but not like how it was with Deborah. This feels genuine.

“Nah, you’ve got the mysterious college professor thing covered,” Max says.

“Thanks?” Asher says with a questionable laugh.

Something about the honesty in it makes me tense up even more than him being there to begin with.

“I need the mysterious bartender thing,” Max continues, his eyes finding us. After hearing him say it so casually, I hope he’s not looking at me. And he does for maybe a second but not before I see his eyes glancing to the right of me, exactly where Lily is.

At the same moment, Asher’s eyes find mine and that feeling of guilt washes over me. Or maybe it’s just the tightness in my shoulders getting more constricted as the seconds wane on.

“Hey, attic ghoul,” he says with a smile. The type that is lined with echoes of a lifetime of laughter. I suddenly feel

hot, and I hope he can’t see the redness on my cheeks in this dank bar.

The man on the stool beside him gets up from his seat and Asher gestures to it o ering me the only free stool in the bar.

“Oh, no, I can stand,” I say. “I’ve been in a car for days.”

He shrugs with a smile, still standing even though I don’t budge toward it. “Well, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t o er.”

“Drink?” Max asks in my general direction, pointing at me then leaning around me to look at Lily. She doesn’t look at him, instead waving over at a blonde girl on the dance floor with a bearded man. Max frowns before looking at me again.

“No, I’m alright, thanks,” I say.

I twist away, looking to my left as Asher lifts his beer bottle up to his lips, leaning an elbow on the counter. The stance only accentuates his biceps tugging at the sleeves of his flannel.

Jesus.

“Just sparkling water, please, Max,” Lily says.

Max waggles his eyebrows at her, seemingly happier he got her attention. “No fun.”

She shakes her head with a slight eye roll and smile as the song over the speakers change, signaling the rotation of the crowd on the dance floor. Some stay, some disperse, but a few sprint over to us: the bearded man and the blonde woman Lily was waving to and then the couple that jokingly flipped o Max. “Shots!” the beer-gutted man calls, his arm still swung around the waist of the gorgeous woman with plump lips and very big hair. “Shots?”

“Shots!” Max whoops.

The blonde woman elbows Asher with a grin.

“Gonna dance with us on the next song?”

Asher shakes his head with his lopsided grin. She sticks out her tongue in response. I wonder if they have a history but given that she entwines her hand with the bearded man beside her, I’m guessing not. And part of me is okay with that realization. The other part of me dislikes how okay I am with it.

I don’t even know this guy and not one single part of me trusts him.

“Oh, guys, this is Delaney,” Lily says. “She’s staying with me for the summer.”

The blonde woman extends her free hand to me. “Nice to meet you, I’m Violet.”

“Keaton,” the bearded man says from beside her with a wave and a smile. When he smiles, crinkles form at the edge of his eyes. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such a happy smile in my life and one look at Violet next to him likely explains it.

He wraps his arm around her and holy crap biceps. It seems this friend group has a claim of all the hot guys in this town.

“Shots!” the same man yells again as glasses of dark liquid are placed one by one in a line on the bar.

“That’s Joey. His wife is Kayla,” Lily mutters to me only because the rest of the group seems too distracted with grabbing their glasses o the bar top. Once Lily takes hers, I notice there’s just one left for me. I take it, albeit reluctantly.

They raise their glasses, and I follow. But just before we clink, I glance over to find Asher already looking at me. The edge of his lips tipped in a smile.

We tap our glasses together, slam them down on the bar as is routine, then throw it back. I hate the way the liquid goes down, but I never had much of a gag reflex, so discomfort is about as good as it’ll get out of me.

The remaining group rushes back out to the dance floor, Lily giving me a slight cock of her head as if to ask, You

gonna be okay here? I wave her on and settle onto the vacant barstool.

“Welcome to Foxe Hill,” Asher’s low voice says next to me.

Shivers run down my spine like cool water sprinkling from a misty day. If a voice could be described as gorgeous, it would be his.

“Do you always initiate people with drinks?” I ask.

“Only those that seem nervous.”

I clench my jaw, suddenly aware of the fact that maybe I do seem on edge.

“I’m kidding,” he says, his eyebrows turning in.

“You’re not.”

His smile grows. “No, I’m not.”

“So, you don’t dance?” I ask, nodding out to the floor where all five of his friends, including Lily, are stepping in a perfect line to some song I’ve never even heard.

“You caught that, huh?” he says with a shrug. “I do but, only if forced to. You?” “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

He laughs. “Left foot first.”

I scrunch my nose at the comment, disliking the instantaneous sarcasm at my expense. He scrunches his nose back at me.

“Are you mocking me?” I ask, choking out a laugh.

“I would never.” His eyebrows raise in understanding, an unspoken jest.

I shake my head, trying to ignore the heat rising up my chest and neck. “I see what you’re doing. The chair. Giving me company. You’re schmoozing me for the funding.”

“Nah,” Asher says, taking another sip from his beer. “You don’t seem like the kind of woman who is schmoozable.”

“That’s a schmoozy comment right there.”

“Fair,” he says with a shrug. It’s so casual, but so handsome all at once. It reminds me of brunch, how I couldn’t tell the di erence between him being relaxed or simply playing me. I can’t tell if I want to play either, but I do anyway.

“Seems like you and Deborah get along,” I say.

He chuckles. “That’s generous, but thanks.”

“Crashing a dean’s brunch,” I muse, tossing my head from side to side as if mulling it over. “I’d say you’re on some level of friendship.”

“No. And not my finest moment but I stand by it.”

“So what would be your finest?”

I think the shot was whiskey and I’m realizing it is heavy.

It’s making me too bold. Too excitable. Too enthralled by the tickling of the hair on my neck every time we lock eyes. How his green eyes practically spear me and how easily I’m letting them.

“My finest?” he asks, biting the inside of his lip. It thrills me. “I don’t know, giving the new girl in town company at a busy bar?”

I roll my eyes with a smile, trying to seem relaxed but the ache between my thighs burns with want. I even notice his hand resting lazily on the bar, scooting a bit closer to where my ribs touch the bar top. Or am I imagining it?

“Schmoozing,” I singsong.

The grin is slow as it sneaks up his face, like a curtain unveiling the mystery behind it.

“Maybe,” he says, bending his head down to look in my eyes. It’s tantalizing. Amazing. Lustful?

No. I’m not here for a charming not-cowboy cowboy with a soothing voice and curved lips that beg to be devoured. I’m here to experience six weeks of work, a bit of local sightseeing in the country, then back to Boston I go. Mom always told me not to worry myself over boys. Work first,

men second. But that doesn’t stop the hammering in my chest as his hand inches ever closer.

When I don’t answer quickly—too distracted by those beautiful hands—Asher lets out an exhalation and looks out to the dance floor. I allow myself time to catch my breath once he’s looking away.

“So, what else are you doing this summer?” he asks.

“Other than drinking unintended shots.”

This man…

He chuckles. “You’re a good sport.”

I glance from his casually coi ed hair to the way the flannel hugs not only his biceps but the area right below his arms where they meet his torso. Even with the thick shirt, I can see the outline of hilly muscle.

No, he asked what else you’re doing.

“Well, I am taking a class,” I say.

“Really?” he asks, averting his attention from his friends on the dance floor and back to me. “I thought you were just here to make us all sweat.”

“Oh, no worries, I am,” I say with a grin. He returns it, and yes, we are absolutely flirting.

I’ve never done much flirting in my life aside from a short exploration of dating apps in my undergrad. It’s always been school, school, school… work, work, work…. Even in high school when lovable, gorgeous, persuasive Tim from the debate team asked me to prom, I said no. My mom worked two jobs to keep food on the table as long as I helped prepare it and aside from helping her out, volunteering, and preparing for my third SAT attempt aiming at a better English score, there just wasn’t any time.

But now, with his green eyes glazing over my face and lips like I’m some kind of a dessert, I can’t help but be mouthy back.

Let’s just chalk it up to years of repression.

“Deborah’s funding project is definitely my main concern,” I continue. “But I’m finishing up my credits too.

Gotta be well-rounded and all that.”

He nods. “Uh-huh. And what’d you settle on for that final credit?”

“Easiest thing I could find,” I say.

“And what’s that?”

“Beginner’s Poetry.”

Asher tenses. His hand inches away from where it was so close to mine, instead grabbing his beer bottle and bringing it to his lips. It doesn’t even look like he even has anything left in it. It’s just a motion to make for the sake of action.

“Is that right?” he asks.

I squint at him. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “I’m just getting my credits out of the way, so why not?”

“You don’t like poetry?” he asks.

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Well, why use wordplay if you could just say the thing?”

He lets out an exasperated laugh and shakes his head.

Why does he suddenly seem irritated? Or maybe upset?

“Because wordplay is beautiful and fun.”

My stomach dips. There’s something about a man complimenting inanimate ideas that seems soft. Precious.

Plus, wordplay can mean many things… and I can’t help but wonder what other wordplay he’s into. But I guess I’ll never know.

Then it hits me… oh right. Schmoozing… that’s all this was, I suppose. Silly me for thinking otherwise.

“It’s just flu ,” I snap. I can feel his own irritation bleeding into me, making him blow out a definitively upset exhalation through his nose.

“Maybe you’ll learn something in that class then,” he says.

“What, like metaphors or similes?”

“Clearly you haven’t read any good poetry,” he mutters.

“What’s so great about it?” I ask, landing a hand on my hip.

“What’s so—” He cuts himself o with a shake of his head. His whole demeanor has changed from what I thought was a flirting man to… this. Upset, twitchy, closed o , and remarkably unavailable.

Not that I wanted him to be available anyway.

“Well, I hope it’s worth your time.”

I open my mouth to retort, but Lily is already running toward us, a grin breaking across her face which I’m noticing is more common with her than your average person.

It’s like the dank wooden slabs of the bar are instead chocolate bars and the beer is marshmallow flu . But even her rainbow isn’t brightening the storm cloud over us.

“How’s it going over here?” she asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Talking about poetry,” I say, widening my eyes as if to signal it isn’t a fun conversation even though the words leave my mouth with too much mirth.

“Oh, fun!” she says before looking from me to Asher and back. “Wait, it is, right?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at the both of us.

I tuck my lips into my mouth, closing my eyes in defeat at the obvious awkwardness.

“I think I’m ready to dance,” Asher says, putting his bottle back on the bar top and strolling out to the dance floor. Even the way he walks with his casual boot-kicking stroll toward the dance floor sinks my chest.

I watch him as he leaves, letting my eyes linger over his bottom even though I know it’s now a long-lost dream. I quickly avert my gaze when I notice Lily watching me with pursed lips, somehow still smiling through it all.

“What was that?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “The man apparently likes poetry.”

“Oh yeah, he knows tons about that,” Lily says. “I think he’s teaching that class this summer.”

My stomach slides to a halting stop before rolling in on itself.

Oh no.

“What?” I ask, the word exiting my mouth like the slice of a knife with no real direction.

“What?” she asks.

“What’d you say?”

“He’s teaching the intro poetry class this summer.”

I want to tell her that I made a huge mistake, but I don’t. I don’t know Lily. I don’t know this town or these people, and I definitely had no idea just how small this town really was.

“What is it?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “Too much whiskey, I think.” Because how do you tell someone you barely know that you just flirted with your professor?

You don’t. That’s how.

FOUR

Asher

D

elaney is a student. But, more than that, she’s my student. Worse even, she’s my student who is also the minion of Deborah, a woman who feels so-so about me on a good day and less so on a normal one.

Last night, after hauling myself back home, I laid in bed unsettled, my skin borderline twitchy as I tossed and turned.

It didn’t hit me until midnight that the reason I kept staring at the ceiling and not succumbing to sleep was because the memory of Delaney’s hazel eyes was taunting me in the dark.

Everything about her set my nerves on edge—even her own nerves. It’s how she held her shoulders pulled back and taut-like posture is a concern she’s needed to have, jumpy like a cat near a larger predator, just waiting for something to happen. But she’s also able to hold a sharp conversation with wit. It’s natural, like someone I could shoot the shit with on a lazy night. And she’s beautiful. Charming in her own way.

But a student. And yet also a peer. I’m mentally wading through a gray area that I refuse to become familiar with.

To add insult to injury, she’s completely dismissive of my class anyway. There’s an underlying aspect to her that is arrogant. Self-righteous.

Good. That’s just the attitude I need to get her out of my mind… if only I could do that.

By the time I waltz into the summer sta meeting in the afternoon, I’m mentally exhausted and not prepared to handle the next half hour of Deborah telling us information we all already know.

I glance around near the whiteboard wall and let out an exhale.

“Not even a snack table,” I mutter more to myself than anyone else.

I look up to find Max already sitting at the back of the auditorium, his face half obscured by the paperback hovering a couple inches from his nose. His hand launches up in the air in a lazy wave.

“Don’t worry, I’m rebelling too,” he calls down.

I take the steps two at a time in his direction, reaching the topmost stair and pulling the book back as he squints to catch the words.

“Why don’t you just get glasses?” I ask, sidestepping past him into the aisle.

“Glasses are for nerds,” he says with a grin, burying his nose back into the open spine.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, plopping into the seat next to him. “You’re a nerd.”

Max lowers his book. “I played sports, so ergo, I am a cool kid.”

“Name one.”

“Chess.”

“That’s not a sport,” I say, propping my feet up on the back of the auditorium seat in front of ours.

“Yeah,” he says with a slight chuckle and a shake of his head. “But it was fun.”

I laugh with him, but then something in the air shifts, like a breeze rushing past my neck and when I glance at the

auditorium door, there she is.

Delaney’s lips are pressed together in an awkward state of newness, but even if she were uncomfortable, her straightbacked demeanor shows she’s trying hard not to succumb to it. She walks to a seat a couple rows in; nowhere near us. But I know she sees me because there’s a small blink-and-youmight-miss-it flick of her eyes to mine then away again.

She adjusts in her seat, crossing her legs in that rigid way she had them poised at Lily’s house. It tightens her shirt against her chest—some white blouse-looking thing that tucks into high-waisted jeans. Jeans that fit her all too well.

Damn.

By the look of her, she must be young. Her lips are too pouty and full. Her skin too smooth. Yet here I am, a midthirties professor getting an almost hard-on for his earlytwenties student. I’m a cliché.

I try to think of the bad things, like how she has that look of an academic that tries too hard to be an academic. Or how haughty she was the night before when mentioning how useless poetry is.

She scans the auditorium and then those eyes inevitably land on me. Our gazes catch, stuck like a looped snag in a sweater. I don’t look away and I distinctly see her back straighten more before she glances down to her phone.

“I thought students didn’t attend these,” I whisper to Max. I hadn’t meant for it to come out sounding low and like a secret, and yet it did.

Max looks up over his book then shrugs, turning the page.

“If Deb wants someone here, they’ll be here. But what’s so bad about her? She seemed nice last night.”

“She’s arrogant.”

“Bull.”

“She is.”

Max dog-ears the page he’s on and folds the book closed in his lap, looking out at her.

“Wait, don’t—” I start, but he’s already waving. The lovable lug.

She glances up from her phone and with a sharp, robotic wave, she returns his gesture, softened only by the slight smile that drifts up her face. Her cheeks flush. It only lasts for a moment before she glances between us and back down to her phone.

“She seems nice,” Max says. “But why does she look like she has a hard-on for disliking you?”

“What?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”

Max looks at me, his mouth falling open into a gleeful smile. “Geez, you look like you hate her too! Unscrunch that brow.”

“It’s not scrunched!” I say, shaking my head but in that moment I feel the lingering tension between my eyebrows that has been there all night and morning.

“Yes, it is!” he says with a laugh, reaching his hand up to my forehead which I instantly swat away.

“Stop.”

“Right. Yeah,” Max says, sni ng and leaning back, holding his book back up to his nose—the blind man.

“Wouldn’t wanna make you feel awkward about flirting with her or anything.”

My stomach drops. I jerk my head toward him, the speed of it amusing him enough to laugh.

“Stop, man. There’s nothing going on.”

“Come on, you’ve never slept with a student?” he teases. I know he’s joking because he has the good sense to lower his volume.

“Are you kidding me, Max?” I say, lowering my own to a hissing whisper.

“I’m just joking,” he says, chuckling.

Sleeping with students is no joking matter, especially with Deb. Every year we endure the exact same presentation on sta policies and the ones with bad touching students is almost too cringy to relive.

As if called on by the universe, Deborah walks in, her portfolio clipboard tucked under her arm as she adjusts papers on the podium. The clock reads exactly six. She never starts late.

“We’ll discuss later,” Max whispers.

“No, we won’t,” I mutter back.

The sta meeting itself is old hat for Max and me.

Deborah announces that classes start next week, as if we had no idea. Summer classes are normally just people trying to get credits cycled through. It’s a fraction of attendance than those who enroll in the fall and spring semesters so it’s an equally smaller sta . But there will still be long nights grading, reviewing lesson plans, and generally mourning any freedom I had when the English department was bigger because of course most of my department decided to take vacations. Then again, I approved them.

Both Max and I lean back, slouching in our chairs. I look across the auditorium to find Delaney doing exactly the opposite—so poised. So proper. So distant.

“A lot of you have approached me about the new funding,” Deborah says with almost an exhale. “I know we’re busy here. We’ve got a lot of things to do now that there’s a growing student population. Some of you have also met Delaney.” Her spidery arm stretches out to indicate Delaney, who gives a tight-lipped smile and wave. “Delaney will be helping me out this summer and also attending class.

If you have any ideas for budget allocation, you can schedule a meeting with us… or just show up at our brunches.”

Deb’s eyes shoot to me with a wicked smile as if to say, ‘yes, I just said that.’

“Dang, she just said that,” Max whispers.

“Yes, I know Max,” I mutter.

“The board is very particular where they want the funding spread, so bring your A-game. Show me you want it,” Deborah says. “And let’s have a great semester!” She claps her hands to start the flow of auditorium clapping, but mine is slow and bitter.

So, it’s all just a game to her.

I get up from my seat right after the meeting adjourns, ignoring Max’s calls of ‘where are you going?’ as I race over to Deb who has already gotten her briefcase and walked out.

Not only does she start on time, but Deb also does not linger.

I follow her out in the hall, chasing her down—the woman is a speed walking demon—and fall in step with her as we turn the corner in the hallway and walk alone together out the double doors and into the courtyard.

“Okay, what can I do to better my chances?”

She smiles and I know she has me where she wants me.

I’m of the belief that those high cheekbones of hers weren’t always there, but simply created by how she squeezes her lips together whenever she’s scheming. And the dean is always scheming.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about?”

“Yes, you do,” I say, singsonging the words slightly which gives me at least a little bit of a genuine smile from her. Something to put me in her good graces.

“Well, how bad do you want an addition to your sta ?” she asks.

“I shouldn’t have to fight for it.” We reach the Thomas Building containing our sta o ces—named after some billionaire who likes investments or something. Heck if I know.

I open the door for Deb and she practically floats past me.

“You know we’re struggling. I didn’t even take a vacation last year. We need help.”

“Where would you want to go vacation anyway, Ellis?”

“That’s beside the point.”

Deb halts suddenly and I stop with her. The squeaks of both our shoes are deafening in the echoing silence of the empty hall. She crosses her arms. She’s no longer laughing, but instead pursing her lips tight. There’s a certain threshold to how thin her lips can get, and thankfully I’ve never seen them disappear completely.

“Do some things then,” she says sharply. “Show me you want it.”

I feel myself sti en because I work my ass o and she knows it.

“With all due respect, ma’am, I think I have.”

“Well then, show the new girl or something.”

My stomach rolls in on itself. And not because I keep picturing Delaney, said new girl, in those tight pants, but also how irritated I am with how flippant Deb is being. I shouldn’t be surprised, but part of me wishes I was.

“You’re just passing this o to her?” I ask.

Deb’s eyes narrow, like a hawk spotting its prey. She’s the bird and I’m the rat.

“Why yes, yes I am.”

I pull in a sharp inhale, placing my hands on my hips and letting it out.

“So, I have to prove it to her?”

And then Deb’s lip curls in.

“Yes.” The word is almost a sneer. “Up your recruiting e orts. Get the word out. Show me you need more sta .”

“Once again, have we not?”

She narrows her eyes. I think she just likes the power play and having the upper hand. She can’t help it.

Fine. I’ll play this game.

“I’ll prep something,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “I’ll figure it out, I guess.” I cross my arms and look out the window, seeing the rest of the sta emptying into the courtyard. Then there’s Delaney, walking with Max, laughing at something he said. I can feel myself tense up at the sight of them. My muscles ache.

When I look back to Deb, her eyebrow is raised.

“And Asher, I don’t need to remind you about our policy regarding students, do I?” I feel the blood rush to my face. I’m not embarrassed, but something in me feels… o by the comment. Uncomfortable.

Not because Deb is right. I know my limits and sleeping with a student is against policy and downright unethical. But for just a moment, last night at First Stop, Deb might have been right.

“You know I would never have relations with a student, Deb. Come on.”

“Let’s hope so,” she says, but the intensity of her gaze doesn’t falter for a second.

For the first time this afternoon, I do feel like the rat.

“I’ll see you Monday morning, Dr. Ellis,” she says.

Why does that feel condescending?

“Yes ma’am.”

When she leaves, I look back out the window.

Delaney and Max are gone.

FIVE

Delaney

P

oetry can likely explain a lot of things: an undying love for another or even an elegant ode to ‘Merica herself—as many country songs at First Stop were eager to state. But no number of flu y words can explain how desperately I don’t want to be in Asher’s poetry class the following Monday.

I tried to spend the weekend carefree, hanging out with Lily. She even drove us to Hole in the Wall on Main Street and, though I was never big on pastries as a kid, even these donuts trumped my lack of pastry love and apprehension about Monday with their perfect glaze crackling with each initial bite. I’m pretty sure my mom would have thought the whole thing was endearing: me at a donut shop in a small town with some stranger I just met. Slightly outside of my comfort zone, but still close enough for me to feel in control.

Now that I think of it, my mom and Lily are very similar.

It’s their blind optimism in the world, something I always admired of her. Mom would have loved Foxe Hill. There’s even a little bit of my mom’s goofiness in Max the librarian —and also bartender?—who I talked with briefly after the summer faculty meeting.

He’s charming, sort of like Asher but in a di erent way— not nearly as mysterious. Max was the one who approached

me, simply asking if I had plans for the summer outside of college.

“So, you’re going to taunt the faculty all summer with the funding, aren’t you?” he’d said.

I laughed. “Sure sounds like a fun game to me.”

“I can tell you all their weaknesses if you like. Here’s a freebie: if you tell Erik the history professor that it’s all going to the cafeteria, he’ll lose his mind. Dude loves chicken finger Tuesdays.”

At the donut shop with Lily, our feet swinging on the stools as we each pick up another donut from the half dozen next to us, I wonder what Asher’s weakness is.

“You seem nervous about something,” Lily says. “It’s class, isn’t it? Drinking with your teacher. Classic.”

I laugh, trying to make light of it. I ended up telling her about Asher being my teacher. I couldn’t say no to her cute rosy cheeks.

“No, poetry just isn’t for me,” I say, bypassing anything to do with Asher.

But Lily is right. Poetry is the least of my concerns.

I don’t tell her how pompous her childhood friend seemed when I brought up the subject of poetry. I don’t tell her that, not only did we drink together like everyone else did that night, but I also flirted with him. I don’t say anything about Asher because I need an ally over these next six weeks and telling Lily that I think her friend isn’t as charming as he initially seemed isn’t the way to do it.

I need someone to eat donuts with while I silently endure six weeks with him.

Monday finally rolls around to have me standing in the shower with my forehead against the tile wall for most of the morning and driving in meditative silence the fifteen minutes to Foxe Hill Community College in the pouring rain.

Normally, I like rain. I like studying inside next to a window

that frames the scene as I get metaphorically lost in it. But I do not like getting literally lost in it.

I miss my exit which turns that fifteen-minute commute into twenty-five, and, when I finally pull in the school parking lot, I look over to find one of the only neighboring cars is Asher’s massive black truck in the teacher’s lot. Yes, those big wheels in all their glory. I may or may not stick my tongue out at it, relishing in the childishness.

Crawling out of my car into the humid, summer courtyard, I walk through the rain with my clear umbrella held above my head. The only thing heralding my arrival over to the Auditorium Building is the plunking of my new chunky Mary Janes in hidden rain puddles.

I let down my umbrella once inside the building, shaking it o between the glassed-in foyer and the dank hallway.

The first door on the left is the only one with a light beaming out from under the door. Just as thunder booms outside, I read the two words: ‘Beginner Poetry.’

Six weeks.

I sling my leather crossbody backpack farther up my shoulder, hook my umbrella handle to it, and adjust my hold on the co ee cup in my fist. It’s nearing eight o’clock, but I’m not ashamed to be drinking the same co ee from seven o’clock reheated three times. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

I push open one side of the double doors, flooding the hall with light.

The lecture halls at Foxe Hill Community College are di erent from my graduate program. The walls are older, more of an o -color egg white rather than the pure white of the modern setup I’m accustomed to. Instead of hardwood, there’s carpet, low to the ground and sticky. Even from where I stand, I can see some faint stains where gum might have once been but was since haphazardly removed.

The college’s buildings are older and weathered with time and likely next to no funding has been applied to them until now. They’re dingy. Not like my professor, though. Not like him.

He is already here, and by one glance I can tell that cowboy Asher has disappeared and Professor Ellis has taken his place.

He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms to settle in the crook of his elbow. A vein or two trails up his wrists as he adjusts one slackened sleeve, pushing it farther up his arm, and reaching out to grab a sheet of paper on the opposite side of the desk. It’s not like I admire said forearms, but for some reason my eyes get stuck on them, trailing their way down to his wrists and then his large hands, watching the long, lithe fingers flip through papers, twist to tug his laptop toward him, and run over the keys with speed and precision.

No, I’m not admiring at all.

The door shuts behind me, echoing through the large room and there are his eyes, those green mysteries, staring back at me.

We both stand there for a second, me in front of the closed doors and him slightly bent at the waist, hovering over the desk positioned center stage. We’re just two deer waiting for the other to reveal itself as a car so we can run.

“Good morning,” I say cordially. “‘Morning,” he responds, and it sounds an awful lot like he hasn’t had his morning co ee yet with how raspy and deep and delicious it is.

I steel myself and walk to the first row. I almost move to the second aisle, but no, what am I afraid of? My professor?

Absolutely not. I plop down front and center, just as Asher’s shoulders flex when he stretches across the length of the desk to grab a stack of papers.

Good lord, those muscles.

It should be criminal.

And it’s quiet in here.

Too quiet.

But I’m not going to be the first to speak. I already said the first words of the morning. Or maybe I should continue conversation. It’s the high road thing to do. But then— “How was your weekend, Delaney?” His low voice echoes through the near empty auditorium, and the only sound afterward is the alarmingly high squeak of my damp shoes as I adjust my posture in my seat.

“Good,” I say. “Lily showed me around a bit. I got a head start on some budgetary stu too…” But my sentence trails o as I see a bright orange book on the table.

Oh crap. I’d recognize that monstrosity anywhere. It’s the book. The textbook for the class. I knew I was forgetting something in the chaos of driving across the country, settling into a cottage, and eating donuts.

But I forgot the one textbook I needed.

“She’s already got you working?” Asher’s voice brings me back.

“Yes,” I answer. “Deborah just sent some analytics on student enrollment.” And I devoured them. I poured over those numbers and I already have a good idea of what’s needed and honestly English is top priority.

He nods and it’s sti . Not angry, but tense. Like maybe he knows.

“I’m told I need to do more on that front,” he says, almost to himself more than me.

“Do more of what?” I ask.

“Something. Recruiting. Maybe outreach. Career fairs.

Who knows.”

“Then find a career fair.”

“They barely work.”

“Barely?” I ask.

“They just never pan out.”

“Maybe you’re just not doing it right.”

Asher’s head tilts to the side as he squints at me.

“And you think you’d do it better?” he asks. It’s not cocky, but curious. Okay, and maybe a little sharp at the ends.

“I’ve done a career fair or two.”

Or three or four. I love any type of a fair. Career fair.

Activity fair. You name it, I was there promoting my latest endeavor. You didn’t get my type of scholarships without pet projects.

“Is that why you’re here?” he asks. “To help get better career fairs?”

I tilt my head to the side just as he did. Asher is hot and cold, almost never-ending. Curious one minute, then o ended the next. He’s oddly defensive of his position here and, while I can’t blame him, he’s simply wrong.

“No,” I say. “I’m here to finish my credits and build a resume.”

It’s straightforward, but it’s also a fact. I don’t want him to misconstrue my time here as me being anything less than valuable. I’m not just a student. But that thought appears in my mind right as Asher crosses his large arms—one over the other. Right next to that textbook.

The book. Classwork. That’s what I need to focus on. Not his arms.

He lifts an eyebrow at me.

“What?” he asks.

“I didn’t…” I pause because the next words feel weird even exiting my mouth. “I didn’t get the book.”

My face flushes red at the admission—not even a minute after so happily putting him in his place. My mom always said that perfection is the enemy of the good, but if I’m not

even good enough to remember to get a book then what am I even doing here?

He opens his mouth, hesitating—maybe even thinking about something. Then he bends to the side and places his hand over the orange book. There’s a moment of adoration he shows to it, admiring it like an old friend. Then his features settle from frustration to determination.

He holds the book out toward me. “Take this one.”

“No, I can get my own.” The words tumble out of me before I can stop them.

“Take it,” he repeats. “I mean, I’ll want it back. But take it.”

I laugh a little, ba ed by the conversation. He’s looking from me to the book then back to me like a man relinquishing control of his vehicle to a new driver. Almost nervous. But that determination doesn’t go anywhere.

I squint at him, a small smile edging up my mouth.

“You’re just trying to get me to like poetry,” I joke.

“Take it or leave it, Delaney.”

I shrug but make no move to go for it.

Is it childish?

Maybe.

Stubborn?

Yes. Irrational?

Absolutely. Because I need that book.

“Fine,” he says with a small laugh. “Fine then. So, tell me, what’s your end game?”

“Like, after graduating?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“I like administration. What Deborah does.”

“Bureaucracy?” he asks.

I narrow my eyes. “Sure, if you want to put it that way. I like structure. Something you also like but I bet you won’t

admit.”

“And how did you get that impression?” he asks.

“You’ve lived here your whole life. You’re going to be tenured here, if you aren’t already. If that doesn’t say ‘I love stability’ I don’t know what does.”

There’s that smile again too, the one that shows just the edge of his teeth as if he’s internally laughing at my expense and it’s barely being contained.

“Well, who doesn’t?” he says, leaning forward over the table. “I’m not the one running from who knows where all the way out here. Not the first time I’ve seen a runaway.”

Runaway doesn’t seem accurate and yet part of me still gets shivers dancing across my skin. Because what else did I do after high school but leave Maryland and hop to the first prestigious college away from me and my mom’s small, rented apartment?

I can feel my cheeks getting hot.

He smiles wider and I hate how gorgeous and knowing it is.

Who is this man anyway, leaning over the table, his shoulder muscles pulling his button-up taut across his back, his fingers splayed out on the table like he’s presenting a war map?

He is a man I wish to prove wrong. Just as I always have.

Controlled and rationally.

“We’ll see where the numbers fall on funding,” I say, sucking in my cheek.

Asher shakes his head slowly, a slight smile of shock on his face.

“That seems like a threat from a student thinking she has something over me,” he says. “You know I grade your papers, right?”

“And that seems like an attack from a professor.”

My sarcasm echoes like a final nail in the co n of our nonexistent relationship.

Then it’s quiet again. But this time, it’s deafening.

It’s like every piece of silence is more grueling than the last—more punishing—more deadly.

My stomach starts to flip after a few moments of this, and then thoughts crowd my head. I wonder if maybe I did take things too far. I wonder if I just messed up royally. I wonder if I just crossed a line.

I decide to get out of my seat, walking across the floor and picking up the orange book on his desk. His eyes meet mine and they snag, just as they have before—a magnetic pull letting neither of us look away. His arm is so close I could touch it if I wanted to. But I don’t. I only came to this desk for the slight peace o ering—the orange poetry textbook.

For whatever good that is.

“You like thinking you’re correct, don’t you?” he asks, right before I turn to walk back to my seat.

“I like knowing I’m correct, yes.”

He shakes his head, letting out a breath of air through his nose. “Just take your seat.”

Don’t tell me what to do, is what I want to say, but instead I think better of it. And not just because it’s wrong but because the small part of me—the same part that saw cocky men hit on my roommates with a lopsided grin and felt jealousy— pulls tight and wants him to tell me that again.

“Yes, Professor.”

SIX

Asher

E

ach day in the first week of classes passes just as awkwardly and awfully as that first one.

I’m suspicious of Delaney to put it lightly. She was so quick to pull a power card on me and place herself in a position of authority. She wasn’t afraid to bite back.

Though, past that morning, any interaction between has been nonexistent. Just silence punctuated by some form of tension I can’t describe. A buzz in the room when she’s nearby. A tingle on the hairs of my neck when I know she’s looking at me. I’ll catch her staring at me from time to time and, guilty as charged, she’ll catch me looking at her as well.

There’s a shiver that runs from my neck down to the top of my spine when I see her. Her posture is so elegant, every movement so deliberate and delicate. Even her handwriting is purposeful, an exact replication of a cursive how-to guide, like she’s lived her life trying to achieve perfection even in the small things.

I find sanctuary in my o ce after class, even with the scattered papers pointing out the mountains of work I have left to do. But it’s like a breath of fresh air, a sense of normalcy before those hazel eyes and blonde hair walked into my classroom. The only distraction I can find is grading

papers once more, burying myself in work and researching local events to hopefully gain some of Deborah’s favor—or, I suppose, Delaney’s and the budget’s.

Damn it.

When Friday rolls around, I’m exhausted and ready to go to Kayla’s house. We spend most Fridays at Kayla and Joey’s house, lounging in their backyard near a bonfire—the same routine since high school that I’m still not tired of.

I pull into the driveway that night, seeing Keaton’s Jeep is already there. Violet steps down from the passenger side, cradling Tupperware in her arms.

“Oh no, did I forget a potluck or something?” I ask, shutting my own car door and noticing both Lily’s and Max’s cars are here too. I’m not normally late to these things, but I guess time flies when you’re grading papers.

“Nah, Max asked if we could bring some of Mom’s cookies,” Violet says.

“Dang, he’s even asking you guys now?”

“I’m convinced he’s only in our friend group for your mom’s baking,” Keaton says with a dimpled smile toward Violet.

“That’s probably why you’re dating me,” Violet says, bumping her shoulder into him. Even one year later, it’s still weird to see them like this, flirting and inseparable. Violet always had a crush on Keaton, even when we were kids, but I had no idea my best friend felt the same way for my sister. I try not to think about it too much, especially because he gives her a quick thwack on the ass and, good lord, I’d rather wipe that from my memory.

Keaton takes the box of cookies from Violet and peeks in.

“We weren’t sure what to bring for Delaney, so I hope she likes cookies.”

I stop in my tracks, feeling my blood rushing up to my face.

“Why is Delaney here?” I ask.

Violet and Keaton exchange a look before Violet sco s at me through a smile.

“Don’t be rude. Lily is bringing her. What’s wrong with that?”

“She’s technically my student,” I mutter.

Keaton laughs. “We already had drinks with her last week.

Kinda crossed that line already, didn’t we?” That doesn’t help the unease in my stomach. “Plus, she needs friends.

Remember when Max moved here?”

The three of us walk around the side of the house to where a shifting light from the bonfire shines over the fence.

“Yeah, that was di erent though,” I say.

“Was it?” Violet asks.

I unhook the latch to walk through and, yes, there Delaney is wearing the very same dress from class earlier but now without the chaste tights and boots. Just smooth, barelegged, with the fireglow glinting o them as she stands across from Kayla.

“Delaney, right?” Kayla is asking, folding her legs underneath her on the patio couch.

“Yes, we met last week,” Delaney says.

“At First Stop, yes!” Kayla snaps her fingers. “Sorry. Very drunk. Lots of dancing. Anyway, you’re Asher’s new student?”

The words sink my stomach down, down, down until I may as well be emotionally rotting from the inside out.

Leave it to Kayla to start the night with something like that.

“Yes,” Delaney answers sti y, taking a swig of her drink, something brown in a low tumbler. Her eyes toss over to me and our gazes lock, all with me trying not to glance down at her legs again right before she twists her gaze away.

Damn.

I grab myself a beer from the cooler and clap Joey on the back as he sits in his lawn chair next to the fire. Joey and Kayla were the wildest among us as teens and I didn’t think married life would ever suit them, but fast forward two kids and Joey’s ever-expanding beer belly and it shows they’ve settled in quite well.

“We’ll pretend your student isn’t here tonight, dude,” Joey says with a low grunt.

I glance to Delaney who looks at the fire, sipping from her glass.

And I’ll pretend she isn’t wearing a skirt as short as that.

“Is that the plan?” I mutter.

“We have cookies for Max,” Keaton says, raising the box over his head.

“Oooh, let’s eat them and tell him you forgot,” Joey says, reaching out his hand, palm up.

“I heard that.” Max closes the sliding glass door from their house, shaking his head at Joey.

“Pretend you didn’t.”

“Ooh, I like this game,” Kayla says, clapping her hands together. “I’ll pretend I won’t go over my calorie limit if we eat all of Max’s cookies.”

“And I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” Max says with a smile.

“I’ll pretend Max o ered his cookies,” Lily says, waggling her eyebrows up at him.

Max flushes red as his eyebrows pull inward. “Okay, what’s with eating all of Max’s cookies…”

“I’ll pretend Max doesn’t get red when Lily talks to him,” Joey says, barking out laughter when Max throws him a glare.

I look over at Delaney who glances between each of my friends, watching them toss comment after comment to each other. She’s nodding, almost to herself, and even swaying a

little, like maybe she’s just enjoying this reality television show among my friends.

I haven’t spoken to her all week. She does her work in class and leaves. Only once did I see her walking from Deb’s o ce down the hall and out to her car. Our eyes met. She said ‘hey’ and I nodded a quick salute, but that was it.

And yet here she is at my sacred grounds. My friends’ house. And she seems happy. Something about that makes me feel a little lighter as well. I can’t help but smile at her.

“I’ll pretend Asher didn’t accidentally stomp through my garden the other day,” Lily says with a playful smile at me, tuning me back into the conversation surrounding us.

“I’ll pretend Lily hasn’t reminded me about it every day since,” I respond.

She sticks out her tongue and we both look to Delaney who is still smiling between all of us.

“And what are you pretending, Delaney?” I call over to her. I don’t even realize I’m saying the words until her eyes meet mine. They blaze more like a lion’s than their typical color due to the glow of the fire.

She laughs a little, maybe awkward to have been called out. But good-naturedly, she tips her glass toward the group.

“I’ll pretend that I like whiskey.”

“That’s your second glass,” Kayla says, lifting an eyebrow at Delaney and smirking. “You ain’t pretendin’, girl.”

We all laugh, but the way Delaney sways from side to side is less than ideal. Even more interesting is the way she cocks her head to the side in my direction before quickly averting her gaze back to the fire.

“Okay, who wants these mixed in ice cream?” Kayla asks, snatching the box of cookies from Keaton and walking toward the house.

Joey heaves himself from the lawn chair, following behind her with a ‘whoop!’ and Max’s sigh of “But they’re perfect as is!” Violet, Keaton, and Lily follow suit, but Delaney is still looking in the fire, mesmerized by it. And, if I had to guess, drunk.

I want to leave, but I can’t in good conscience leave her alone in a new place under the influence. It doesn’t seem right—no matter how much I don’t want to be alone with her.

So, I find myself walking over to her, nodding at the glass in her hand. The liquid is near empty.

“Only the second glass, huh?” I ask.

She sucks in her lips, relieving them of their plump shape.

She seems more innocent here, examining the dregs of whiskey with wide doe eyes. The tops of her cheekbones are pink. Her lashes so long as she peeks back up to me through them.

I swallow because suddenly my pants feel much too tight around my crotch.

“You know, I don’t remember liking whiskey this much,” she says. “Honestly, I never drank much back home.”

“Explains why you’re a lightweight. Your parents never had liquor lying around?”

“My mom worked a lot,” she says. “Never had time to drink.”

“Well,” I say, clearing my throat and nodding again toward her glass. “Pace yourself.”

“You pace yourself,” she mocks.

I sco , rolling my eyes with a smile. “Good one.”

She smiles up at me again. I hadn’t noticed how much shorter she was until now. It’s cute, but her little drunken lip bite reminds me that I’m walking on eggshells with landmines precariously placed every few feet.

Delaney must feel it too because the air around us swells.

Some type of electricity that has me clenching my jaw until she finally nods and walks o toward the house.

“I’m gonna go get some of those cookies, I think,” she says.

“Have fun beating o Max.” My whole body feels like it cringes all at once.

“From the cookies,” I clarify.

“I’ll have a blast beating him o . No worries.”

I close my eyes as she laughs. Once I peek them back open and see she’s disappeared into the house, I release a breath of air and plop down into Joey’s vacant chair.

The humid summer air feels heavier than usual. More stifling.

I need a distraction from how stupid I am.

I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my notifications. There’s a new post from my mom displaying the batch of cookies my friends are currently feasting on.

Another post from a woman I met last winter that now travels the country in her van. She, her fiancé, and their daughter seem happy, but something in my gut pulls at the picture.

Her… Violet and Keaton… Joey and Kayla…

The right person just hasn’t come along for me. Not that I’ve been actively looking. I have partners here and there— normally out-of-towners so there are no real strings. But a family… I can’t deny I’m just that type of guy. But forget finding someone right now—not when I’m as busy and overworked as I am. And if I want a life, I need to get that funding for new hires in my department.

I pop open an explore page and scan the city hall website.

The blog is run by the mayor’s assistant, a tech-savvy younger woman with a penchant for snooping and social media. She logs all the random events in Foxe Hill, but

nothing my department could contribute to that would make us look good in Deb’s eyes. There are random events: the band camp at the high school is starting next week.

Construction on the new museum center is wrapping up.

There’s even a new pop-up holiday store replacing the abandoned convenience store on Main Street.

But nothing for me.

The looming thought of finding something—anything— to help the English department get that funding feels like it’s starting to weigh down on my chest.

And then I see Foxe Hill High’s recent post about their career fair for this Monday.

Bingo.

I’ve only done one career fair in the past and it was hosted in the city, mostly for those wishing to get continuing education. It was just me and Curtis.

I groan.

Curtis and his whole math presentation. The English department’s name was dropped maybe once if I was lucky.

Overall, our e ectiveness was questionable. People visited the booth, but they didn’t stay long. Maybe it was Curtis’s dull voice. Maybe it was that I was distracted by being in the city. I had been anxiously glancing at the street ensuring my truck didn’t get a ticket on the windshield.

City parking is a nightmare.

Either way, I’m determined that career fairs are not for me. Definitely not with a partner like Curtis, anyway. But a career fair might be what puts me on the radar for this funding. And, regardless of whether I like them, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I copy the article into an email, type up a quick pitch to Deb, and send it through.

Possibly two minutes pass before Delaney is sliding open the glass door to the house and stomping down the slight hill

in the backyard to the fire pit.

“What about the career fair?” she asks, flashing her phone.

I open my mouth to ask how she knew but on the screen in small text is the exact email I just sent Deb. She already forwarded it to her.

“Wow, she is putting you in charge,” I say.

Delaney sits on the fireside chair next to mine, letting her phone drop in her lap as she toys with a pinky ring, pulling it o and back on like a married woman sweating at a singles bar.

“Why the career fair?” she asks, ignoring my comment.

“Who all are we paying to go?”

I narrow my eyes, but my phone buzzes, and the sound is louder than I would have expected. I peek and find it’s an email response from Deb with its only one sentence: Who all are we paying for?

I feel like I’m in an alternate reality where Deb and Delaney are the same person and I hate it.

“Is she asking the same thing?” Delaney asks, nodding at my phone.

I lift an eyebrow. “Are you seriously reading over my shoulder?”

She shrugs with a slight smile. “Your phone text is too big.”

“I size it up so I can read on the treadmill.”

I instantly regret saying that. No need to have her imagine me sweating. But then guilt washes over me again for even worrying about that.

“I’ll go with you,” Delaney continues, once again ignoring my comment and filling the silence with a shrug.

“Who is it for?”

“They host it every summer for recently graduated seniors.”

“I could probably do a better career fair than you.”

I sco out a laugh. “That’s confident.”

I can practically smell the whiskey coming from her mouth. Potent, but still mixed with her scent of vanilla and the freshly cut lawn in Joey’s backyard. A beautiful summer evening that makes me squirm.

“Seriously, I bet I can make it work,” she continues.

“Plus, this will help me visualize the e orts we’re making toward student recruitment. See if it’s worth it to fund.” It’s like the second she talks about budgets, her whole drunken slur disappears. She’s in her element with administration, I’ll give her that. “I’ll sign the both of us up.”

“How many drinks are you at now?” I ask.

She tilts her head to the side with a definitive nod.

“Enough to challenge my professor and win.”

I laugh. “Sure. We’ll see about that.”

But I will definitely need her to stop being so… her.

SEVEN

Delaney

I

wake up the next morning to the sound of wind chimes and the warm gentle breeze of summer air floating in through the cracked open window. It is everything I need to counterbalance the not-so gentle headache pressing into my temples.

I sit upright, glancing to the rocking chair in the corner with a quilted blanket draped over the back. My luggage is unzipped in the seat. I look out of the wooden window frame.

My car is parked in the flattened grass by the garden. At the end of the long driveway is a white picket fence, and the mailbox is painted a bright peachy pink.

The cicadas buzzing, the birds chirping… it reminds me of when we visited Grandma outside of the city. Better times.

Times when Mom wasn’t working.

I barely remember coming here but I know where I am.

It’s Lily’s house, and it’s so positively adorable that I might vomit. But I think this hangover is happening whether I’m in a cute place or not.

I fall back onto my pillow, running my hand over my face, likely taking some of my day-old mascara or eyeliner with it.

I roll to the side, grabbing my laptop from the floor and propping it open. The budgets Deborah sent me last week are

already pulled up. I look over them, along with a new email from her containing the current sta and their salaries along with proposed salaries for if I want to add new hires into the mix—something Asher seems intent on.

The amounts are much lower than what I’m accustomed to seeing out in Boston, but then again, the cost of living in Foxe Hill must be minuscule in comparison. There are a few positions that have higher salaries—department heads, for one. I glance for a second at Asher’s but try to focus on someone else’s instead.

I’m not that person. Never have been. Money isn’t a motivator for me, especially with how me and my mom lived most of my life. And I definitely don’t care what Asher makes.

I used to tell my mom I’d make just enough money so she could live with me. Mom said she only wanted enough money to be comfortable. Happy. And to give back to the community, whether it be in monetary values or to pay with her time like volunteering.

Unfortunately, Mom never had time. She spent her days in o ces during the day and after dark, cleaning the waste of corporate America and politicians in D.C. “I’m gonna walk in on someone having an a air one day, I swear,” she’d joke once I was old enough and well-read enough to know what that was.

My stomach would flip at the idea of two adults… doing that. Sex always seemed taboo to me. No boys. Just grades.

“Would you tell someone?” I’d ask.

“No, they can do things their way. I do my job the right way. I have no time for politicians and their a airs.”

That word again. A air.

“Have you ever thought about any of them? I mean… you wouldn’t…”

“Delaney Danielle Davis,” she’d said. I knew the triple Ds were when I’d crossed a line. “That is unethical. I won’t hear

it again.”

I attempt to sit up in the attic bed again, and this attempt is much better. Though, still not ideal because what was once a light breeze through the window now feels like a punishing strike to the forehead.

One step at a time.

Slowly swinging my legs over the bed, I pad across the creaky wooden floor to grab a pair of leggings from my bag. I slip them on, grab a hair tie to secure my bird’s nest into an even messier bun, and walk down the attic staircase into the open kitchen.

Lily sits at the breakfast nook in the corner working on a puzzle. A drying painting is propped beside her.

“Breakfast?” she asks, setting the piece in her hand to the side as she looks up at me.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” I say, but she shakes her head.

“Trust me. Some eggs will do you some good with that hangover. How’s your head?”

My head. Completely obliterated would be the appropriate answer.

“Not well,” I say with a small laugh.

“Yeah,” she says. “Let’s go to Keaton’s and get you some food.”

Lily reaches up to a top cabinet, swiping a hanging plant vine aside, and pulls down a small plastic bottle. She slides it toward me.

“It’ll help your headache.”

“Thanks,” I say, emptying one tablet into my palm and throwing it back to swallow dry, eliciting a comedic shiver through her body.

“I’ll get you water, girl, then let’s roll out. I’ll drive.” She pours me a glass from the pitcher retrieved in her fridge and

hands it to me. “I’ll text the gang and let them know we’re going.”

I assume ‘the gang’ also means Asher. I swear the name alone makes the cool water suddenly taste bad, like his name turns water to wine, except it’s water to… ugh, I’m too hungover to know for sure.

Besides, thinking his name feels wrong, like we’re actually friends or something. Not at all like he’s my professor.

“You know, maybe I shouldn’t,” I say.

“Why?” Lily asks with a laugh, turning to lean against the counter.

“Well, one of your friends is my professor.”

“He’s just Asher.” She says it so simply, like I’m not potentially breaking fifty school rules. I honestly don’t know if I am.

“To you, he’s Asher,” I say. “To me, he’s… I don’t know.”

Lily smiles. “Let’s just get you breakfast.”

O NE CAR RIDE LATER , LOOPING THROUGH THE BACKWOODS OF F OXE Hill—God help my equally looping stomach—and I’m sitting in the sandwich shop’s booth on Main Street, head tucked in my hands as Lily keeps getting my water refilled.

Keaton is behind the counter, slicing a sandwich in two.

Violet is already up, grabbing it and placing it in front of me.

The crew flows like water, smooth and in sync. I’m not even in their friend group, but they’re treating me like I’ve been here the whole time.

“Thanks,” I mutter, taking a small bite.

Eggs. Garlic powder. A bit of onion.

My breath is going to smell horrible, but boy does the sandwich taste good. And, right as it hits me that I’m with

people… and not just people but soon-to-be Asher and I need to get a breath mint ASAP… oh God no… a black pickup truck pulls into the lot next to the shop and I already know who it is.

In his well-fitted black shirt and cowboy boots, I don’t think I have the energy to handle him this morning. He walks in, ringing the bell above the door and, by the time he looks back to me, I can’t help the way my face falls. I can feel my brow straighten into one line, and I can taste the slight blood from how strongly I’m chewing on the inside of my mouth.

The absolute tenacity of him to look that good…

He gives me a small wave and walks over to our set of booths in his well-fitting denim jeans, slightly scu ed at the knee. Not trashy; just rugged enough.

“Look at you,” he says, the edge of his smile tugging up.

“Don’t test me,” I say deadpan.

He grins.

“Asher, did you stop by Mom’s?” Violet calls from the front counter. “She’s been asking for you. Says she has your mail.”

“It’s been fifteen years since I lived there. Why does my mail still go to her house?”

Violet laughs. “You and me both.”

I never had a sibling, but if I did, I wonder if I’d be as close as them. Or as banter-y, at minimum. Violet is everything yet nothing like Asher. Very smiley, but a little quiet like Keaton. Plus, I’m still not accustomed to being in the presence of someone who made a documentary that revived this little town. She seems so… normal.

“Momma Ellis need something to-go, Asher?” Keaton asks from behind the counter.

“Ham and cheese?”

“You got it.”

Asher also must be close with his mom. And that fact makes my head and heart hurt more.

“Is the ham and cheese good?” I ask. I can’t help that my voice comes out a little weak. He even has the decency to look sorry for me. I dislike it.

“Oh, you’ve clearly never had this place,” he says.

“Everything Keaton makes is good.”

“As a matter of fact, I have an egg sandwich right in front of me,” I say, gesturing to my plate.

“And how is it?”

“Still working on it,” I say, letting out a small groan.

“And getting cold, I’d imagine.”

I look down at it and then back up to him. He cracks a smile, a small grin lifting half his lip up.

“Still up for the career fair Monday?” he asks.

Right. I agreed to that. In fact, I challenged him to that.

“Yep,” I say, popping the ‘P’ for emphasis.

“How are classes with my brother?” Violet asks me, propping her chin up at the counter with a grin.

I can’t insult her brother in good faith, so I just smile and say, “Fun.” Plus, it’s hard not to be happy in her cheery company.

“She doesn’t like poetry,” Asher says to Violet.

I gape open my mouth. “Well, he doesn’t like students.”

“Wow, shots fired,” Violet says with a laugh.

“She’s just bitter she doesn’t get it,” Asher says, aiming his eyes toward me.

Fine. I’ll play.

“He’s just upset he has to defer to me for some things, like the budget,” I bite back. “Don’t like the students having the authority, eh Professor?”

Violet’s hands go up in the air as she walks back to the bathroom. “Okay, I’m stepping away.”

I don’t blame her. Looking at Asher now, eyes staring back at me, I can see his rising and falling chest beneath that black tee. He’s clearly built. I bet he knows how good he looks.

I scrunch my nose up and he mirrors me before sitting down in the booth seat across from mine. We both cross our arms and settle in simultaneously, biting the interior of our cheeks and shaking our heads.

“What game are you playing?” he asks.

“What are you talking about? I’m just doing what Deborah is asking me to do,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “I can’t help the English department is far down my list.” It’s honestly not. Not with how little they currently pay them which is criminal. But I don’t say that.

He leans his elbows forward on the table.

I lean forward as well. I dislike how nice he smells, like the outdoors and maybe a bit of leather. I wonder if the interior of his truck’s cab is leather.

“You think you’re teacher of the year, don’t you?” I ask with a small shake of my head.

“Maybe I’m just naturally this charismatic. You ever thought of that?”

“In fact, I haven’t.” I have—the second he walked in here with a smile on his face and his friends waving at him like he’s the town hero.

“Hey, you’re the sneaky person trying to shunt me of my rightful funding.”

I throw my thumb over to his truck parked in the lot neighboring the shop. “Anything looks like subtle when you own a truck like that.”

He angles his finger at me.

“Hey, don’t insult the truck.”

Something about that movement, the decisiveness in his tone, and that finger wag…

I shift in my chair, my legs suddenly feeling a bit hot. I can feel my forehead growing warmer and something in my gut tightens and relaxes all at once. The back of my throat feels like a small hand pats it, but I know that is not a good boy pat.

“Oh shit,” I say, getting up from the table, seeing that the bathroom is occupied by Violet, twisting, ramming my stomach into the countertop, and heaving over it. All of my egg sandwich lands, at least partially, into the trash can behind the counter.

It tastes like whiskey and eggs and embarrassment.

“Jesus—” I hear Asher’s cowboy boots behind me, his rough hand grabs my hair, gripping it into a ponytail and I hurl another gut-wrenching, nearly yelling, vomit.

Egg sandwich galore.

“You alright?” Asher’s voice is there, yet distant all at once as he clutches my hair harder. The tug of it sends shivers down my spine but I’m not sure if it’s the sandwich or something else now.

I let out another wail, more vomit, and the instant it’s out of my system, my stomach empty. The tugging at the back of my throat leaves.

Relief.

Then I’m just standing there, leaning over the countertop, every one of my new friends—plus a few other sandwich shop patrons—staring directly at me, and my hair still wrapped in Asher’s fist.

“Hold out your hand,” Asher demands. Not wanting to argue when my stomach is still weak, I extend my palm and a paper towel is placed in it. I wipe my mouth, let out an involuntary groan as he lets down my hair—I’m telling myself it’s from the leftover ache—and then stand upright.

“Well, that was—” he starts, but in that moment, the front door opens, and Deborah stands in the doorway,

smoothing her skirt down, her eyebrows pushed together in the center of her forehead.

Ugh, yes, I might be sick again.

“Happy Saturday,” she says. Her tone is even, borderline harsh.

“Hey, Deb,” Asher answers for us both.

Her lips pull back in disgust as she stares down at the floor. I try to follow her gaze but am snapped back to attention when her eyes dart back to me. “What’s this?”

“Bad eggs,” Asher says.

“Dude—” Keaton starts but Asher’s eyes narrow at him.

I instantly feel uncomfortable. Does Deborah think…? Oh God. She thinks we’re hanging out. Outside of school. A professor and a student. Me, her budgetary trust, and Asher the department head that wants it.

This is a conflict of interest on so many levels and my gut lurches again.

“We’re prepping for the career fair,” Asher says, looking to me.

“Oh,” I answer. “Yes.” The news doesn’t seem to faze her. But I don’t say anything more. For once, I let Asher handle it how he wants to.

The door to the bathroom opens behind me and Violet stands there. She and Keaton exchange a glance and like some unspoken language, she turns to her and smiles. “Are you ready to place your order, ma’am?”

Asher and I side-step at the same time, in sync with each other, inching our way back over to the booth as Deborah steps forward to start placing her order with Keaton as if we aren’t even here.

We sit there, Lily trying to hold conversation with us as I wait for Deborah to be finished at the register.

She checks out, her bagged lunch in hand, and stops in front of our booth.

“I appreciate you working with our sta , Delaney,” she says. It’s matter-of-fact, but the sheer embarrassment of this whole situation makes my palm sweaty. “The career fair will be good for you to get the full picture.”

“I agree,” I say, trying to sound more like, yes I agree and not yes, please leave I can’t have my boss seeing me like this.

“Right. I’ll see you Monday then?”

“Yes ma’am,” I answer.

Then, Deborah turns deliberately on her chunky heels and strides out the door, the bell ringing her absence.

After she’s gone, the air in the room settles and then it’s just the fans overhead beating to the same rhythm of my pounding heart.

I look to Asher who is already staring at me. Somehow, I knew he was. I could just feel it.

“Well now we’re definitely doing the career fair,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. I try to do the same just to put us on an even playing field, but my stomach is still raw so that’s a bad move. I let them hang by my side as I shift in my seat.

“It’s gonna be fine,” I say, standing up. I need to get fresh air.

“Oh, Delaney…” Lily starts. I follow her eyesight down to my shoes, seeing one small chunk of vomit leftover from the top of my velvet navy blue Mary Janes.

“Hope those aren’t new,” Asher says. His tone is light and amused. I am not.

I meet his gaze, flashing a fake smile.

“Soon to be cleaned,” I say with a smile. “Just in time for the career fair, I promise.”

He chuckles. “Ten bucks it won’t matter. I’m telling you, these things rarely pan out.”

I shrug, regaining my composure. “I say we get at least thirty students to drop by.”

His eyes widen, but I don’t feel that he’s particularly angry. There’s something else in it. Fire. Burning. The same burning in the pit of my own stomach.

“Ten max.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

He smiles a bit, but then I think he must realize he’s actually having a halfway decent conversation with me because he clears his throat, looks out the window.

“I gotta go to work.”

“On a Saturday?” I ask.

“All the other professors are on vacation, remember?” he says with a raise of his eyebrows. “Stay clean, Delaney.”

“You’ll be eating those words come Monday.”

“Sure, I will.”

I smile with a sneer as he exits, and I have to work hard not to glance at his ass in those jeans.

“You two stress me out,” Lily says.

I open my mouth to answer, but I instead rush to the now open bathroom.

Maybe I’ll fight her comment later.

EIGHT

Delaney

N

ote to self: Don’t trust Asher Ellis after you place a bet.

I might be walking into a war zone today and I willingly put myself in the trenches.

The afternoon of the career fair, I drive down the windy backroads of Foxe Hill. Roads seem to pop out of nowhere, hidden behind trees, under bridges… I’m not sure even the GPS understands the area but it tries, only occasionally losing signal when I drive down an even trickier road.

I’m trying to listen as attentively as I can when a message pulls down from the top of my screen. An email ping from Asher.

Asher: Just got here. They need us to park in the back in the student lot. Go around the rotunda side.

As if I even know what ‘the rotunda side’ is, considering I’ve never laid eyes on this school, let alone been inside. But I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to come here.

Lost in thought, I miss the side road hiding behind overgrown trees. Cursing, I pull a U-turn in the empty twolane highway and circle back. Items in my back seat rattle, and the thunk of wood makes me think the booth signage just fell from the seat to the floor.

When I finally shook out of my hangover stupor Sunday morning, I emailed Deborah asking if we had any marketing materials available. The answer to that was a simple email of ‘no.’

“I’ll take that as a ‘Delaney, you have free rein!’” I had emailed.

She liked that response because I got back a simple, “Sounds good.”

So, then I spent the better part of yesterday pretending that I was a designer.

With the help of Lily, whose skills in Photoshop drove my e orts forward, we jointly created marketing materials for the Foxe Hill Community College career booth. I tried to do it on my own at first, but when I told Lily I didn’t know the di erence between Times New Roman and Comic Sans, she gasped and had to get up for water. After she returned, her fingers flew across my keyboard looking for new fonts. We ended up leaning hard into the cottage aesthetic, given that’s most of the material Lily had lying around her house, and we created something brilliant—at least it will be if it hasn’t already been destroyed by my furious driving yet.

Professor Asher Ellis won’t know what hit him.

When I reach the high school, I see a mess of cars in the front. It looks like the right place to park, but Asher explicitly said the back lot, so… I’ll at least trust him on this.

Bad. Decision.

When I go ‘around the rotunda side’ as he so kindly instructed, I’m met with a slew of high school kids spaced precisely a few feet apart, wearing a range of gym shorts, sweaty t-shirts, and tennis shoes. In front of them, up on an erected wooden overlook into the parking lot, are two people closer to Asher’s age with stern looks. One even throws a clipboard.

Along the edge of the sidewalk are black cases, boxes, and bags. The glimmer of a saxophone sticking out of an open lid and it suddenly hits me that this must be Foxe Hill High’s marching band. This is their band camp. And, most importantly, this is the absolute opposite way I needed to go.

Damn, Asher…

I roll down my window as they all break formation, apologizing as I attempt to weave through various cones they’ve set out, knocking over a few here and there. Nobody talks to me. The only response I get is an irritated man I assume is the band director leaning over the edge of his wooden podium, furiously waving his hand as if directing me through tra c, across the lot, around the backside of the building, and back to the full lot in front where I finally read a sign that says, ‘PARK HERE. BAND CAMP IN BACK.’ Yep. I’m gonna kill him.

Five minutes later, I burst through the front double doors with flames practically bursting at my heels due to the speed of my steps. I’m zooming down the hall as fast as my short legs will take me, hands full with a giant cardboard box containing marketing materials, a co ee machine, and other knick-knacks.

Because of that incident, in addition to the various missed turns in this topsy turvy town stuck in a forest, I’m definitely running behind.

I arrive at the check-in desk with the bundle of burlap on top of my box nearly toppling over onto their table. The nice woman standing there with a smile attempts to put it back on top, but it unfurls farther.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, allowing it to hang down, just barely dragging the floor.

I glance down at the table looking for my name tag among the three remaining.

“Name?” she asks.

But I don’t need to answer the sweet lady at the counter because I can see mine staring right back at me reading, ‘Delay-nee.’

“I’m sorry, but can I get a new name tag?” I ask, shifting my arms to get a better grip on my box. “It’s not spelled right.”

“Oh, sorry,” she says, picking up a clipboard and flipping through the papers. “It looks like that’s what the registration listed.” Her eyebrows pull toward the center as she bites her lower lip. “I even double-checked with Dr. Ellis and he said it was correct.”

“I’m sure he did,” I say.

I reach out with my pinky and slide the sticker containing my horrifically misspelled name to the edge of the table where I tuck it between my fingers. I heave the box up in my arms once more, trying to rebalance the load, and walk on before rounding the corner into the gymnasium.

There are about thirty booths set up with varying degrees of interest at this career fair. Quite a few major corporations likely based in the city, a military booth, real estate agents… they’re simple with mostly candy or other swag items. And then, over in the corner is our completely blank booth with Asher sitting down behind it, his laptop out in front of him, and a small sign erected over the side. It’s the college’s logo but printed on basic printer paper.

It’s sad. There’s absolutely no draw to it other than the man sitting at it.

It’s undeniable that Asher is good-looking, especially in today’s robin egg blue business casual button-up that hugs each shoulder and tightens with each bicep. I stared at him in it during class all morning. It’s one of my favorite shirts he wears. He has the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and it makes him look more… well, definitely more something that I can’t place my finger on. All I know is that, as I storm across

the gym toward him, my knees get wobblier and the weight of the items in my arms feel heavier.

His eyes look up from his laptop without moving his head.

His gaze remains hooded from the angle and I feel a catch in my throat when I swallow. I must be getting sick or something.

He lifts himself up from his seat, sliding his laptop to the side, and walk-jogs around the table to help me empty my arm full of materials into his.

“What’s all this?” he asks.

I let him take the box, trying to ignore his nice cologne scent and the way his arms brush mine at the hand-o .

“I brought things,” I respond.

“There’s no point going all out for these,” he says, dropping the box on the table. “I’m telling you, people never stop by our booth.”

I look at the disappointing attempt at decoration. With one strong gust of the air conditioning turning on in the gym, the school logo unsticks then flutters down to the floor.

“They’re probably not stopping by because you’re not trying,” I say. I walk over and hip check him out of the way.

“Move over and let me set up.”

Asher watches me intently as I roll out the burlap tablecloth over the table then prop up the painted wooden sign I made with the college’s logo. Near the front edge of the table, I litter handfuls of chocolate and candy. Digging into the box, I then pull out a co ee machine with preloaded pods and hold the plug up.

Asher looks at me like I’m an insane person and, hey, maybe I am. But I know how to get high school kids interested in a booth.

Free co ee.

“Do we have an outlet?” I ask.

His mouth hangs out with eyebrows furrowed. I can’t tell if he’s impressed, annoyed, or all of the above.

Asher points silently to the wall plug in the corner.

“Thanks,” I say, walking past him, lightly brushing our shoulders against each other because, sure, I might be imagining I’m a West Side Story snapping fingers dance-o here and one shoulder-check makes me feel like I’m winning.

I grab the co ee pot and run to the nearest water fountain to fill it before jogging back, emptying the liquid into the back reservoir, starting it, and hearing the water start to warm.

I look down at what remains. On the floor is a stack of promo papers for the school I printed and, beside that are flyers that Asher must have brought.

“Well, I guess you brought brochures, so thanks for that,” I say, taking the stack he printed and spreading them out across the table in organized disorganization. Lily said it would look appealing. She wasn’t wrong.

When I glance back to Asher, his face is twisted to the side, arms crossed, those damn muscles tightening the shirt against them.

“Wasted e orts,” he says.

“We’ll see.”

I LOVE BEING RIGHT . A ND SOMETHING ABOUT SEEING THESE FORMER students flock to our display, grabbing co ee after co ee, unleashing the weight of their future college worries onto us, feeds my soul with so much energy that by the time our break arrives, I’m grinning from ear to ear.

Asher seems far less excited about my win, but it’s hard to deny that we’ve been the talk of the career fair to the

point where Asher had to open a new doc on his laptop just to record emails of students who wanted more information after we only had a few flyers remaining.

The gym is emptied out for the evening break and I’m restocking co ee pods while Asher throws out used co ee cups students had forgotten to take with them. We don’t talk. I don’t know if he’s pissed it went well or if he’s just tired. It’s hard to see his expression when his head hangs so heavy.

He scoops up the last of the spare papers and waves them in the air.

“I’ll go print more,” he mutters, sliding the laptop toward him, bundling it under his arm, and leaving the gymnasium.

Something about how slow he moves, the utter defeat in his voice, should make me feel good. But honestly, I don’t like seeing him like that, like a puppy who just got knocked to the side of the road. I think even his bottom lip hung out which is just not right for a man that bulky and tall.

I try not to think about it, instead making my way out to the hall where they’re handing out dinner boxes. I grab one and roam down the hallways with it clutched in my hand.

Every high school looks exactly the same, but this one, like everything else in Foxe Hill, seems like it has energy practically breathing through it. There are framed pictures of students, faculty, football highlights, theater productions, you name it. Hallways are crammed with clear cases showing trophies, school memorabilia, some vintage shirts, and heck, a retired mascot head. There’s even one with plaques and trophies showing that the marching band is fairly competitive in the state.

Whoops.

I open the box to find a sandwich and take a bite—holy gods, it is good—before taking a second and third bite and

turning down another hall.

I stop mid-step and mid-bite when I notice that I’m no longer alone. At the end, standing in front of another clear case, is Asher. His laptop is clutched under one arm, the new college flyer sheets tucked beside it. His other hand is pocketed in his chino pants that unmistakably fit him well.

The sun beaming in from the small window behind him sets him in silhouette, outlining his figure. To some, it might be hard to see that it is in fact him, but I can just feel it. I always can when we’re in the same space.

By how quickly his head turns to look at me, he must hear my footsteps. At first, I wonder if I should just leave and give this man his privacy, but something in me tells me not to.

I walk down the hallway, expecting maybe some comment from him. Though, as I walk closer, he doesn’t seem to be in a combative mood. His face is blank, his stare focused from me over to the glass case.

Part of me starts to feel bad again. The kicked puppy look is back, and I don’t like it.

I glance into the case. There are pictures just like in other cases I passed, but some of these are in color. Standing arm to arm are four teens, grinning full-on with bared teeth— braces on one—and holding a trophy. At the end, is a kid with broad shoulders and the curve of a jawline that I’d recognize anywhere.

“Is that you?” I ask, pointing at the picture. I read the writing beneath it. “Debate team?” I let out a small laugh and his eyes swivel over to me. “Come on, that’s not surprising.”

I see the hint of a smile at the edge of his lips but only a small one.

“Yeah, that’s me.” His voice is low as it echoes through the hall. I’m not sure I’ve ever been alone in a high school hallway with a man looking like Asher does. Even in high

school, I didn’t like being alone with teachers, regardless of whether they looked as good as he does—especially if they looked as good as he does. “Did you do anything in high school?” he asks.

“Everything,” I say. “Mathletes. Student Council. I even worked the front o ce my senior year for work-study.”

“That’s not surprising either,” he mutters. This time, undeniably, he does smile.

“Yeah, the mathletes won state champion when I was captain.”

“Well, now you’re just bragging.”

We exchange smiles and he responds, “Debate team won under me too.”

“See? We have something in common.”

“Our competitive nature?” he asks, glancing over to me.

“Well, judging by the whole band fiasco.” I lean in with a smile. “You’re a bit more ruthless, I think.”

Asher’s face falls and he shakes his head, lifting a hand to massage his nose between a thumb and forefinger.

“Sorry, Delaney,” he says with a sigh. “That wasn’t right of me.”

Something in my chest flutters, like the spark of… maybe friendship? Or, at minimum, an understanding?

“Wow,” I breathe. “An apology from Asher Ellis?”

He chuckles and I like the sound of it. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard him genuinely laugh when it’s just the two of us.

At least, not since First Stop. But this seems natural. It seems nice.

“You’re really good at this whole networking thing, you know,” he says. He’s smiling. The man is smiling. Not a fullon excited-to-see-you smile, but something resembling contentment.

“Thanks,” I say. Something in me knows that my booth decorations were only part of the appeal, though. If I were a

student in high school, I would have made a beeline to the booth with this man sitting at it. “It wasn’t only me.”

Asher’s eyes glance up to me and, in that moment, I can’t look away. It’s weird how we both seem to pull each other in, like we’re both trying to slowly drown the other in our gaze, an e ort to keep ourselves afloat above the weirdness. I wish this were less mysterious—less terrifying.

I look back into the glass case, seeing another picture. It’s young Asher again with some girl. I know it’s him by the distinct jawline that he’s apparently had his entire life, and because he has a book clutched by his side. An orange book.

The same book I now have in my book bag at home.

He has a crown on his head and a sash around his torso.

“So, you were, what, homecoming king?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says through a small laugh, leaning his weight from one leg to the next.

“Hard to believe,” I say.

“I was a people person in high school. I mean, I still am.”

He shakes his head, laughing again, like this conversation is ridiculous to him. “I do like people, you know.”

“One wouldn’t know it,” I say.

“No, I suppose one wouldn’t, would they?” he says with a smile.

That smile elicits an equal one from me.

If we met at a di erent time, would we have been friends?

Would I like his smile as much as I like it now? Or would I like it even more given di erent, less antagonizing, circumstances?

If we went to high school together, I know I would have crushed on him from afar because that’s what I always did.

He would have been on the homecoming court and I would have simply heard about it the following Monday after a weekend of studying in my room. Thoughts of boys and

dating were just swoony daydreams between the library and SAT prep.

“Were you ever on the homecoming court?” he asks.

I shake my head, wanting to laugh but not. “I never really hung out with anyone. Mostly my mom. She was my best friend.”

He nods slowly.

“My mom and I are close too. Where is she now?”

My stomach clenches and I swallow. No, no time for that yet.

“Her happy place, I think,” I say with a laugh that makes him laugh too.

“It’s weird,” Asher says, nodding toward the picture of him on the court. “Being without people. Most of my friends stuck around after high school. Keaton was my go-to up until about a year ago.”

“What happened?”

“He started dating my sister, Violet,” he says with a laugh.

“Ouch.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he says with a chuckle. “He knows I’ll kill him if he fucks up.”

My head leans back at the strong curse leaving his lips. A zip of energy rips through my chest and right down between my thighs.

“Wow, strong words, Professor.”

Asher laughs. Hearty and full.

“Yeah, well, it’s my sister, you know?” he says it like it should be common knowledge. Like, of course he’d get protective of family. The feeling down below, the uncomfortable sensation beneath my skirt… that doesn’t go away. “About a year ago, they started traveling, so I don’t see them often anymore. Joey and Kayla have kids, Lily is

doing her whole art thing and just figuring out life, you know? And now I’m just… here.”

There’s a finality in that statement and when his eyebrows pull inward, I feel my own mirror them.

“People tend to stay here, don’t they?” I ask. “And when they leave, it’s hard, isn’t it?”

I’m trying to figure him out, get to his core, and the crazy thing is, he’s letting me.

“Yeah,” he says.

“You ever wanted to leave?”

“No,” he says. His response doesn’t even miss a beat. “I love it here. It’s my home. I want to help people. Make a di erence. At Foxe Hill Community, I can.”

That resonates in my bones. That’s what my mom always wanted too.

“But sometimes it gets a bit… I don’t know.” He doesn’t want to say the word ‘lonely’ but I just know it’s what he means. “I get overwhelmed, I guess. Small department, you know.”

The words sound hollow as they end, and it doesn’t help that the echo in the hallway is enough to create a third invisible person in the conversation.

Asher turns his head toward me. His features are so harsh while also soft, so bold but also subtle like the boy next door.

Or even the man next door—the one that brings you sugar or fixes your pipes. I bet a lot of women in town view him that way. Who wouldn’t?

“We got o to a weird start, didn’t we?” he asks.

My stomach clenches and I swallow. “Weird but not inaccurate. I’m your student. And kind of the owner of the school budget.”

“True,” he says. “Bit of a gray area, huh?”

“A little,” I say, scrunching my nose. He mirrors the gesture and I laugh.

He leans back on his heels, patting the laptop in his hand.

“Thanks for getting this stu by the way. The booth went really well.”

My heart skips once, maybe twice, but just enough to know that maybe we’re gonna be okay. Me and my professor.

Weird.

“Did I make you look good or me look good?” I ask, wincing with a joking smile.

“Lucky for me, it’s both,” he says with a chuckle.

“Thanks.”

I mentally log that he thanked me twice in the course of one minute, but I don’t mention it. All I can do is smile back at him.

A few seconds pass as we look at each other and I take the time to study the way his stubble looks so perfectly trim, the way his brown hair curls just below his ear, and how his eyes —a color I once thought was simply green—actually have a bit of brown to them, not unlike mine.

We’re weirdly similar in a way. Just two lonely people, trying to understand where we land in this world.

He leans his head down, eyes darting between mine, glancing over my nose and chin and back up to my eyes. I wonder what he’s seeing, and I wonder if it even means anything. I wonder even for a second if he’s going to kiss me.

And my heart rate rockets.

Asher glances down at his watch, blowing out a thick breath of air.

Nope. Maybe not.

“We should head back,” he says.

I nod, happy for the interruption. I try to change the subject.

“Did you get a sandwich from the dinner box?” I ask.

“They were amazing.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, starting to walk. I follow his lead as we turn the corner into the next hall. “That’s Keaton’s shop that catered. It’s probably better when you’re not yucking it up into a trash can, huh?”

I laugh. “Yeah, maybe your sister had the right idea going after him.”

Asher’s face splits into a smile and I like the way his straight teeth look when he’s happy. Not some subtle half smile, but a full-blown admission of happiness. It looks good on him.

“Don’t be weird,” he says.

“It’s hard for me, but I’ll try.”

We walk back into the gymnasium five minutes later. He starts the next pod of co ee for the influx of students, leaning against the table with his legs crossed at the ankles, and I splay out the papers he printed during the break.

For the rest of the fair, most of our conversations are with students rather than with each other. It’s funny, though, how easily each student opens up to Asher, especially those who, in their words, state to have no prospects after high school. They seem lost, and the more Asher talks with them, laughing and sharing his own high school stories where he was equally as confused about his future, I can tell that this is what he’s good at it.

That night when I get home, I keep the marketing materials in the car and head straight to the guest room in the attic to tear through my book bag.

I pull out the orange poetry book, setting it in my lap. It’s ratty, but I just assumed it was a textbook that came from some online shop, used and unused over and over until each college student disposed of it to pass on to the next.

But this copy was his. His precious poetry book he had with him even on the homecoming night in that picture, clutched like a safety blanket by his side.

And he let me borrow it.

I flip open the cover, its foundation weak and torn at the edges, a small co ee stain on the title page and small strokes illustrating the name ‘Asher Ellis’ on the interior. It’s written in thin, looping cursive. The handwriting of an old soul.

I turn the pages, watching how with every few, there are more notes written in the margins using the same beautifully amateur cursive. Words are circled, arrows pointed to particular stanzas, and, on a couple pages, the poem’s title is underlined two or three times as if the entire thing is all that needs to be notated.

I can’t help but sit there with a silly little smile on my face as I think of a younger Asher. When he was instead an angsty teenager, jotting down notes to these pages, likely leaning against the wall of his childhood bedroom, closing his eyes, and holding the books close as the power of the language flowed through him. He’s still that kid, and at the same time, he’s also cowboy Asher who owns the big truck and wears too much flannel, the same man who dances with his friends at a bar on a weekday.

All of these parts of Asher form together to make a man who cares about his friends, his job, confused strangers… and I’m the unlucky girl stuck in the gray area between enemy and mouthy student.

I flip another page, looking at the note in the margin.

It’s small but short. Elegant, but messy. It looks fueled by much more emotion than the simplicity of what it spells.

It’s just the word: “Her.” And for some reason, this one word, this simple pronoun makes my stomach drop and my thighs clench closer.

Who is she? And why does this poem remind him of her?

And why, damn it, am I feeling the flames of jealousy licking my soul, wishing that he were referring to me?

I’ve had crushes before. But this… this isn’t good.

NINE

Asher

O

n Wednesday mornings, I visit my mom before class. I have for the past five years and our schedule has rarely erred. Plus, Sheryl Ellis makes the best co ee.

“I’ve got biscuits for Max on the stovetop,” she says when I step onto the porch.

Another thing, Sheryl Ellis also adores Maxwell the librarian. Maybe not nearly as much as she adores Keaton, but I would never tell him that.

She’s poised in the same Adirondack chair she curls into every morning, sipping from her already prepared co ee mug. “‘Mornin’,” I say. She pats me on the arm as she looks out at the open yard. “‘Mornin’, baby.”

I give her a quick nod and journey through the front door into the household I grew up in.

There are pictures of me and Violet as kids, grinning with all or next to no teeth depending on the year the picture was taken. The hallway is littered with old friend group pictures of me, Kayla, Joey, Lily, and Keaton all smushed together in frame, trying to squeeze our way into a camping tent. There

are trophies from debate team winnings, and even a few cross-country medals I won back in high school.

I walk past all of the memorabilia of my childhood directly to the kitchen where I grab a plastic bag from the drawer under the sink, and a biscuit from the rack still cooling on top of the stove. A few are missing since Dad always takes some with him for co-workers, but as long as one is here for Max, that’s all that matters.

I make my way through the kitchen to a far cabinet, taking down a travel mug to pour myself the remaining co ee in the pot. Mom always makes just enough for two people. It’s either myself or Violet that stop by most days and, if we don’t, she refrigerates the rest for later.

I take a sip, letting the warmth of the co ee and comfort of the floral wallpapered kitchen wash over me. After a deep breath, I march back out onto the porch and flop into the rocking chair next to her, letting the momentum of my fall start to rock me back and forth.

Damn, that’s nice.

I had trouble sleeping last night. I tossed and turned, even making my way to the living room couch and turning on the dull sound of some syndicated movie just to keep the thoughts away. Because the thoughts I had weren’t welcome.

They were of Delaney.

There’s been an ache in my chest and it’s a feeling I can’t seem to shake.

“Did you just want to sit here in silence, or can I help you, son?” my mom says with a smile.

She’s too wise for her own good.

“To be honest, I’m not sure I’m ready for your southern advice.”

“And why not?”

“It’s the cheesy type written on wood cut-outs or stickied onto the wall,” I say with a laugh.

“But not untrue.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head and sipping from my cup.

“I guess not. I think I’m just tired.”

“Why do I feel like out of all your thoughts, that seems to be the only appropriate one?”

I shake my head. “Get out of my head, Momma.”

She chuckles and I’m relaxed.

I enjoy our mornings sitting on a warm porch in May. Especially when it’s just the morning birds chirping and the rocking of our chairs.

“So, you’re looking for advice about somethin’?”

“Mom…” “Alright.” She chuckles. “Alright.”

Maybe I want advice and maybe I just want answers. Like, why can’t I get my student out of my head?

I STOP BY THE LIBRARY BEFORE GOING TO THE AUDITORIUM FOR CLASS , moseying my way through the swinging half door at the counter and into Max’s o ce.

“Biscuit?” he asks, peering over his book and removing his crossed feet from the top of his desk.

“Here, ya animal,” I say.

“You’re a saint,” Max says. “Or, I guess your mom is.”

I stand there for a second, but it feels odd to linger. Do I want to tell someone about the career fair? Or my dreams of Delaney? How she can’t seem to break from my mind? And, if I did, would it even be Max? “You’re being weird just standing there,” he says with a laugh, dog-earing his book and setting it on the small stack beside him before leaning back into his chair. “And you’re cutting into my solo reading time. What’s up?”

“Oh… nothing,” I say, shaking my head.

He narrows his eyes. I narrow mine back.

The sound of entry goes o near the front of the library, the quick three staccato beeps stating someone has walked through the security sensors. Both Max and I turn our heads to look at the door and, there she is.

My stomach drops.

Delaney has her book bag slung over her shoulder, a free hand toying with the strap as she walks between the study tables in her black heels and collared tan dress that hits just above her knee. Her hair is tied back in a loose brown ribbon with the rest of it slightly curled. It’s too early for her to look as gorgeous as she does, and I hate myself for thinking that.

“Why is everyone cutting into my reading time,” Max says, crouching near the desk as if to hide from any peeking eyes into the o ce. “I wanted to be a librarian, not be needed! Let me read in peace.”

I stand up from the armchair opposite his desk, walking through the threshold of the o ce and up to the library’s main help desk counter. Delaney’s eyes find me, that familiar snag locking our gazes into place. Her lips pull up into an endearing smile and my heart rate picks up with them.

Delaney approaches, holding out her palm to ding the bell between us. It is the only sound in the library, bouncing o the walls, the windows, and the books to finally settle between us.

“Oh, hey,” I say, after the echo fades out, my voice replacing it.

“Hey,” she responds, the words slowly leaving her mouth like she’s testing the waters of friendship.

Friendship. No, no, no. Student. Maybe even mortal enemy.

Who knows.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, looking around the library, a smile on my face.

Sure, go for it, Asher. You can smile around her. You can be capable of being happy, of being personable.

“Are you now the librarian?” Delaney asks, peering over my shoulder and giggling. The sound is delightful, a light bell sound rivaling that of the ringing bell that just ended.

But less shrill. Gentler. Kinder.

I twist to look through the window of Max’s o ce. He’s out of sight, likely hiding under the desk.

“Well, Max is being… Max,” I say, turning back to her with a shrug.

“He reads back there, you know,” Delaney says.

A mu ed voice calls from the o ce that sounds faintly like, “Do not!”

I nod and laugh with my smile that can’t seem to disappear.

She laughs again too.

The exchange lingers as our eyes roam the other’s. I try to end it by clearing my throat.

“So… as the stand-in early morning librarian, how can I help you?”

“Right,” she says, placing her palms down on the counter. They’re so small with only that one ring adorning her pinky. It makes her fingers look even more petite. More fragile. “Yes, I’m looking for poetry books, actually.”

My smile widens. I feel it before I feel the emotion itself, but the happiness still spreads through me like wildfire, licking its little flame across every bit of my interior, igniting more and more through each unsteady beat of my heart.

“Is that right?” I ask.

“Yes, I figure some of those assignments are coming in, so… I’d like to understand it more.”

Delaney gives a little shrug and it’s damningly adorable.

“Well, I can recommend some,” I say. “Follow me, little lady.”

Little lady?!

Who even am I? I step out from behind the counter, pushing through the swinging door and moving between the aisles toward the back where our poetry section is. I’ve been back here time and time again. By myself to do paperwork and even with students, filtering through items that might help them understand the material more, that might intrigue them more, that might spark that extra bit of creativity they need to pass the class. But never have I been in this tight space with someone like Delaney. Someone soft yet sharp all at once. Someone with hands that look so gentle yet purposeful as she reaches up to a shelf and pulls down a book at random.

“Or, yeah, you can just attack it at will,” I say with a chuckle.

Her eyes slide over to me from under hooded lids and I have to look away. My pants zipper suddenly feels tighter, and that knowledge makes my stomach churn.

I cannot, should not, will not be getting an erection for a student.

I shift my weight to my left, crossing my arms over my chest and clearing my throat.

“I finished the one you let me borrow,” she says, breaking me from my thoughts.

My nerves jump back into action as anxiety rises like bile in my throat.

I can’t tell if I’m more or less turned on by that statement.

“It was good,” she says when I realize I haven’t said anything in response.

“Yeah, I really liked that book,” I finally get out. “It’s what made me fall in love with poetry.”

“I can tell,” she responds, then clears her throat and says, in the twangiest, fakest accent I’ve heard, “‘Brilliant, despite being pretentious.’”

I laugh, uncrossing and crossing my arms over again.

“What was that?”

“You wrote that,” she says. “In the margins.”

My stomach drops, twists, and flops down dead. I shake my head, trying to maintain my cool.

“Yeah, well, sixteen-year-old Asher was a bit pretentious himself,” I say through gritted teeth, biting my bottom lip to stifle my own internal cringe.

“No, it’s good,” she says, waving a hand in the air as she places the book she just removed back up to its shelf. “The notes added heart to it. Just the right amount of sappy with insight,” she says with a nod.

“Am I changing you to a poetry lover, Delaney?”

She looks over and smirks.

“Maybe. These were nice,” she says. “Lovely.”

Lovely. A pleasant word from what I initially believed a rigid, unpleasant person. Though she’s not entirely unpleasant, is she? She’s intense but meaningful, determined, and careful.

“Well, you’re welcome for providing endless entertainment,” I say, trying to move past the embarrassment by reaching up and plucking a few books o the shelves, some reliable ones, then hand them to her. She takes them gingerly, her hands brushing lightly across my palms. They are as soft as I thought they might be, which makes it all the more irritating when I pocket my hands and leave their touch.

Delaney’s eyes roam over me, landing squarely back on mine for a few moments before her smile lessens a bit. Her lips are slightly parted, slightly breathy, and dragging me deeper into some unfamiliar feeling.

I shake my head, trying to find purchase on the cover of any book in the section—anything that isn’t her.

“Enjoy,” I say, knocking myself for the stupidity of the comment. “I’ll see you in class. I’ve gotta…” Lie. “Pick up something from my o ce beforehand, but I’ll meet you there.”

The repeated words feel forced, but that’s because they absolutely are.

“Sure,” she says. “Wish me luck on convincing Max to let me borrow over the four book limit.”

I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “You won’t need it.”

Delaney smiles then slowly turns on her heel and walks away—the light scent of her perfume following behind as I’m left with nothing more than an illicit erection and a buzzing mind.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

TEN

Delaney

“I

’ll climb in the back.”

“There’s barely room, though!”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it!”

I struggle to squeeze into the backseat of Lily’s 90s VW Beetle that looks straight out of a Barbie playset as she twists in the driver’s seat to look at my handiwork. I’m attempting to gather the ten or so wood logs that toppled out of their bag and onto the floor when she slammed the brakes to catch a red light.

“Watch out, you’ll get…”

“Ouch!” I yelp, yanking my arm back.

“Splinters.”

“I am now painfully aware,” I say, shaking out my hand before reaching out to go for the gold once more. Lily and I were tasked with supplying the firewood for the bonfire this week and I am instantly regretting how eagerly I said yes to Kayla.

It’s weird having friends.

Even weirder are friends that notice things. Like how the past two weeks, Asher and I have been getting along swimmingly.

“How’re classes with Asher? Please tell me less fighting?”

Lily had said as we loaded wood into the back of her car earlier.

“They’re… okay.” The words formed slowly as if leaving my mouth without my full consent, like being simply okay in the company of Asher went against my wiring. But it was, in fact, okay. Almost too okay. Something that shouldn’t make me comfortable but gave me slight chills when I thought about it.

Lily had lifted an eyebrow and I simply shook my head in return.

“Okay?” she asked.

“Yes, it’s okay,” I said, throwing the last of the firewood into the back of her car and giving the most convincing smile I could muster. Anything to get the car moving and away from the subject of Asher.

Unfortunately, the sloppy job of throwing the firewood rather than placing it is what put us now on the side of the road trying to pile them back on the covered seat.

I attempt to scoop up the last misplaced log and feel a sharp jab into my other thumb.

“Damn splinter again.”

“Oh no, Delaney, I’m so sorry,” Lily says, gritting her teeth as I toss it in its rightful place with the rest of the logs.

“Not your fault,” I say, looking down at my thumb, attempting to pull it but seeing the thing nestle itself in my skin farther. “It’s the wood’s.”

“Always is,” she says with a smile.

“Was that a dick joke?”

Lily’s face heats as she smiles and shakes her head.

It totally was.

Lily buckles herself once more, eyeing me until I do the same, then we pull back onto the road toward Kayla’s.

“N O WHISKEY TONIGHT ?” V IOLET ASKS AS I SIT DOWN NEXT TO HER with my water bottle.

I shake my head with a sly grin, and she tilts her own red cup, clinking my bottle.

But I’m only relaxed for another second before my hair stands on end. The worst part is, I know exactly what, no, who, is having this e ect on me. It’s that same unrelenting pull I’ve grown so accustomed to, like settling into a hot bath. The first toe in is brutal, but once you’ve got yourself lowered in, the feeling can be torturous bliss.

“Oh no, who dragged you here?” Asher asks with a joking laugh, crossing through Kayla’s backyard gate still wearing his crisp white work button-up and waltzing over to the cooler, cracking a beer open.

The voice. The gru ness of it. The way his lips curl the edge of the can. The way his Adam’s apple bounces with each gulp.

Art films have been made from worse.

Thankfully Violet’s voice brings me back to the present.

“How’s work, you two?”

Work.

How is it?

The last two weeks have been… di erent. When I come in, Asher now talks to me before class. He smiles at me. We laugh together.

Just yesterday, I actually spoke out in class, pointing out a poem I enjoyed, and he told me to read it to the class as a good example of storytelling, even making a point to say, “And that’s coming from someone who hates poetry” which got a nice laugh out of the class and a small, weak little whimper from me.

How’s work, she asks?

It’s been nothing short of a slow, torturous heaven.

“Great,” Asher and I say at the same time, a slow nod before our gazes meet then breaking it almost instantly.

“Week three is in the books,” Asher continues, taking a sip of his drink. “Only three more to go.”

“And it’s not weird yet?” Lily asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“Y’all see each other more in the classroom than not, right?”

“Come on, Delaney isn’t a student,” Max says, leaning back in his seat, placing an arm over the back of Lily’s chair.

It’s there for a second before she stands up.

“Well, she’s also Deb’s protégé, you know?” Asher says.

“It’s more like a co-worker, I guess.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, I’m unsure why he had to clarify.

“Yeah, student and co-worker,” I say. “It’s sort of a gray area.”

And I don’t know why I do the same.

Even Lily narrows her eyes at me. I shrug as she continues sipping her drink.

“So, no more pranks, Asher?” Joey asks. “I heard about the band camp one. Hilarious.”

Asher laughs. “No pranks.”

“And no sex?” Kayla calls over.

I sputter into my drink. And I can’t help the way my body reacts: my nipples hardening under my shirt, my thighs clenching against their own accord, and the way my feet suddenly feel too big for my shoes, like my toes are itching to get out, like my whole body is suddenly a bit itchy inside my own skin.

I look at Asher and I can’t tell if his face is flushed under the lights of the string bulbs or if he’s actually embarrassed.

I’m hoping my blush is just as indiscernible because there’s no way I’m anything but emotionally unarmed right now.

“She’s my student, Kayla,” Asher says with a shake of his head. His tone has a bit of jest to it, the vocal bounce of a man trying to appease his friends. But I feel the tension. I feel the edge to it, the sharpness in the ‘T.’ Student.

“Oh-kay,” Kayla says slowly, her eyes wide as she glances o to the side, bored by it all.

Lily hands me a fresh bottled water, giving me a passing glance of sympathy. I open my mouth to talk but as the bottle hits my hand I flinch and yelp.

“Oh, sorry,” Lily says, apologizing before she even knows why I leaped.

“Jesus, what was that?” Kayla asks.

I look down at my hand and sigh.

“Splinters,” I say, shaking my hand out and looking at the two red spots that have gotten even redder with the cold drink against it. “Do you happen to have any tweezers?”

“Ew, yeah, come with me,” Kayla says, leading me up the precariously placed stepping stones and into her home. I follow, glad to be away from any conversation regarding me and Asher and sex. Even the words in the same sentence make my palms shaky, whatever that means.

The inside of Kayla’s house is unsurprisingly just as immaculate as the outside—another picturesque snapshot of a country home, complete with ‘Bless This Mess’ hung in wood over the kitchen archway.

Kayla opens a drawer, placing a pair of pink polka-dotted tweezers on the counter.

“Let me know if you need anything,” she says. “And ew.”

I nod, letting her squeeze past me as I call over a quick, “Thanks.”

Just as Kayla heads out the sliding glass door, it’s Asher that squeezes in after.

I wish I could blame the tension in my body on the lingering pain of the splinters, but I know it’s just him

causing me to be so robotic. It’s always him.

“Came to check on you. Need help?” he asks.

Kayla’s eyes widen behind him as she mouths ‘yes’ followed by a wide grin and closing the sliding glass door.

I grab the tweezers and start to pick at the splinter I know is in my thumb, avoiding eye contact with Kayla, Asher, literally anybody for as long as my body will allow.

“It’s just wood,” I say. “I can manage.”

“Right,” Asher answers, his breaths staccato as they leave his mouth in a chuckle. His hands go into his pockets.

I pinch the skin with the tweezers and the stray splinter pokes out but ultimately goes nowhere. It doesn’t help that my hands are shaking. I can feel Asher standing beside me, watching.

“Damn,” I hiss, as the splinter slithers back in a slight bit.

“Are you sure you don’t want help?” Asher asks.

I sigh, the relief of his presence washing over me with the exhalation. I just want this to be over. I just want to be back outside with Lily… anywhere but here in this house alone with the man hovering near me smelling like mahogany and old books. The good kind of old books with hidden messages and elegantly written ‘Her’s.

I inhale, the bulk of his scent invading my nose, forcing me to say with a laugh, “Well, if you’re feeling particularly bored, I guess.”

Asher grabs a barstool and places it across from me, straddling over it, his knees spreading out to allow me space to center myself between them. I take a very small step forward into them.

I hold out my hand to allow Asher to take it. But, out of habit, I jerk back when our hands meet. His head tilts curiously and I slowly extend it back to him, allowing his hand to fully envelop mine.

It’s funny how large his hand is in comparison and, particularly, how rough the pads of his fingers are even though he’s gently turning my wrist. It’s like every tiny movement of his hand on mine sends a delicate spark running straight down to my stomach.

“Will this get me brownie points for my department?” he asks. “Extra funding, maybe?”

I laugh. “We’ll see. Depends on how quick you get them out.”

He grabs the tweezers. “Or how rough I am, right?”

I tense immediately.

“Kidding,” he says quickly, his own hands feeling like they sti en against mine.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this intimate with someone of authority. It’s the taboo nature of it all. I remember Mom watching the news, seeing all the congressmen and senators whose o ces she cleaned. I remember feeling slightly hot seeing them in their suits. When I’d tell her, she would laugh and pat my hand.

“Just focus on your grades,” she’d say. “Do good in the world and the good men will come to you in time.”

Me, such a silly girl to admire men in button-up shirts and tailored coats. Such a pure girl. Only grades. No boys.

I wonder what my mom would think with me being in a room alone with my professor with his rolled up sleeves, admiring how his hands move so slowly over mine.

“So, is Deb working you to the bone?” Asher says, squeezing my thumb and the tweezer.

I try to exhale out the small pinch of pain.

“No. It’s mostly a lot of admin work, really.”

“Notice anything interesting?”

“Like what?”

“Not sure. Unethical behavior?” He waggles his eyebrows right before squeezing the tweezers into my skin again. I jerk

my hand and he chuckles, whispering a soft, happy, “Got it.”

He places the small splinter of wood in the trash can.

One down.

I turn my hand over and point to the remaining splinter.

His rough hands caress mine once more.

Oh God, this is pure torture.

“No,” I continue. “Nothing unethical.”

“Darn, I was hoping to pin down Curtis. Math department always gets more funding.”

He’s not wrong. I’d noticed that. But I also noticed they have more classes. Seems logical, but I still smile at Asher’s cute way he gets upset by it. Like a boy getting his toys taken from him on the playground.

“You’re just using me for my connections, huh?”

“No, no,” Asher says, adjusting my hand but pausing to look up at me through his hooded eyes. “Of course not.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I know the type.”

He nods. “Oh, and I’m the type?”

“Sure. Professional man. Helping me to get a favor.

Nobody wants to help with silly splinters. You want something from me.”

He bites his lip. Does he even know he does it?

“And where’d you learn about men schmoozing?” he asks.

“Colleges with boys that were given everything.

Internships with those same men. And my mom used to work in D.C.” “Ah, so you’re familiar with o ce politics. Literally.”

I laugh. “My mom used to say some days they were so tight-knit… scotch and golf. Other days, you’d wonder if they weren’t about to all kill each other.”

Asher chuckles. “Your mom isn’t wrong, I bet.”

I smile. “Nah, she wasn’t on most things.”

“It’s weird how your parents slowly turn out to be right about most things the older you get, huh?”

The way he speaks about his family is enough to make a girl swoon on the spot. The subtle twitch at the edge of his lips, like he can’t help but smile thinking about them.

“Are you close with your parents?” I ask.

“Yes. My mom is essentially my therapist, honestly.”

I smile because, God, I miss that. I miss calling her. I miss hearing her answer the phone saying “Delaney Davis!” in a singsong voice. No hello. No good mornings. Just my name in the most delightful way.

“What about you?” he asks, glancing up at me with a boyish grin. “Maybe we can get them to exchange numbers.

They can share backlogs of baby stories.”

I close my eyes, trying to drum up any change of conversation. But I can’t run from it anymore. I swallow back my fear.

“She’s… well, she’s passed.”

Asher freezes, but his hands don’t leave mine. If anything, they clutch harder and softer all at once. A friend.

A protector.

“Oh, I—” “No, it’s not… don’t be…” I gather my thoughts and exhale, forcing a smile. “Seriously. It was years ago. Right after I graduated high school. Cancer, you know. Don’t say you’re sorry either. That’s never fun.”

I force a smile as he nods slowly, staring up at me, having his eyes scan between mine. I could fall right into those lovely greens of his. But Asher is quiet, like he’s waiting for me to finish. So I do.

“She always wanted me to achieve great things. Especially since she spent all her time working,” I say. “Study, all that.

So I went to college on a scholarship. Couldn’t go Ivy. They didn’t have a full ride, which I needed. Ended up staying for

grad school. I met my mentor there. Deborah reached out to him and said she had references I could use if he sent over an intern. I guess they were old friends or something.”

Asher blinks, still slowly nodding like he’s processing all this new information I’m sharing. I’m in disbelief my mouth is still spitting out words at all. But his hands haven’t left mine and I’m sure I don’t want them to yet.

“She said that?” he asks. “That she has references for you?”

“Yes, and honestly I need them,” I say. “I want to jump into administration right after graduating and having an actual dean give me references or a recommendation well… it’d be invaluable.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it would.”

“I just want to do some good, you know? My mom always did. When she wasn’t working, she was volunteering…”

“Sounds busy,” he says with a small chuckle.

“She was always busy,” I say, choking out a laugh. “We were. It’s how I got all my volunteer hours.”

Asher squints at me then back down to my hand.

“Yet no outdoorsy events? Nothing to get splinters from?”

“Nope,” I say with a shrug. “Mostly just paper cuts or soup stains.”

“I, uh, got so many splinters as a kid.” I can tell he’s trying to change the subject. I let him. It’s a lot to hear someone’s mom died, especially when you’re so close to your own. Plus, he barely knows me. It was selfish of me to even bring it up. But I couldn’t help myself. I can’t fight how comfortable I am with him now. And how warm his hands are as he starts poking my finger with the tweezer again.

“A lot of splinters?” I ask. “I thought you read all the time?”

“Yeah, I did, but Keaton was really outdoorsy, so we went camping a lot.”

“That explains his beard,” I mutter.

Asher’s head jerks up and he tilts it to the side. He’s smiling, that toothy grin of his.

“What, only outdoorsy men can have beards?” he asks.

I shrug. “It’s basically a rite of passage.”

He makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sco .

“But I have a beard.”

I giggle. “More like five o’clock shadow.”

And then my hand is rising on what feels like its own accord, reaching and then running over the bottom of his jawline. My heart races as his eyes widen, but he still tilts his head into my palm, as if coaxing me forward.

I jerk it away.

Oh my god.

Oh my god what did I just do?

I don’t even know if sorry would cover it, so I say nothing instead.

His hand strengthens its hold on me, entwining our fingers for just a moment before the sharpness of the tweezer’s edge drives into me.

“Jesus Christ, Asher!” I yell, the words instantly leaving in more a whining tone than they had any right to.

Asher laughs, pulling away and opening the tweezers over the trash can, the second and final splinter of wood emptying into it.

“See? Not that hard.”

“I beg to di er,” I say, looking from the trash can and back to him, his stare so deep and my desire to drown in it so detrimental to both of us. I look away and blink quickly, letting out a heavy exhalation. “Jesus, maybe I do want whiskey.”

He chuckles, low and rumbling right down to my very needy and urging core.

“I don’t think you should do whiskey,” he says.

I could do you.

“Thanks, I guess,” I choke out.

We both laugh, him lightly touching my shoulder to lead me out, as I whimper to myself and pass through the open sliding glass door.

“Maybe next time I’ll have to carry the wood for you,” Asher says.

“You’re gonna protect me from splinters?”

“Sure,” he says low. “I’d like to keep you from hurting, if I can help it.”

“Oh boy,” I say with an eye roll and we both laugh.

But I don’t think he is joking.

ELEVEN

Asher

M

y mom looks up at me through blinking eyes and shakes her head.

“What day is it?” she asks.

“Monday,” I answer.

“And why are you here on a Monday?”

I gulp, sitting down in the chair next to her. “Because I need a calm morning.”

And nothing is helping.

“Tell me about it,” she says.

I shrug because, wow, where to start?

For one, I decided to get up and run outside today. I hadn’t done that in over a year; I’ve mostly been sticking to my treadmill. Getting up early to run outside just wasn’t worth it once work picked up.

This morning, though, it just seemed right. I felt at ease, wanting to push my legs a little farther, be a bit better, enjoy the outside air. And it helped relieve the anxiety in my chest, the same anxiety that kept me from sleep just as it did last week and the week prior. The anxiety surrounding Delaney and what the hell I’m going to do about my feelings toward her.

“I just wanted to see you,” I say. She doesn’t seem convinced.

“Why?” “Because I love you.”

Because I can’t imagine losing you like Delaney lost her mom.

“That’s sweet,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “But you’re hiding something.”

“Am not.”

“Well, breakfast is inside,” Mom says, tossing her head toward the door.

“I’m alright.”

“Doesn’t Max want biscuits?”

“I’ll get them before I leave.”

“Hm.” I can’t tell if she’s mad at me for not sharing information, changing up our schedule, or if she’s simply too focused on looking at the open yard to acknowledge me. I think it’s a little bit of all three, given that her gardening time starts in approximately thirty minutes. She runs on a tight schedule and damned be anyone else that disrupts it.

And who knows if it’s di erent on a Monday; I’m normally here on Wednesdays.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it.

I’ve gotten one too many texts from the group thread asking if I’m close to breaking any professor and student restrictions. Apparently, the process of removing Delaney’s splinters three days ago was seen by the whole group through that clear glass door, and it was also supposedly a process that shouldn’t have looked as sensual and undeniably ‘wet dream material’ as it was. Kayla’s words; not mine.

That night was… something. Delaney told me her mom was no longer alive.

I can’t even imagine.

It’s kept me up all weekend. It got me running again.

Anything to shake this feeling.

This feeling of want. A need to be there for her. To show her support in any way. To care for her.

But there’s even more to it—the feeling of how soft Delaney’s hands were. How gentle she spoke. And maybe even a little about how she yelped when I pulled the last splinter from her thumb. There was almost a low moan to it.

I’m ashamed by how much I thought of that.

“Still overworking?” my mom asks, breaking me from my thoughts.

I shift in my seat, trying to subtly adjust the evergrowing tent in my pants from the thought of Delaney. I’m ashamed to even be in this position while visiting my mom.

It feels like blasphemy.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s been a weird couple of weeks.” I laugh awkwardly but shake my head. “But, it’s fine. The students have been great.”

Why did I even mention the students?

“Are you in trouble, dear?”

I jerk my head to look at my mom, whose eyes are centered on me and narrowed into slits. She’s doing that motherly thing where she looks me over from head to toe, trying to catch any hint that something is o . And, being the great mother detective that she is, I know she can sense many hiccups in my usual demeanor this morning.

“Yes,” I admit. No point in lying. “Between you and me only, I just might be.”

“Thought so,” she says, a slow nod starting as she no doubt processes the information, cycling through her encyclopedia of children’s problems to properly address mine. “Are you going to tell me why?” “’Fraid not,” I say. “Sorry, Momma.”

Sheryl Ellis continues to nod, but it’s the knowing nod that is really only a formality. She knows exactly what she wants to say; she’s just thinking of the polite, ladylike way to say it. This can be either very dangerous to navigate or very easy, depending on how deep into her co ee she is, and whether it’s kicked in enough to make her sharper than she normally is, which could rival that of any pointed lethal edge.

“Are you seeing someone?” she asks.

“No,” I answer, likely a bit too quick for her taste, but I don’t elaborate.

“You know, last time your sister told me she wasn’t seeing anyone, she was seeing Keaton.”

“I remember all too well.”

“And I like Keaton,” she continues.

“And I’m happy you do.”

“They are good together. Now, is this woman you’re seeing good for you?”

I pause, wondering if Delaney might be. But the hesitancy in my response needs to be eradicated before Mom worries too much, so I stop considering some false reality to answer, “I told you, I’m not seeing anyone.”

Momma nods and smiles. “Sure, you’re not.”

She’s not convinced but, in her defense, I wasn’t very convincing.

I stand up from the rocking chair, having had it slow to a halt, and stretch my arms up. Even the slightest bit of relief is nice, but it doesn’t resolve the ache in my chest whenever I think of that blonde hair and hazel eyes—of Delaney.

I cross to my mom, leaning down and kissing her forehead.

“You’re seeing someone,” she whispers with the confidence of a woman who thinks she just solved the mystery of a true crime special before even the police could.

I chuckle, opening the door, and whispering back, “I’m not” followed by a couple mental mantras of ‘I’m not. I’m not.

I’m not’ to me and myself alone.

T HIRTY MINUTES LATER , I’ M DROPPING THE BAGGED BISCUIT ON Max’s o ce desk as he lowers his book down to sni the empty air.

“Damn, did Sheryl add something this time?” he asks, opening the zipper at the top of the baggie and inhaling again. “God, she did. Blueberries. Your mom is a genius.”

I laugh, heading toward the threshold of his o ce before he lets out a loud, and purposeful, grunt.

I pause and turn around. “Yes?” Max glances from the biscuit to me, then back to the biscuit. He picks at the edge, plucking o some of the flaky crust.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asks.

I turn my head to the side, rolling my neck out and let out a small laugh. The tension is back, but it won’t best me.

“What?” I ask, more of a statement than a question.

“It’s a di erent schedule… you never go to your mom’s on a Monday.”

“I can’t change up my schedule?”

“Something is up. I’ve been on the group texts. I know.”

“This isn’t… about…” I can’t even say her name. “No. Nothing is up.”

My stomach clenches, but I laugh again because what is there to be concerned or nervous over? How could I possibly defend myself or Delaney when there’s nothing to defend?

And why does my mind instantly want to do exactly that?

“Right. Of course, but also…” Max hesitates and, even though we’ve gotten close over the past year, I know he’s

choosing his next words carefully which means they will also be words I’m not particularly keen to. “Are you…? And you don’t have to tell me but…”

I quickly shake my head. “Max, come on.”

“You’re not sleeping with Delaney, are you?”

There they are. The words sound just as harsh and taboo as they should. So, why does my mind get fuzzy when he says them? Why is it so damn appealing to think about?

I hate this. I hate all of it. I hate how guilty I feel. I hate how justified that guilt may be. I hate that both my mom and Max are able to see past the shield of lies I’ve constructed for myself where I’m not attracted to a student when, in reality I am very much wishing Delaney was sitting directly on my lap.

“Max.” “Listen, I’m just checking,” he says, holding up his free hand that isn’t clutching the biscuit. “I wouldn’t let anyone know.”

I find myself pacing his o ce, running a hand over the back of my neck, glancing from the various stacks of books piled five deep on either side of his desk and over to the book cart with returns filled to the brim. I recognize the ones at the end being the four poetry books I gave Delaney…

Delaney, whose hands were likely roaming over every inch of them, praying to the poets that I would die to hear their words leave her lips.

“You know her,” I say, but the words stammer out. I shake my head to get them straight. “We’re like oil and water. She’s…”

“Hot?” Max says. “Young?”

“That’s not… no,” I say, closing my eyes, letting my thumb and forefinger pinch the bridge of my nose. “She’s a student.” Saying the word ‘student’ feels wrong in describing her, even though it’s the one word that should

feel one hundred percent accurate. She’s a student and that’s all she is. “And she’s…well, you know she can be irritating,” I finish out loud.

Wrong. I am so wrong. And I’m forcing a reality that doesn’t even exist.

She’s strong-willed. Caring. And great.

Max takes a large bite of his biscuit, the crumbs falling over his desk and into the spine of his open book, making my stomach coil tighter than it already was.

“You know, Asher, sometimes being with someone that irritates you… well, that’s the best kind of…”

No, it’s not the crumbs in book spines that make my stomach feel sick, it’s this conversation. This implication and the fact that I’m both so close to giving in to my wants and also so close to deciding to never say a word to her ever again. My desires fight like the angel and devil on my shoulder, except now it seems they’re unlikely allies, both wanting to ravage Delaney just to spite me.

“Max,” I say, dropping my hands by my side and letting out a sharp, defined, say-no-more exhale. “I’m not sleeping with her. And I won’t.”

I’m not. I won’t.

I can’t.

TWELVE

Delaney

O

ne day I’ll drive to Foxe Hill Community and not miss my exit. But today is not that day.

I received an email from the dean asking me to get here early. Aside from my anxieties about why she wants me here early, I can’t help but feel a tug in my chest at the sight of the parking lot too. There are only a few cars: myself, Deborah’s, Max’s… but no black truck yet.

Part of me is upset by that fact, but I want to tamp down that part of me as quick as possible.

I’ve been thinking about him too much. I can’t get him out of my mind.

Even as I cross the campus courtyard, I shake my hand out, trying to put away the feeling of his stubble still present on my palm.

I walk through the Thomas Building and pass o ces, pausing for only a beat when I notice Asher’s name placard on his o ce door. The light is o inside, but even through the window, I can glimpse a couch and stacks of papers with lone uncapped pens. Like a ghost of him was there.

Moving forward, I finally reach the end of the hall where the executive o ce is. I turn the handle and enter.

I’ve been in here a handful of times this summer and, after watching other sta trickle through, I now firmly believe the dean purposefully makes the waiting area outside of her o ce as unwelcome as possible. I swear there’s a loose bar in the back of the couch that shoves into your spine regardless of the angle you sit. This is so the indecisive types, uncomfortable with confrontation, will get the additional push to up and leave before wasting her time.

I peer over the leather monstrosity as it deflates into itself. Poor thing.

I knock on Deborah’s closed o ce door and receive a simple, “Come in.”

When I enter, she swivels in her chair to face me. It’s oddly menacing. All she’s missing is her white flu y cat.

I take the chair opposite her.

“I want to take a look at the numbers you sent me last night,” she says.

Something I like about Deborah is that she never wastes time. Never any formalities.

“Absolutely,” I answer, scooting toward the edge of my seat as she rotates her monitor screen so we can both view the spreadsheet I sent to her last night.

I can give myself a pat on the back—it’s gorgeous. There are two types of people: people who hate spreadsheets and those who view it as an art form. I am the latter.

“It looks like you’re allocating some money specifically to recruiting?” she asks, lifting her manicured eyebrow at me.

“Yes, the career fair went very well,” I say. “We’re getting a lot of people out of town, but we still need to focus on locals. High school kids have no idea what they want to do after graduation. We can capture that crowd.”

“Good,” she says. It’s simple. Like the question was a test and I passed. “And...” She clicks down the spreadsheet a few cells. “Some to the cafeteria?”

“Can’t go wrong with basic student satisfaction.”

“Fair.”

It seems to be going well but the way she’s tapping her nails on the countertop, glancing over each tab, and coming back to the final numbers… it’s not reflecting the same confidence that her words do.

She’s confirming my numbers are good… so why does she seem upset?

“I also see you put two spots for the English program?” she asks. Her tone gets suddenly high-pitched. Faux curiosity.

There we go.

“Yes,” I say. “They’re understa ed. Given the number of classes and incoming students that need their core English credits, it only makes sense. Back in 2010, they went through two…”

“Adjunct professors, yes.”

“And another tenured professor retired last fall.”

“Indeed.”

The tapping continues.

“The math department didn’t have much,” she says.

“Right,” I say, trying to gather my thoughts and pivot.

“Well, we could remove some from the recruiting budget, yes, see, there.” I point to a section of the screen and she nods. “It would give them more wiggle room, but the math department is honestly well-sta ed for their needs. One more hire at most.”

Deborah pauses, leaning back in her chair and steepling her fingers together. She sucks in some air, hollowing her cheeks with the motion, looking like a fish for a moment before blowing out the air slowly.

“We are a springboard school to tech schools, Delaney.

People normally go on to get computer science degrees.

Engineering. Hell, architecture. And math is core for that reason.”

“Absolutely,” I say. “Which is why they received…”

“You know, Delaney…” I’m starting to dislike how much she’s repeating my name, but I shut up and listen anyway because I’ve learned that this many name drops normally lead to a lesson to be learned. Or an attempt at one. “I sent you many figures that I was hoping you’d be able to analyze and divvy up. I can’t say I’m impressed.”

My heart drops. I try to straighten my posture, but I can’t help the way it deflates just like that sorry excuse for a couch in Deborah’s waiting room.

The word ‘impressed’ has essentially been a staple on all my performance reviews or report cards since I was a child.

And now I have someone who can’t even say that?

“I’m not sure I understand,” I say slowly. “Am I missing something?”

“It just doesn’t seem… complete is all. And I wonder if there’s a bias toward the English department.”

Stab after stab after stab.

“No, I—” “I just ask that you look again at the numbers.”

With a couple taps on the mouse and a stroke of the keyboard, she’s highlighted the math funding.

“I have a lot of faith in you, Delaney,” she says. “A lot.

Your mentor highly recommended you to me, so this is a little disappointing to see that you didn’t analyze it thoroughly.”

But I did. I’m right. I know I’m right. And the urge to tell her is at the tip of my tongue, but I say nothing. I can’t. I only nod. But nodding doesn’t help the rising heart rate I’m trying to tamp down.

All I can say is, “Yes ma’am. I’ll look at them again.”

And when I gather my purse, it takes all the might I have to not slam the door behind me.

I CAN ’ T MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH A SHER DURING CLASS . I T FEELS wrong because all morning I can’t help but consider… am I favoring the English department? Have I let my own bias cloud my judgment? One look at Asher in his crisp white button-up teacherly shirt tells me that maybe I have.

But no, I poured over those numbers. I looked at enrollments, spending, class size, salaries, and all signs pointed toward the English department needing it the most.

It was cut and dry.

So, what am I missing? Or am I missing anything at all?

I hate doubting myself. I’m not good at it. I’m also not good at not obsessing so I do what I think is right and I go to the library after class. It’s the only silent place on campus to think.

So, I think. For a while. I stare at the spreadsheet until the numbers and organization get unorganized once more. Until the amounts bleed into each other.

Am I just not communicating with Deborah enough to the point of misunderstanding the intent of this budget? I’m halfway through the summer and we’ve barely talked. It’s entirely on me. I’ve been too busy with Foxe Hill instead of why I came here in the first place.

No, not Foxe Hill… but Asher.

I need to refocus.

“Didn’t think I’d find you here.”

Speak of the devil.

That familiar low voice startles me and I look up to find Asher looking over me, that tug of a smile on his face.

Charming. Wonderful. Something I simply can’t decide if I love or hate right now.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks. “I’ve got papers to grade.”

Only if you’ll let me think of anything but you.

“Sure,” I say.

He sits down and within seconds his body wash or cologne or maybe just natural man musk washes over me and goodbye refocusing.

The upside of the library is that the tables are spacious, able to fit a group upward of ten people. This definitely helps my whole ‘not being too close and admiring Asher’ thing. In fact, I make sure we take full advantage of the space. I stretch out printed sheets, unnecessarily pull books from shelves (“It’s research,” I say and he nods), and tell him he can use as much space as he likes.

Thankfully, Asher has the class’s amateur poetry spread across every surface on his end as well along with books and binders open for logging grades. After a while of it just being us in the library aside from Max, Asher even places his phone at the corner of the table to play his choice of folk music.

What a cowboy at heart.

The easy guitars start to lull me into this false sense of reality. One where Asher isn’t my professor and maybe we’re colleagues to some degree, just working and enjoying each other’s company alone.

But that isn’t real life and we’re not alone.

I make sure to keep an ear out for Max in his o ce, consistently tapping on the keyboard. I hope to God it never disappears. If he’s here, we’re safe from each other. I’m safe from falling.

My personal canary in a coalmine.

I work with my head down, but I keep getting the feeling that Asher is looking at me. It’s that tingling sensation on

the back of my neck—the same sensation I get every time he looks at me. I don’t dare glance back.

“You seem distracted today,” he finally says. I jump. He laughs.

“I just…” I start, shaking my head, and blinking, clearing the numbers from the spreadsheet from my mind. “I just don’t think I’m right with this.”

“You’ve only been here three weeks,” he says. “I’m sure it doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“Yes, it does,” I say. “I’m just not sure I’m understanding and it’s frustrating.”

He smiles. “Deb is complicated, but you’ve probably done amazing so far.”

It feels wrong to have him say that. Unearned. And maybe he’s right, maybe he’s not. I groan.

“You’re thinking about whiskey, aren’t you?” he says with a grin.

I let out a laugh and shake my head.

“Why don’t you just let loose tonight?” he says. “Get with Lily. Have a girl’s night or whatever y’all do.”

I shake my head again, this time with lips pursed trying my best not to smile.

“What, you can’t let loose?” he asks, and, boy, does that sound like a challenge. And why do I want so badly to meet it?

No. Bad Delaney. No. “I can let loose,” I say. “I can. And I will once this is all over.” I’ve earned that much. In fact, I’ve earned a lot in my life, worked hard for it. And when I see his cute grin, I wonder if maybe I could earn someone like Asher eventually.

Maybe I want this.

Maybe I want him.

But I can’t. I won’t. And I know why. Because I’d be the student with the dumb schoolgirl crush that actually hit on

her teacher. I’d be the girl that made him lose his job. In fact, I was the girl essentially holding his hand Friday night as he sensually took splinters from my skin. The girl that moaned.

I adjust my slouched posture and drop my head back over my laptop to concentrate once more.

Refocus, Delaney. For real this time.

“Are you scared?” he asks.

I look up. Of you?

“No.” “You’re telling me Deb’s opinions of you aren’t intimidating?”

Oh. Deb. “I’m not scared,” I repeat.

“Big ol’ scaredy-cat.”

I narrow my eyes. He laughs.

“What, too harsh?” he asks.

Of course it wasn’t too harsh because I know Asher and I know he could never be cruel. But that’s not the Asher I need to be admiring. I need to be on good, very neutral and professional, terms with Professor Ellis. The teacher wearing the button-up shirt. The o -limits man.

I look back to my laptop in silence, and he’s quiet for a few moments when I ignore him.

I know, I know. It’s bad. But these circumstances, this man…

I can only imagine his expression: the lifted eyebrow, the puppy dog eyes, the sweet, playful smile. And that grin, the same one that just seconds ago wanted to joke around with me. But I can’t. We can’t.

I shake my head. “I’m just gonna wrap this up then head home.”

He doesn’t respond and the silence is so lonesome that I wonder for a second if maybe he just disintegrated into thin air. But thankfully, his voice brings me back.

“Is everything alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, tapping to save the document. “Yep, I’m fine.”

“Delaney…”

My name sounds so pleasant on his lips, even when he is just trying to get my attention. But this is a particular type of croon, a weird extension of my name in his southern accent that’s tugging at every bit of me. I want to catch his eyes just once more.

Then—THWACK!—a hand slams down on the table and I swear my heart practically leaps out of my body and ascends into heaven. I gasp, pressing my own hand directly to my chest and seeing Max’s imposing figure standing over our desk.

“Max, what are you doing?” I breathe out.

“I’m heading out for the night,” he says with a goofy smile and short shrug.

“What?” I say.

No. My canary.

It’s in that moment that I realize just how bad I need our librarian chaperone. I need to have someone looking over my shoulder. I need a constant reminder that my feelings, the curling in my stomach and the sensation between my legs, are wrong.

Very, very wrong.

Asher is my teacher and also infuriatingly handsome.

Which is exactly why I cannot and should not be alone with him.

“Tom wants me in for a shift,” Max says. Why this man bartends on the side is beyond me, but I’ve learned not to question the antics of Max the bulky, hot librarian. Even if he is dooming me to fail.

Asher flips his wrist to get a good look at his watch. I can’t help but notice how perfectly it fits him, hugging just

below his prominent wrist bone, protruding right where the veins meet, those same veins that trail away from his knuckles and the length of his fingers just begging to touch my own hand again.

“Is it already five?” Asher asks.

“Time flies when you’re not talking,” Max says with a grin. I make a mental note that he instantly loses points as the hot librarian. He is now o cially the nosy librarian.

“How much longer are you guys staying?”

Is it weird if I say ‘now, please take me with you so I can take a cold shower’?

“Not much longer, but I can lock up if you need me to,” Asher says, holding out his hand. The beautiful, strong hand.

“Sounds good.” Max drops the library key into Asher’s palm and his fingers wrap around it.

Okay, yes, I need to get out of here before I form a new fetish for hands.

“See you tomorrow, doc,” Max says. “And, hey, be sure to get some of those funds for the library, Delaney.” He winks.

“Funny,” Asher says dully.

Max throws his book bag over his shoulder, waltzing out the library doors and leaving me alone… with him.

Always him.

I immediately get back to my spreadsheet, but the numbers blend together, and all their meaning feels lost. The text is suddenly just loose shapes, black and white and yellow and red-colored cells drifting in and out of my vision, completely irrelevant next to the smell of Asher’s woodsy cologne and the sound of my heart pounding over the soft folk music where I’m pretty sure that banjo is picking up speed.

“I don’t think you’re scared of her,” Asher says, getting me to lift my eyes up. For once, he isn’t looking back. He’s

concentrating on his own paper. “You’ve got this, I promise.”

I can’t help but continue staring, just to watch his long lashes in the sunlight that filters through the windows, to admire his dark stubble, slightly more grown out as if he’d skipped a day of trimming it. I like the roughness. I want to run my hands over it again.

I look back down to my laptop and say nothing.

But what makes it far more complicated is that not even a second or two later, I can feel that tickle on the back of my neck again, the feeling of being watched. Though, no, that sounds too weird. Being looked at by Asher doesn’t feel creepy. It just feels normal between us now, an occurrence that we’re destined to live through for as long as we both shall be in the same building.

I don’t even consider the consequences when I look up because I know it’s exactly the thing I need. I crave his intense eye contact and I get it. I get those deep greens with hints of brown staring right back. I get the furrowing of his brow, like maybe he’s in pain just by looking at me. Or confused.

It’s so beautiful and heartbreaking all at once.

“You always look at me like that,” he says.

My heart stutters, but I hold my ground.

“Like what?”

“You stare at me like… you don’t understand me.” He laughs at himself. It’s such a genuine, hardy laugh. “That’s weird. I’m sorry.”

“You… I…” I start because did he read my mind?

“Wait, you’re telling me that I stare at you?” I say.

“What?”

“You’re always staring at me,” I say.

“I’m sorry, that was dumb to say,” he says. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No, no,” I say, now laughing a little. “Call me out when I’m a creep, I guess.”

“In my defense, you essentially just called me a creep too.”

“Then we’re even,” I say.

He’s grinning now and I just want to take his face in my hands and kiss every bit of him. I wonder how soft his lips are.

I gotta get out of here.

“I’ll just go… put up… yeah,” I say, reaching across the table to pick up the poetry books we took but didn’t check out. Well, the books that Asher needed.

“Oh, okay. Sure.” His words fade and expression drops as I stand up with the books in hand.

I walk away from the desk and through the tall aisles of the library, a weird wave of relief rushing over me once I’m a good twenty feet from Asher. I’m happy for the distance. I can relax.

But at the same time, I feel so… empty without him nearby. Like just his presence was more calming than it was frustrating. Or, hell, if I’m a total masochist, maybe it was the fire of the frustration that kept me company.

I turn the corner, finding the poetry section and looking at the numbers on the spine to put them back. I keep tracing them until I realize these are from the top shelf. Looking down at the floor, I know for a fact my five-foot-three self isn’t even remotely going to accomplish this feat, but it’s not like I can ask him. The last thing I need is Asher and myself in the back of the library alone.

I get up on my tiptoes and attempt to shelve the book. It misses and falls.

“Everything okay back there?” Asher calls.

“Yes!” I yell back. My voice sounds more panicked than it has any right to, so I clarify. “I can’t reach it!”

The cart! Why didn’t I just put it back on the flipping cart?!

“Delaney.” His voice is one word filled with both humor and chastising all in one.

Once I hear his chair scoot out and his footsteps coming closer, I instantly grow more anxious, more twitchy.

He’s going to think I’m lulling him back here.

“I’m not lulling you back here,” I say out loud. His footsteps stop for a second and my hammering heart makes up for the missing sound.

What the absolute hell did I just say?

I hear his feet pick up again and then he’s beside me, a towering figure tilting his head to the side.

All humor is gone, and those eyebrows pinch inward.

“What?”

“I’m not trying to…” I let out an awkward laugh, but nothing is funny so why do I keep laughing? And why did I let myself just look at him? And why is it when our eyes snag this time, there’s no pulling away? Our gaze isn’t like Velcro anymore, it’s adhesive and as much as I will myself to look away, the moment is sticky, and I can’t stop.

I simply can’t stop.

Asher takes a step forward, the silence of the library echoing louder than any of our awkward laughs or uncomfortable breaths. I don’t take a step back. I let him invade my space. He leans forward and I let his chest hit mine.

He opens his mouth to talk, but halts, closing it again. His eyebrows pull in like he’s straining for a thought that doesn’t feel wrong, and I know how he feels. This is entirely wrong, and we can’t convince ourselves otherwise.

I can feel his breaths on me now, and I swallow them whole. I let them, him, engulf me. I let myself get consumed by his mere presence. The smell of him like a cool forest enveloping me into its misty unknown.

He leans down and I can finally see every whirl of color in his eyes. The greens are like the aurora borealis on a night sky, shooting across the arctic—or maybe even sparks, a thunderstorm that is seconds from taking me next.

I keep waiting for his hands to touch me. Anywhere, literally anywhere. I wait for them to find my waist, my cheek, my neck.

Make the move, Professor. Make the move and end my selfish misery.

Asher keeps getting closer and I can’t imagine what space is left for us to cross until I finally reach up and trail a hand along his jaw. It’s everything I remember. The rough stubble both soft and sharp, two sides of the same coin—two sides of our future.

To kiss him or not.

To step over the line or not.

To be dragged into his watery depths and drown or live and move on.

Death has never felt so freeing.

I rise to my toes, bumping our noses slightly, just enough to brush the edge of our mouths, the softness of the lips, and to exchange scattered breaths. Is it his, or is it mine?

I open my mouth to speak, wishing it to both say the words it needs to and to shut the hell up before I ruin every good thing about to come my way.

I want this man. But I also know better. If we kiss, I might just put a halt to my future, to any references Deborah was going to provide. I’m already in deep water, but what now?

Nothing. I can’t do a thing.

“I should go,” I say, the words a whisper against his mouth.

I lower myself down, standing again on the flats of my feet without the tug of Heaven pulling me toward it. I should

be proud, but Earth feels much less inviting than it did before I tried to leave it.

“No, I should go,” Asher says, taking a step back. He inhales sharply, running a hand over the back of his neck.

His exhalation is assured, solid, and not remotely as shaky as my own breaths stuttering out of me. “Yes, I should… I should go.”

The words repeat and I wish he’d stop saying them, but they’re not wrong. They’re precisely what we need said right now.

I nod in response and he nods back.

And a second later, he walks away, leaning me cold and alone.

The farther away he gets from me, the more the life drains from me and the colder I get. Each distant step is squeeze of my soul as the final remnants get wrung out.

It was the right thing to do. We both know it. I lean back against the bookshelf, giving it as much of my weight as it will hold.

When I no longer hear his footsteps, when I know for sure he’s left, I let myself exhale a large sigh—energy contained within me that needed its release. But after it leaves, there’s nothing else in me but emptiness.

The rest of the summer is going to be a mess. What are we supposed to do—pretend this didn’t happen? That we didn’t come close to kissing, that his mouth was closer to mine than it should ever be to a student, and me to a professor?

My life was, in fact, brilliantly uncomplicated before Asher. But now…now I just want the complications. I want— Footsteps. Large. Purposeful.

I gasp before I can even register that Asher is in front of me once more, wrapping a hand around my waist and pulling me into him.

“I couldn’t leave,” he says, his broad shoulders and chest heaving. “I should but…”

“You can’t,” I finish for him.

And something in us snaps.

That’s it. A snap, just two fingers poised right on the edge of a beat and then bam, his lips are on me and it’s fire.

Pure, unadulterated fire.

Asher’s inhale is sharp as he kisses me, opening our mouths to find his way in and devouring me. His tongue is a welcome stranger and I let it tour me how it likes.

It’s bad. Wrong. Wonderful. Taboo.

His hand on my waist pulls me toward him while the other finds my hair, clutching it, twisting through it, tugging at the roots. I let out a small groan that only spurs him further.

I clutch on to the front of his shirt, the white untainted thing that taunts me day in and day out. What once was the calm, collected, Professor is now ripping at the edge of my shirt, tearing the hem of it from where it’s tucked into my skirt, skimming his hand underneath to my bare skin. The rough pads that were so recently in my imagination now touch my stomach, my ribs, and just beneath my breast where they’re so fast then suddenly so slow.

Teasing. Taunting. Testing the waters.

“Is that okay?” His question is a breath against my mouth.

I don’t answer, our lips paused. No longer kissing, but still unable to pull apart completely. Now that he’s here, I don’t want him to stop. I don’t want to let him go.

“Don’t leave,” is all I can get out.

“No,” Asher says, a single finger tracing the edge of my cheek, my lips, and my chin. “No, I can’t leave. Not you. Not now.”

So many cans and cannots.

But this isn’t the time for the latter anymore.

“This is going to ruin everything,” I say. “I’m going to ruin everything.”

He smiles, pressing his forehead against mine. “Not if I do it first.”

THIRTEEN

Asher

I

’ve read poem after poem after poem about fire and ice— the ultimate monstrosity of a combination. But I’ve never felt it until now.

The flames between Delaney and I as we kiss in the library is enough to brighten the darkened corners we occupy. But the ice—the frosty core where we’re both frustrated with each other and this situation while also desperately wishing the other doesn’t stop is intoxicating, dangerous, and a sensation I’m not familiar with.

I push, she pulls, and then we’re bumping into bookcases, having precious words fall to the ground by the passion of our touch. Poetry literally in motion.

I break away, kissing down the side of her neck, nibbling where the elegant, sloped end meets the beginning of her collarbone. When Delaney lets out a moan, I bite harder. This elicits the push I wanted, the forceful shove of her palm to my shoulder. I’m backed away from her, but in no time she’s throwing herself toward me and I’m taking her face in my hands and kissing her again.

She melts into me. Maybe she was ice, maybe she still is, but in my hands, she’s pooling down until her knees hit the floor and I join her there. She slowly falls backward as I

crawl over her, hooking an arm around her waist to help lower her to the library’s carpet. When she’s sprawled out, hands above her head, I lean back to admire her.

This goddess lays on the ground before me, her hair surrounding her like a sunbeam halo. I want to worship her with everything in my soul.

I lean over her again to kiss down her shoulder, to her arm, across her ribs and to her breasts.

I lift her shirt higher exposing her black lacy bra and tug it down, capturing her already pebbled nipples in my mouth.

She moans and, oh God, the moans. My dick grows harder with each breathy exhalation from her plump lips. My zipper is strained and I’m bucking into her hips before I can think to do anything di erent. This only grants me another gasp which I capture selfishly, pulling from her breast and back up to her lips.

Our kisses feel right. Not just heady, but like we just fit.

Finding my way to Delaney can’t just be a chance encounter; it’s everything that I’ve needed for years. It’s the missing piece that’s been keeping me awake at night, the woman that no other women seem to compare. She’s challenging. She’s wonderful. She’s her.

Delaney’s hands find my belt buckle, digging to unhook it, clanking the belt apart and lowering my zipper. She curls her fingers into the waistband of my boxer briefs, tugging them down until my cock is in her hands and she’s stroking me, pumping with heat and fervor.

This sensation has been missing from my life for far too long. Sure, there have been women at bars, but in a small town like ours, I try not to be the town’s Casanova. I’ve been starved for touch and having her hand rub across my length, across every vein… I could get drunk o it alone.

“You’re intoxicating,” I admit out loud.

I move my hand to her skirt, finding my way beneath it with ease, moving aside her panties and curling in one finger.

I thrust it in slow at first, just feeling every inch of her, the tightness of her, the bundle of nerves gathered at the top of her core, and once she lets out a small gasp of relief, I know this is only the beginning of my exploration.

I pump in another, watching her eyebrow pull in, her nose scrunch, and then she’s gasping. She’s breathing my name, calling it out like a symphony dedicated only to me.

“Asher.”

I can feel her tighten around me, her hand grasping my arm, and then she moans again.

And I did that. To her. For her.

And when I can feel her on my hand, the remains of her orgasm on my fingers, I pull my hand out.

“I want you,” she says.

“Yes,” I breathe, but the instant it leaves my mouth, I know we can’t.

Her expression drops because she realizes it the same moment I do.

“Do you—” “No,” I say because why in the world would I have a condom? How could I possibly have known this woman would be here with me on the floor of the library? How could my mind have thought of such a heaven?

“We’ll just have to have another round,” I say and then I slip in my fingers again because just the feel of her is enough for me. It’s all I need.

“Oh God,” she calls.

Her hand slaps against my back as I finger her deeper, harder, rougher. Her fingernails run down the back of my shirt, trying to gain purchase but there’s nothing for her to hold on to.

“God, Asher,” she calls again, releasing her orgasm around me for the second time.

When I pull out and fall beside her on the library floor, I’m thankful for the carpet cooling my back.

My head lolls over to the side, and I see her already looking back at me smiling, just as I knew she would be.

FOURTEEN

Delaney

A

fter yesterday, I knew I would be at Asher’s o ce door the next morning. But not for any reason other than to end this here and now.

Asher was, unfortunately, everything I wanted him to be.

Intimate in every function of the word. Like a sixth sense, he even reassured me as we laid on the library floor that we weren’t going to be caught. The cameras were just for show.

Broken, but a secret.

Just like us.

Just like how I felt lying in bed last night, staring at the attic ceiling, thankful that Lily was too deep into painting to hang out. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

It’s not like I’m a completely innocent twenty-three. I let loose a little in my undergrad years. I even downloaded a dating app where I fooled around a bit. I came close to losing my virginity more than once. But, always, every single time it was hinted at, something in the back of my head whispered, ‘And what then? Will you have satisfied your curiosity then?’

They were rebellions from my strait-laced life that I squashed at the time and yet, had either Asher or I been

prepared last night, I would have let those barriers down without question.

I was irrational last night. I acted on impulse, which is something I never do. I don’t succumb to anything, but somehow this man found my weakness.

After last night’s foray into the library, we locked those doors behind us literally and figuratively and I need to make sure of it now.

His blinds are drawn over his o ce door window, but I saw his truck. I know he’s here.

I knock and hear footsteps from the other side and when Asher pulls open the door, I want to sin again because, God, he looks good. The smile that cracks across his face is somehow both charming and discreetly naughty at the same time.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.” The music from his laptop floats out in the hall. It’s a low tune with just a mandolin. A steady rhythm, but soft and quiet. Possibly the same band playing in the library last night which makes my knees give a little under the memory.

“I like this,” I say, nodding toward the laptop.

He side-steps to let me in.

I drop my bag o on the couch, starting to hum along to the song when I walk past him.

He laughs.

I twist on my heel. “What?”

His smile is infectious, grinning from ear to ear.

“You don’t even know the song and you’re singing it,” he says.

I shrug and feel my face grow hot. “Sometimes you can just feel it.”

“You’re right,” he says softly, leaning forward. He’s trying to kiss me, and I want to. I want to so bad. But I didn’t

come here to do that. I jerk my head back.

“I actually came here to talk.”

As a response, his face falls, and he shuts the door closed.

“That makes sense,” he says.

“We can’t.”

“I know.”

“That was…”

“I should have stopped it,” he says with a shake of his head. “I should have left and not come back. I’m sorry.”

“You’re apologizing?” I say with a laughing sco . “It was both of us.”

“Yeah, but… pretty sure it was my hand that…”

My face heats. “Let’s not talk about it. Just…” It’s hard to find the words that I so desperately wish not to say. “You be my professor and we leave it at that.”

“Okay,” he says, cutting his hand in the air. “That’s that.”

That shouldn’t have been so easy. I almost didn’t want him to agree.

I feel my nose scrunch at the unease. He scrunches his back.

“You think this is funny?” I say with a laugh.

“No, ma’am,” he says, giving a small shake of his head.

“Yes, sir,” I mock back.

I can see him flinch, his hand twitches a little, and I can’t help where my mind goes to.

As we stay silent, the music swells around us as it hits the chorus, an overwhelming mix of guitars and mandolins.

Asher shifts from one foot to the next then sighs.

“I know this is selfish,” he says. “But just one dance before we call it quits? I love this song.”

I look from him to the open laptop playing the music, and back.

“Really?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, holding out a hand. Those same hands whose touch I can’t deny. “It’s cheesy, I know.”

It’s so cheesy, but something about it is sweet. Romantic.

A type of classic moment I’ve never experienced before.

Maybe I can let myself have one more fantasy before I knock it all to the ground.

“Fine,” I say. “But nobody can know.”

“I’d be more worried about them knowing something else,” he says with a laugh.

I shake my head, but still take his hand as he pulls me in, wrapping his other arm around my waist and flattening his hand so that my palm falls naturally in the center.

Our dance is slow and nice. He even pushes me out so that I spin under him, a slight twirl before guiding me back in to meet his hand once more. I’ve never felt like more of a princess, which is silly. I’ve never been the type of person to idolize princesses or princes, but this is something di erent altogether.

“When did you learn how to dance?” I ask.

He shrugs. “What Foxe Hill man doesn’t?”

I lean my head in, letting it lay against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat, rapid and pulsing. Such a contrast to how calm he seems on the outside. But he’s just as nervous as I am. I want to close my eyes, but I know that would only cement how far I’m falling.

I pull away, dropping my hands and taking a step back.

All I want is for him to say ‘screw it’ like last night. Just kiss me, please. But he’s Asher. A good man. A professional man.

And I want him.

“Maybe,” I hear myself say. “Maybe we…”

And then he’s smiling and my heart flutters and I’m smiling back.

“Maybe,” he echoes back.

And then we’re simultaneously stepping forward, my arms raising to wrap around his neck and his hands grabbing my waist.

Our lips meet slowly, but assuredly. Like they weren’t meant for anybody else’s. And then I’m falling again, back into the very thing I was warned about. No wonder my mom wanted me to focus on grades because this is too enjoyable.

His lips are so comfortable. Our breaths in sync.

I take a step back, my butt hitting the desk, knocking a stack of papers to the floor but neither of us stop. The kiss is too good, his hands too nice, my need too much— And then there’s a knock at his closed o ce door, and my heart shoots into my stomach faster than we can even break away.

“Oh no,” I breathe, running a hand through my hair, smoothing down my shirt. I try to look presentable but when I glance over at Asher his eyes are wide.

“I can’t have you in here alone,” he whispers.

Right.

We both run around to his desk, and I drop to the floor. I find the opening where his chair might tuck underneath, shove it out of the way, and crawl on my hands and knees underneath it right as the door opens. All I can see are Asher’s legs beside me and the brown wall on the underside of the desk obscuring me from the visitor.

“Deb,” Asher says. My stomach coils in on itself. No. No no no. “How can I help you this early in the morning?”

Thankfully, his tone more even keeled than I expected it would be. More than mine might be in his same situation.

“Did I interrupt something?” she asks. Her words feel like they carry so much weight, but I have to remember that she doesn’t know I’m under the desk with lips still hot from his kiss.

“Right now?” he asks.

There’s an eerie silence before she says with a sharp edge, “Yes now.”

“No, just grading papers. You know me. And I have class in about twenty minutes,” he answers. “I need to go unlock the door. You know how pushy kids can be about getting to class on time.”

“Indeed,” she says and the finality of it makes me want to release a breath with all the tension in me. But then I notice how close I am to him… to his…. There’s the slight outline of his cock through his nice work pants and, if I tilt my head up, I could almost be perfectly in line with the tip of it. I gulp, and yes, that tension isn’t going anywhere.

Asher sits in his o ce chair at that moment and I’m thankful for the relief. His hand lands next to his thigh and the fingers splay out as if asking for me. I give him my hand and he gently laces our fingers together under the desk.

Sigh. What a romantic.

“How was the career fair?” Deborah asks.

“What do you mean?”

“With Delaney.”

“Good,” he says. “She’s good at what she does.”

“I’ve liked her. She’s punctual,” she says as if that’s my defining characteristic. “Though, I noticed she wants to give far too much to the English department. Any reason for that?”

I can feel my heartbeat through my shirt.

“Because we need it,” Asher says with a small laugh. “I’m here grading papers before class and after class. It’s neverending. You know that.”

“Right.”

But there’s something there that doesn’t at all seem right.

By the way Asher tugs my fingers, I wonder if he feels the same way.

“Well, I’ll let you get to it then. Good job on the career fair, by the way. Lots of applications came in. Making us look good.”

Asher laughs again and it sounds too nervous. I stroke the back of his hand with my thumb to calm him.

“Well, once we have a solid budget, we’ll talk about your hiring.”

“Sounds good,” Asher says.

It’s quiet. Much too quiet. Just the low air conditioning unit pumping air. I wonder if she’s left. But I think not because Asher hasn’t moved, and the door hasn’t closed.

“Asher,” she says. “You seem… agreeable.”

“Call it development,” he says.

“I call it highly suspicious.”

“Nothing suspicious here.” And this time, I can hear the smile on his face. The one accompanied by a look of pure innocence. “Being understa ed doesn’t stop the sun outside from shining. It’s a good day.”

“I wish I still had your youthful optimism.”

“I’m sure it’s not long for this world.”

Deborah sni s, tapping her foot. “Well, good talk, Asher.

And God, do something about this mess, will you?” I hear the crinkle of paper as she walks over to the stack I knocked o the desk earlier. Too close.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The door finally shuts and I let out a heavy breath of air.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” I answer. And, honestly, I don’t.

FIFTEEN

Asher

I

’ve had a lot of things in my life shape me into who I am.

When I was younger, it was books. I couldn’t focus on algebra, but books kept me lost in a world for hours. My mom always said it gave her time to take care of Violet because she could put me in a corner with any book and I’d be lost in it.

As an adolescent, it was my best friend Keaton. He was the calm presence to keep me grounded. Throughout the years, I’ve grown from having a very small attention span to one elongated through practice and sitting still. I’ve been tempered like steel into a manageable and well-honed sword thanks to my best friend.

And for the next week, as Delaney and I make out in secret, I’m realizing the same e ects from being around her.

Every time she smiles or plants a kiss on my neck, I’m completely relinquished to her. It’s like the entire world is silenced. Some people meditate; I apparently have an illicit a air with a student to keep me grounded.

I’m definitely going to Hell.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Delaney whispers to me on Friday after class. She stayed behind, packing her book bag

slowly while everyone else trickles out. When it’s just the two of us, I risk a kiss. She melts under me.

I can’t stop looking at her blushing face as she giggles and says, “Seriously, stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” I’m dazed. Completely under her spell.

“Like you want to write poetry about me.”

“Don’t give me ideas,” I say with a laugh.

We go to Lily’s house that night for board games instead of our usual bonfire at Kayla’s. Their twins caught something from the kids’ house down the street. On top of that, Violet is in editing mode, so she’s holed herself up at home to work on her next movie. Keaton said he was also staying behind to make her food because he’s a giant pushover for my sister.

Ultimately, it’s just me, Delaney, Lily, and Max. It would be a weird double date, if only Lily knew she was on one. Max keeps peeking over at her like he always does, and she’s just as wildly oblivious to it. Or maybe she’s ignoring it. I’ve never been able to tell with her. Though she’s quiet, she’s definitely not stupid.

But even though Max is dazed by her, I can’t blame him. I keep doing the same thing to Delaney—stealing glances at her when she isn’t looking and hoping not to appear too obvious about it. Except, unlike Lily to Max, I find her looking back at me and smiling, occasionally peering beneath hooded eyes. It’s sensual and I have to look away before I get too carried away by fantasy.

We haven’t had sex yet. We haven’t even talked about it.

Nothing about our past, who we’ve been with, or what we’ve done… none of it. But I’m not rushing anything. We’re already crossing so many lines and it feels wrong to push her to cross more.

Though, it’s like I can sense her every time she’s close to me. And we’re much too close right now. Lily’s circular

kitchen table is a small nook that we barely fit in. We’re all constantly bumping knees, but I bump Delaney’s more than most. Funnily enough, with every side glance, I can tell she’s doing it on purpose. There’s a heat that runs from her leg to mine as she rubs her ankle against my slacks under the table.

Every time she hands me a card from the draw pile, our fingers brush and it’s electric—just another touchpoint where every imprint of her skin feels like a brand against mine. My hands are full of cards by the end of the night, and I can’t tell if I’m winning or losing the board game we’re playing. All I know is I keep asking for more because I want those soft hands of hers on me just one more time.

Max’s loud yell of victory brings me out of my trance.

“I am the king of the castle,” he says, maybe referring to the game? Hell if I know at this point. “King. Of. The. Castle.”

“Good game,” Lily says with a laugh. “But think you can get down from your parapet and help us commonfolk clean up?”

He grins at her, nodding. “Well, if I must.”

She shakes her head in response, rolling her eyes with a smile and grabbing the pizza boxes. Delaney stands, helping gather used napkins and tossing them in before Lily shuts it.

“I’ll go ahead and take this out,” Lily says. “It’s trash day anyway.”

Max’s head swivels to her, and he shakes it. “Oh no, it’s way too dark,” Max says. “I’ll come with you.”

Lily hands him a box. “It’s Foxe Hill for Christ’s sake.”

He shrugs, opening the door for her, and they disappear out the front.

My heart pounds as I look out Lily’s window. Max is rolling her garbage can toward the end of her long driveway.

I know we at least have a minute, so I take the chance,

whirling around and pressing Delaney up against the kitchen sink with both hands placed on either side of her body.

She’s already smiling up at me, biting her lower lip.

I let out an exhale. “This is hard.” Her eyes flicker down to my crotch and back up, making me tilt my head. “Not that. Pretending like nothing is going on.”

She giggles and, God, the sound.

“I wouldn’t feel right doing things here anyway,” she says.

“I know,” I say, bending down to kiss her neck. “I’ve thought about that all night. So, just let me savor these five seconds and leave in peace.”

“Or we could go to your place sometime.”

My head juts back to look at her, scanning from her eyes back down to her lips and up again. Her eyebrows are tilted inward a bit, like maybe she is waiting on my reaction. Little does she know my heart is beating out of my chest, hoping I don’t say anything stupid.

“And what would you tell Lily?” I ask.

“That I wanna do bad things with her friend.”

“Delaney…” I groan, pressing my forehead against hers.

My cock is practically throbbing against my jeans. She’s too hot for her own good.

“I’ll tell her I’m picking up donuts,” she says. “I figure that gives us twenty minutes if I pick it up on the way.”

I grin. “Oh, you’ve thought about this?”

She laughs with an awkward edge to it. Maybe embarrassed?

“A lot,” she admits.

I take another look at her—so gorgeous, so confident— and inhale, letting out a ragged exhale.

“Okay,” I say. “My house it is.”

“Tomorrow?” she says.

Too long. I don’t think I can wait any longer.

“Tonight.”

She doesn’t miss a beat before breathing a small. “Yes” in agreement.

I don’t kiss her like I want to. I know we’re cutting it close, so I back up. I can see her shaky inhale.

“Tonight,” she repeats.

“Tonight.”

SIXTEEN

Delaney

A

sher meets me in the driveway when I pull up to his house. I don’t expect him to grab me by the back of my head and kiss me into oblivion right then and there, but it happens. And I also don’t expect him to start ripping my shirt o . Honestly, I don’t. But it happens.

I’ve only got my bra on by the time we finally make it to his front door, but only the fireflies are the witnesses to me jumping into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist and getting carried into his home.

Asher’s house is a small bungalow, two bedrooms, if I had to guess. Bookcases line every room, to the point of practically being wallpaper. His house feels like what an old poet’s house might be—rickety hardwood with a novelty typewriter in the corner. A side table lamp is the only warm light flooding the room.

He carries me as far as the couch before plopping me down, kissing from my neck down to my chest. A finger hooks into the cup of my bra as he pulls it aside and takes my already erect nipples into his mouth.

It’s a type of serenity I didn’t know existed before now, sensations drifting from the tip of them through the rest of my chest.

“Spread your legs, darlin’,” he says and, God, that tone.

That low, demanding tone that vibrates against my thighs.

I’ve never been one for dirty talk before, but Mr. Asher Ellis has converted me into a believer. And with every word he breathes, I’m becoming more devout.

I prop myself up on my elbows as he lowers himself to kneel on the floor.

“You can watch if you want but...” Asher’s hand slides between my thighs, up my stomach, and to the area between my breasts. “I’d rather you close your eyes and moan for me.

Just lay back and enjoy.” He puts pressure against my sternum as I fall back onto the cushions. “I want to take my time.”

His breath is on my inner thigh, hot and wonderful. Each individual kiss he leaves is like a teaser for the next one. He licks his way up my leg and to my core, finally pressing his nose into me, spreading me apart with his tongue and devouring me like I’m the sweetest dessert he’s ever tasted.

He’s attentive to everything I say. When I say, “yes,” he teases me more. When I say, “keep going,” he tantalizes me and drives me wild until my heavy breaths are barely contained in his living room.

I slam my hand over my mouth with each passing exhalation. He reaches up to remove it. The added pressure of his tongue beating down on me sends shivers down my spine to the base of my core, and suddenly outward in a wave of pleasure.

I moan, a sound of relief echoing the room as he finishes me o with continued flicks of his tongue until I’ve completely come down from my orgasm.

When I look down and see him looking back at me from between my thighs, I wonder if the tingling along my neck was just my orgasm or if it was our connection once more.

It’s always there—the undeniable force that somehow pulls us closer, making me wild and him insatiable.

“Are you done?” I ask with a small laugh.

“Only if you want me to be,” he responds with a low chuckle.

“Never.”

I pull him up to kiss me, but with his face close to mine, this suddenly feels more intimate. And I know why. I just invited what inevitably comes next.

I kiss him again to mask the nerves now barreling through me. He cradles my head in his hands, inhaling sharply and then breaking away.

We glance at each other and this whole moment feels so surreal. It’s like when people tell you that one day you’ll graduate college, but then you’re walking across the stage in your cap and gown and it feels like you’re living another person’s life. Similarly, I’m about to sleep with Asher and it doesn’t feel like I’m me.

This is the less rigid me. It’s a culmination of the little nerves that always sparked when I watched an intimate movie scene. The anxiety when I’d watch the lifeguard at the college pool dive in and out of the water. It’s the finality of resisting my sexual desires.

“Come on,” Asher says, rising from the floor. He holds out his hand and I take it, following him down the hall and to the bedroom.

He puts both hands on my hips, kissing along my neck and down to the collar. I reach out to strip his shirt over his head. He lets me. When he goes for the button on my pants, I let him. It’s e ortless, each movement flowing from one kiss on skin to the next.

“Did you get condoms?” I ask.

“As much as the store would let me buy,” he says.

“Me too.”

He laughs in response. I snuck out to the store earlier this week, buying condoms under the judgmental stare of the old man running the shop. I felt dirty. But, here with Asher, as he lowers me onto the bed, licking a line down my stomach, stepping out of his underwear, and walking over to his drawer to get a condom, I realize I couldn’t care less about which Foxe Hill resident saw me buying condoms.

I scoot back on the bed and he settles over me, sliding the condom over his length. It’s the first time I’m seeing him and wow. Just… wow. Exciting, but also…

“This is my first time, so I may be tight,” I say, the words tumbling out quickly. “Just so you’re aware.”

He blinks, pausing with both hands on either side of me, then laughs. “What a way to tell someone.”

“I had to put it out there.”

He smooths back a piece of my hair, tucking it behind my ear, tracing his thumb down my neck. He seems apprehensive, so I shake my head. I’ve repressed this for far too long. I know what I want.

“You’re exactly who I imagined I’d be with,” I say. “Don’t stop.”

He pauses, as if double checking his next words, then lets out a small chuckle against my neck as he plants a kiss right at the nape.

“Delaney, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

I could die right now and feel no regrets, except maybe that he isn’t inside me yet. Or maybe I already have died and I’m in my happy place.

“Then we’re on the same page,” I say with a slight laugh back.

He kisses up to my lips, where we move together, his hot breath causing me to moan against his mouth.

“We’ll go slow,” he says. “I’ll go slow.”

He settles beneath me and once I can feel him hard against me, I realize how badly I absolutely do not want to wait. I don’t want gentle. I want to feel this.

I push against him, feeling part of his cock enter me. He tilts his head to the side.

“Eager?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, and he inches in more. It feels almost painful, but I squint back the pain. He pulls out and pushes back in, and then slowly but surely the pain is replaced by want.

“Talk to me,” he says. “Tell me if this is okay.”

I nod and he pushes in more. It’s like lightning running up my thighs and into my core. I wince again.

“Delaney, talk to me,” he says.

I don’t. Instead, I push down and take all of him.

It’s painful. I should have expected that. But I don’t care.

I’m ready for him and I don’t want to hold back anymore.

Asher groans, pushing a hand through my hair, as he slowly pulses out then works his way back in. It’s less painful this time, and with every subsequent thrust, the lightning fades away to the gentle roll of thunder between us. The warmth of a building storm. The heat in the air as he goes faster.

My hands dive to the headboard, pushing my palms against it to drive in sync with him.

Then I feel his thumb rubbing me on the outside, driving my pleasure higher. It’s rising from two locations, then three as he wraps his hand around my rib, reaching his thumb out to roll over my breast.

He keeps pushing in and out, breathing heavier. Each moan from him pushes me further and further. His own pleasure drives mine and when I open my eyes and see all of him, it’s too much.

The sight of his contracting ab muscles as he works into me, his normally fixed hair suddenly askew, and then looking at his eyes only to see that his gaze is already locked on me. A haunting green, full of lust.

I’m a goner.

My orgasm breathes through me as I call his name, and moments later, he’s just as lost as I am.

We crash together, reveling in each other even as he slows down. I’m still reeling when he leans forward and places a chaste kiss on the corner of my lips.

He smiles against me, saying, “That was—” “Perfect,” I finish for him. “Perfect.”

SEVENTEEN

Delaney

“W

e don’t always have to come here,” Asher says when I hop out of his truck, donut box in hand.

It’s not that I mind if Lily knows about us. She’s not the one who holds our careers at the college in her fist. But any signs of someone finding out could be a risk, and I’d rather just buy more donuts and pretend Asher and I are not sleeping together.

“It’s a small town, so the drive is five minutes,” I say, giving him a playful push in the shoulder. I like how hard it is under my attempt at being assertive. “Plus, do you really want to have sex in Lily’s attic?”

He walks toward me, backing me against the truck’s door and placing his hand on the lip of it over my head. His sheer presence has me melting.

“Could be hot,” he says. I lift an eyebrow. “Kidding. No. I like it being our little secret,” he says, bending down to kiss my forehead, my cheeks, and then my lips.

If a tree fell down in a forest where I moaned Asher’s name and nobody was around to hear it, did it even really happen? If a roommate is always around and never seeing us touch, then do we even have sex behind closed doors?

It’s a mystery game but one I’m comfortable playing and ensuring others don’t solve.

We walk into his house. I place the donuts on the counter.

He grabs the cherry donut before I can slap it out of his hand.

He always eats that one.

I laugh and we go back to his bedroom. I pull my shirt over my head, hopping onto his bed. It’s been one full week of sex and I’m all too familiar with his house now. Coming here after class every day will do that. Though, I do think Lily is starting to get suspicious of the constant donut runs.

Asher takes o his tie and belt, lying down on the bed next to me. I curl into him, letting my head nuzzle against his hard bicep.

Sometimes we do this, just lie here in peace. It’s sure not sex, but it’s something else entirely. A bit of quiet that I can enjoy only with him.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“How I’m a slightly bad friend for lying to Lily,” I say.

Even as Asher shakes his head in disagreement, I know that Lily is currently preparing for a girl’s night with Violet and Kayla. I was invited, but I said I wasn’t feeling well.

“You’re not a bad friend,” he says. “Next.”

I smile, but it’s half-hearted. I still don’t feel entirely well.

Here I am in my professor’s arms and, though we’re still being discreet on campus, my fear of getting caught has been easily replaced with the anxiety of what will happen in one more week when I leave.

“I’m thinking about our inevitable end,” I say out loud.

I feel him shift beside me. I twist to lie on my side, and I can see how screwy his features are with his lips pulled to one side as if debating saying something but choosing not to.

I say it for him.

“I’m gonna leave in one week,” I say, bending my elbow to prop my head up in my hand. “We both know that.”

“Let’s talk about that later.”

“We can’t avoid it forever.”

He chuckles. “We can for at least a week.” I shake my head at his boyish grin. “Please?”

My heart tugs and I can’t say no to puppy dog Asher. I kiss his nose. He kisses mine back.

“Asher, why did you never leave Foxe Hill?” I ask.

He falls back on the pillow and shrugs. “It’s home.”

“You’ve never considered teaching at other colleges?”

“There's a college in the city nearby,” he says. “I got my doctorate there and I maybe could have gotten a job too. But I like it close to home. Plus, I can make a di erence here.

Those big colleges… you can’t, really. You get lost in the crowd.”

A di erence. My mom never stopped talking about that.

The word is practically embedded into me. It’s why we volunteered so often and why she pushed me to have a future.

“And where do you plan on going after this, Delaney Davis?” he asks, stroking the outside of my shoulder.

“You’re gonna go far, I just know it.”

I smile. “I’d like to.”

“Why?” I pause, laughing.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says with a chuckle. “Why?” I reach for the pillow behind me and flu it, falling back and staring up at the ceiling.

Why. “I guess… well, my mom always wanted me to be better.

She worked two jobs, and I never wanted to be stuck in that type of position.”

“Okay, aside from not having two jobs… what are your goals?”

“What is this, an interrogation?” I ask with a laugh.

“No, but… what do you want? I think your mom would be proud of you as you are. You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone but yourself.”

This feels so intimate. So raw. And as I parse through my mind what I want, the only thing flashing before me is that one thing: to make a di erence.

We’re silent, staring up at his spinning ceiling fan, watching the blades cut through the room.

I think of all the times my mom volunteered, simply wanting to help people. Just like Asher.

She would have liked him. She would have even liked Foxe Hill. The people. The nature. The simplicity of it all.

“I like Foxe Hill,” I say out loud. “I can see why you stayed.”

He tugs me into him, and I let him, scooting inward to run my hand over his strong chest.

“We’ll miss you here,” he says. “I’ll miss you.”

My heart feels like it’s shrinking, so I clutch his shirt in my fist and hold him closer to hopefully make it stop.

I’m not made for this, for relationships, for being attached. I was only supposed to be here for six weeks, but then I slept with my professor and now I’m too far gone.

I’ll miss him too. This new friend of mine. My professor who brightens my soul.

And when I look up at him, I can tell it’s not just a professor possessing a student, but a professor possessed by one.

EIGHTEEN

Asher

“Y

ou’re gonna miss the turn.”

“I’m not gonna—” “You’re gonna—” “I’m not—” We both go quiet as Delaney does, in fact, miss the turn.

“Lived here my whole life and—” “Shush,” she says, shaking her head with a small grin on the edge of her lips. She’s not really annoyed with me.

Delaney takes the next exit leaving the interstate and loops back around toward Foxe Hill Community College. We pull into the teacher’s lot where she left her car here last night. We got caught up doing work in the library together and I drove us back to my place together because I didn’t want to be even twenty minutes without her.

It’s all so cheesy and borderline childish for both of us, like we’re a bunch of heated teenagers that can’t stay away.

But with only a few days left, I don’t know what else to do.

I’m like putty for this woman. She even asked to drive my truck this morning (“It’s a monster!” she said) and I didn’t think twice before tossing her my keys.

I look over at her and we both smile, stealing just a few more moments. I don’t dare kiss her in the parking lot of the

school, but I want to. So badly.

Instead, I open the passenger door and walk over to the driver’s side, leaning my elbows on the rolled-down window.

“And?” “It’s still too big,” she says. “What are you compensating for, again?”

“You know I’m not compensating for anything.”

She grins, opening the door, grabbing the handle above her and jumping down. I grab her hips to steady her on the descent, but she doesn’t need it. I just want an excuse to touch her any way I can.

She looks over to the open courtyard, biting her lower lip and something in the motion feels wrong. Her words confirm it.

“It’ll be weird not coming here.”

“It’s only Wednesday,” I counter as if that changes anything. It’s the last day of class and she’s just nostalgic.

But we both know what I’m implying. It’s only Wednesday because you leave Sunday, and I need all the time I can get.

Fine, what harm could one kiss do on a Wednesday morning with an empty lot anyway? I look both ways until— Oh no.

Rolling around the corner to this empty lot is none other than the dean herself.

Impeccable timing.

Deborah pulls up in her pitch-black Audi, halting to zero, a maneuver which would normally bald another person’s tires, but not Deb’s.

Extending one leg out of the driver’s door at a time, she throws on her sunglasses, accenting her pantsuit with a ‘I’m here to kick ass and see who is breaking policy’ type of demeanor. I give the most neighborly wave I can manage and Delaney, being the smart woman she is, does the same.

“A bit early, isn’t it?” Deb asks, tilting her head to the side, her tight bob barely sparing an inch from its tight hairspray hold.

“I’m just prepping for the last day,” I call over and she grins, a Cheshire smile that suddenly feels vaguely threatening. Or maybe she’s genuinely happy? I’m actually unsure with her most days.

“Yes, well, do you have a moment this morning?” Deb asks. “You’re here early anyway.”

Instinctually, my eyes dart to Delaney. It takes one second for me to see the slight panic in them, so I glance back up to Deb as if it didn’t even happen.

“For you, always,” I say.

“Ever the charmer.”

“You can go ahead and unlock the auditorium,” I say to Delaney, digging in my pocket for the key and handing it to her. She takes it with her eyebrows raised high. I know she intended on driving back to Lily’s for a shower and a change of clothes but it’s too late now that Deb’s seen her here and Delaney knows it.

I think we did a decent job at covering, but what do I know? Likely not a lot because Deb is still standing there, purse slung over her shoulder and arms crossed. I once heard that people who like you have a tendency to point their feet in your direction. Deb’s high-heels are very clearly angled away from me.

“Walk with me,” Deb says, giving Delaney a curt nod goodbye as she walks up beside me, ensuring we keep pace together.

Neither of us says anything for a few feet, notably while Delaney is still in range. It makes me sweat and maybe that’s what she wants.

“Trusting students with your keys?” Deb asks.

“She’s sta too,” I say. “I trust her.”

I feel nerves shoot through me at the mention of trusting Delaney. Is that too far? Too obvious?

“Indeed,” Deb says once we cross the main quad between all buildings, heading toward the Thomas Building containing sta o ces.

“So, listen,” she says. “Delaney returned the numbers on the budget, and it looks like we can only a ord to hire you temporary help for the time being. An adjunct.”

The words came out like a gunshot, too fast for me to properly process. But that’s how Deb works. Straight and to the point. It wouldn’t make sense for her to sugarcoat a wound.

My legs feel heavy with each additional step as the news settles over me.

“That’s all that got allocated to me?” I ask.

“Congratulations.”

“Deb, that’s not enough.” I’m trying to find the words to argue, but my mind is now juggling between ‘why’d you do this?’ and ‘why did Delaney only allocate so little?’

“Yes,” she says. “The thing is, other places needed it more.”

“Like who?” I blurt out, but the question is stupid and won’t change anything. We both know it.

“Recruiting. The career fair was a roaring success for once.

Student engagement activities.

The math department…”

“The math department? What do they need? They’re oversta ed, if anything.”

“I purposefully chose an outside, neutral party to run the budget. Are you really going to question that?”

Everything feels halted, uncomfortable, and borderline humiliating.

Delaney is the most even-keeled person I know. Neutral is her middle name. But I thought it would be obvious we need

new hires. Was this purposeful?

“So, only the adjunct, huh?” I ask.

I hold open the door for her, allowing us into the building as she whizzes past, heels hot and her expression noticeably darker, concerned, and pointed.

“Delaney was thorough,” she says.

“At least she’ll earn those references,” I mutter.

Deb rolls her eyes. “What references?”

We pass a few more o ces, both waving to Curtis as he stands in his doorway with two cups of co ee—weird that he double fists in the morning—and into the executive o ces waiting room.

“I was under the impression she was here for references.

Isn’t that what this is? A resume builder? A networking thing?” I can’t help the bitterness in my voice. I wish it weren’t there, but it’s pooling out like the blood from my veins. The pain and hurt of betrayal.

Deb reaches into her pocketbook, tugging out her fob and keying into her o ce.

“A resume builder,” she muses, swinging the door open and throwing the bag on the free chair across from her desk.

“Resume builder…” She falls into her seat, resting her head in her hands and something about it seems o . “Asher… I don’t have connections,” she says. “I needed help and her mentor owed me a favor.”

I narrow my eyes. I don’t want to follow her train of thought, but I am.

“You can’t do anything for Delaney, can you?”

“I’ve been here, how many years now?” Too many. “Any connections I had are limited to favors. I don’t speak with anyone outside of Foxe Hill anymore.”

My heart sinks, and I’m not sure what I’m more upset about. The fact that I am still going to be overworked by the

time this is all over, or the fact that it wasn’t even worth it for Delaney to make that happen. That Deb lied.

“Listen,” Deb says with a small laugh, laying her palms down on the tabletop. “I like Delaney. I do. But I have nothing to o er her aside from a written letter. And that may be a stretch.”

“How?” “I’ve burned bridges, Asher. Unintentionally, but I have.

Don’t get me wrong…” She blows out air through her nose. A laugh that shows she might find this funny if it weren’t so tragic. “I honestly feel bad. I really like her. I didn’t expect her to be so… driven.”

“Right,” I say, finding the other chair in the room and plopping into it. “Sure.”

My chest feels heavy and my feet even more so. I don’t want to teach today. I don’t have the strength to look at Delaney and see her disappointment, nor to be upset with her.

I grip the arms of the chair and sigh.

“Asher.” Deb’s voice brings me back so that I’m looking up at her and in her face, I see danger. Her lips are pursed, and her thin eyebrows are pulled in tight. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

I know now that I mentioned Delaney too much and my pounding heart seems to know it too.

“No ma’am,” I say.

Deb’s eyes narrow but I don’t budge. Not a single muscle of mine moves.

“I want it on the record that I asked, and you said no.”

I nod without any hesitation.

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Then she wasn’t in your o ce a couple weeks ago?”

Like an anvil on my heart, I’m crushed to oblivion.

“Students come into—”

“Asher, please,” she sneers. “I saw her bag on the couch.

Don’t play games with me. You got involved with a student.”

“I…” But I’ve never been a very good liar.

“We have a small enough English department as it is, so consider this a warning. A heavy one. But, see, this is what I’m talking about. What do you expect me to write on a recommendation, even if I did have a decent reputation?

Delaney is ‘good with sta ’?” Her lip curls at her own halfhearted joke. “What do you think?”

Deb’s eyes are set on me, but they’re dark, clouded with the same energy exuding from her. I have nothing to defend myself with and she knows it.

She sits in the chair with her elbows jutted out and spindly fingers steepled. I’ve never had anything against Deb. She’s always been blunt. In fact, I’ve liked that about her. I’ve never questioned where I stand with her. But this… this feels di erent.

Lying to Delaney upfront, using her, then giving her nothing in return… even though the issues war inside my head between getting screwed on the funding, I can’t help but feel unease at knowing that Delaney’s summer was all for nothing.

“I need to go teach a class,” I say, rising from the chair.

“Asher. Don’t hold the budget against her.”

I say nothing but instead leave the o ce with unsaid words on my tongue.

NINETEEN

Delaney

A

sher arrived late to class and, even though he walked in with a smile on his face, hands waving in the air ready to start class as always, I could see how his face dropped the second he found me. And how it never really got better throughout the rest of it.

After class, I pack slower to give us time alone. He gives me a slight squeeze of my hand when it’s just us. I almost go to my toes to kiss him, but I know better. I know to be careful.

“Hey, Deb’s got me on an assignment so I gotta stay a bit later today,” he says, another small flex into my hand, as if he’s having to reassure me of something. Or maybe himself.

What did they talk about this morning?

“Okay, I’ll swing by later?” I ask.

“Depends on how late I work.”

My head juts back, but I try to shake it o .

He’s just tired. He’s just busy.

“Well, think of me in your o ce when you work,” I say.

“Always do,” he says, though his voice sounds low and tired.

I scrunch my nose at him, wanting to see him scrunch his nose back like he always does. He attempts to mirror my

movement, but it’s half-hearted—only one little line across his nose as opposed to the normal three.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says with a laugh. It sounds more like a heavy breath of air. No humor to it at all. “I have a lot of work to do, that’s all. Gotta grade final papers.”

I inhale sharply and though no words are said, I know he can read the room just like I can read every expression on his face like it’s my own. I know what each slow smile means because, even though we’ve only been acquaintances for six weeks, I know the guy. I just do.

“Fine,” I say, letting it drop temporarily. “Text me when you’re done?”

“Yeah, I will.”

I don’t attempt a kiss like I normally might. Somehow, it doesn’t seem like the right time.

I walk out of the room hoping maybe he says something, but it’s quiet as a tomb.

He doesn’t text me that night. Instead, I put together a puzzle with Lily, ruminating in my own thoughts.

“No donuts tonight?” she asks with a lifted eyebrow.

“I can, if you want,” I say.

“No, no. I’m okay with just the puzzle.” Her voice fades o and I piece together the edges in silence.

The next day is the same. He doesn’t text me. I finish up my final online that morning and afterward, I sit on Lily’s back stoop while she waters the plants. Part of me wants to drop by his house, but the logical side of me knows that would only scream ‘crazy girlfriend’ and since I’m not even given the luxurious title of ‘girlfriend,’ I know it’s too much.

That night we go to the bonfire and by the time Lily and I arrive, Asher is already talking to Keaton and Joey by the fire.

He doesn’t even look at me.

Violet is with Kayla, so we gravitate over there even though my feet want to carry me to the opposite side of the yard.

I don’t know what Deborah said to him, but with each passing minute, I know it was something that changed his mind about me.

“I’m thinking another camping trip in the fall if everyone is up for it,” Kayla says.

“I’m always down for camping,” Violet says.

The conversation seems flippant, and so distant from my reality. I’ll be gone in two days and the person I’ll miss most won’t even acknowledge me. They’re discussing camping, and by then I’ll be a distant memory in this town.

“You’ve made the full transition back to country girl,” Kayla says to Violet with a grin. “I’m proud of you.”

Violet shakes her head, clutching her green camo jacket close around her. “Yeah, well, let’s not get too excited about it all.”

“Keaton brought you back and kept you here,” she says.

“That’s all that matters.”

Keaton kept her here. Is that something the Foxe Hill men do? Keep women in this town? Is this some weird stolen women town? After these six weeks with Asher, why does it feel that way? Why does Foxe Hill feel like my home?

The summer night air is particularly cool tonight and I wish I’d brought something more than just my cardigan.

Looking around, everyone seems so at home. Is this what a home feels like with lasting friendships and routine? If I stayed somewhere, would I know the seasons inside and out?

Like how the summer weather drifts between swelteringly hot during the day and chilly at night?

I feel a tingling down my spine and then a voice behind me.

“Hey, you got a second?” Asher asks. I would know the tone of his voice from a mile away, but if that didn’t give him away, it would be the woodsy scent, the warmth of his hands along the outside of my arms. But this is new, and bold, and not a movement he normally makes in front of friends.

Because of this, I’m more on edge than comforted by it.

“Sure,” I say, almost a whisper.

Asher’s hand guides me to the opposite end of the yard, out the fence, and into the front. It’s dark, only lit by the streetlights illuminating their mailbox and driveway.

“Listen,” he starts, and no good conversation starts with a man wringing his hands and saying ‘listen’ but I still stay silent all the same. “I spoke with Deb and… well… a lot happened. First of all, she knows. About us.”

I shake my head, maybe trying to loosen the words from my mind or something. But, no, I heard them correctly.

“What?” I ask.

He shifts from one boot to the next, classically Asher in his black tee, covered by the deep red and black flannel and bootcut jeans. A dream slowly turning into my new worst nightmare.

“Yeah,” he responds. “But, listen...” He keeps saying that word as if I’m not already. “Have you spoken to Deb?” “I see her tomorrow.”

“Good. You should talk to her.”

“About us?”

“No. About… she just… she wasn’t entirely truthful.”

“What are you talking about, Asher?”

He looks in pain as he bites the inside of his cheek.

“She told me she doesn’t have recommendations for you.”

I wait for him to find any additional words. Maybe something encouraging or the possibility of a “but.” Maybe

Deb even gave him an alternative and we can work from there. I’m not hearing it, though.

He sighs. “She said your mentor owed her a favor.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“He did.”

I think back to the last time I spoke with him. He said he trusted her, but why? And why did I trust him?

“So, I came here for nothing.”

It’s silent between us, but the insides of me are bubbling with heat. My muscles ache from the tension. My pulse feels like it won’t slow down.

To say I’m angry is an understatement.

I bite my lower lip, looking at the ground that his boot kicks aside. Dirt billowing into the air. A couple pebbles follow suit.

And then it hits me…

“She’s not giving me references because we slept together, is she?”

“Come on, don’t,” he says, his features twisting so that his eyebrows pull inward, and his lips point down into a frown. “It wasn’t us.”

“I got screwed. She…” I can feel the heat behind my eyes and I hate how weak I feel. How helpless. And how stupid I am for falling for anything.

He reaches out his arms and instinctually I want to fall into them, but my nerves are too on edge to accept the comfort, so I take a step back.

“I mean, why didn’t you tell me this two days ago after you spoke to her?”

“It didn’t seem like the right time,” he says.

“What if I’d been putting in resumes? Putting her down as a reference? Waiting for the others she’d give me to see if they had jobs? I look so stupid.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and I feel the pain in his voice. I feel it like fog emitting from him and over to me, trying its best to wrap me in the mist. “I should have told you.”

I know without a shadow of a doubt that Asher is a good guy. He’s the cowboy poet I thought just needed a friend, but what friend does this? I want to bite back at him, but I can’t.

Instead, the only sounds around us are the crickets and distant laughing of his friends in the background.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, kicking that boot of his again.

I shake my head. I can feel my jaw aching. I’ve been grinding my teeth.

He goes for my arm, held so closely to my chest, but I twist to the side, turning myself just out of arm’s reach.

“Don’t.”

My tone surprises even me. It’s biting, like I’m a scared animal.

Asher pulls back as if burned by the word, the heat rising from me like flames.

“What can I do?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I answer, shaking my head. “We should get back to the bonfire.”

“Wait, no, hold on a second there. Let’s talk. I just want to enjoy one more day with you. One more day until you go back. Delaney, please talk to me.”

I like the way he says my name, but right now it doesn’t feel right. I look away but then I feel his forefinger on my chin, pulling me back to me.

“Don’t shut me out,” he says, voice low and gru . “Not now. Not when we have such little time.”

“Time for what, Asher? You wasted two days of what we had left. I mean, I don’t have time for anything apparently. I just waste it all on a summer… whatever this job or, or internship thing is… I waste time on experiences that lead to

nothing. And relationships that—” But I stop myself before I can continue.

His laugh lines fade. The longer I look at him, the more his mouth closes to a frown and the more his posture straightens. Because, when o -put, Asher doesn’t slouch. Of course he doesn’t. He gets more handsome. More regal. More like the king sitting on his well-deserved throne.

“Relationships that what?” he asks.

“That won’t last,” I exhale.

His jaw tics.

“Right, then,” is all he says but I get the implication. I’ve pissed him o enough that he’s done. Not that I expected some valiant e ort to keep me, like some prince with a sword on his hip and wavy blond locks riding on a horse through the countryside.

But a stubbled brunette professor might have been enough.

I’m too angry to know either way, so I just slap my hands on my thighs, shake my head and exhale.

“Thanks anyway, though,” I say, pausing. “For the summer. For… being nice to me.”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to make eye contact with me. I can tell by how his eyes keep shifting to the side then instantly back.

“Don’t do that. Don’t act like this is already over because you’re leaving or you’re hurt. I didn’t do anything.”

He’s right. I know he is. But my stomach feels like it’s coiled into knots and I can’t do anything to unfurl it.

“You made me trust you. Then you kept something from me. Something pretty important, I’d say.”

I can see his own frustration building by the way he curls his fist, by how much his jaw is ticcing…

“You knew I didn’t get the funding I needed,” he mutters.

“And you didn’t say anything either.”

There goes my heart rate again. Shooting up to the sky.

Breaking through it, just like my heart.

“I did what I could,” I say. “But Deb was insistent on only one hire.”

“An adjunct,” he says with a half-hearted laugh.

I pause. “An adjunct?”

“Yeah, I mean, Delaney, come on…”

If the situation didn’t already feel wrong, it is now spiraling into something more uncomfortable with each second because I know what the budget looked like. An adjunct professor was nowhere on that spreadsheet proposal.

“I proposed two hires,” I say. “She told me you would get at least one. Full time. Not temporary.”

Asher’s lip pulls in between his teeth.

“You’re serious?” he asks.

“I did try. You have to believe me.”

He exhales, and it’s shaky. But the hitch in it only makes my hands shake. It’s the anger in me boiling again and I’m afraid if I stay too long, I’ll say something I regret.

“I do.”

“You hesitated with that answer.”

“We both seem to be hesitating, Delaney.”

“Stop saying my name,” I bite out, shaking my head.

Clenching my fists harder. Trying to steel my breathing, but it won’t just chill.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I don’t like feeling like I’m cornered.”

His head juts back. “I make you feel cornered?”

“You make me feel like I came here to do a job and then… all I did was screw a teacher.”

I stop moving. He stops moving. It feels like the only thing shifting in this moment is the wind. What good that does. The cold air in the driveway only gets colder.

“That’s all this was then,” he says, letting out a breathy laugh. “Great. Fantastic. Glad you feel that way. I guess that’ll be what we remember in the end, huh?”

It hurts. He knows it hurts. But neither of us stop the words from being said anyway.

“I should get back,” I say.

Asher is already shaking his head. “No, I didn’t mean—” “I’m leaving Sunday,” I say. “What else is there to say?”

“Just, please—” “Stop. Stop. Please, Asher,” I say, snap, maybe yell. I’m not sure. “Please.”

He opens his mouth and shuts it. His eyebrows pinch in, but I don’t let myself linger on them. I instead walk o , arms crossed again—the damn cool summer night—and back through the fence.

I know I look visibly pissed, so I try to drop my hands by my side. I try to relax my shoulders, roll them back, and maybe keep some form of composure. But I can feel him following behind me.

Violet is the first to lift an eyebrow in my direction, looking from Asher to me and then down to her drink. That girl notices things and I know she’s not missing this moment either. Maybe it’s an Ellis thing to be attentive.

I join their group again. I want to ask Lily if we can leave and head back home, but that would be unfair to her. So, I sit there, nodding at their conversation, giving my best impression of a laugh every time a joke is told, but after who knows how long, I finally leave their circle and move to where Kayla’s husband, Joey, is holding a marshmallow over the bonfire alone.

When I sit in the folding chair next to him, sinking deeper with an exhale, Joey leans to the side, grabbing a second stick, plopping the flu on top, and handing it to me.

I take it without saying a word and he nods as if understanding that maybe a marshmallow is the only thing I need at the moment.

I hold it over the fire, watching the edges brown slowly then all at once until it catches fire.

Joey’s eyes widen when this happens, looking from the melting marshmallow back to me. “‘Sometimes you just want to watch the world burn?’” he quotes.

“Yeah,” I say. “Sometimes.”

It’s ironic that even though I didn’t want to make friends, I still did. And then I was hurt by it all. I should have kept to my rules when I came here. Alliances. Not friendships.

The fire starts to bleed onto the stick itself, so I let it drop.

And definitely no bonfires.

TWENTY

Asher

I

slept for about two hours last night.

I rise with the sun, or more like it rises with me, so at five in the morning, I stand on my porch to welcome this terribly depressing Saturday morning.

I go to my backyard, looking at the garden my mom helped me grow when I first moved in. The garden isn’t truly mine; I’m just maintaining all of her hard work. Squatting down, I hold one rose between my fingers, breathing it in. I always thought Delaney smelled like vanilla, but I know now there had to be a mix of roses in there. Soft, gentle things with a splash of fire to them. Thorns.

Delaney through and through.

I’ve never had my chest hurt like this. Maybe it’s all the outside trail running. But, sitting on my porch and feeling the emptiness of the day, I suddenly know exactly where I need to go.

I get into my truck, roll down the windows and turn o the radio so I can hear the natural sounds of Foxe Hill. The sounds of the city that I love. The early morning birds, the whoosh of the wind cycling through the open windows. I even smell the honeysuckle when I pass by the fields just a couple miles before Main Street.

I crest the hill, seeing the short downtown buildings lining the street. I look at the sandwich shop. I almost pull into the lot, opting for Keaton’s advice. But, no, he’s for a di erent time. I need blunt advice. Southern mama advice.

I keep rolling on, through more woods lining either side of the one-way road and onto the gravel driveway, right to my mom’s house.

I step out of the truck and there she is, on the porch with co ee in hand. Exactly where she is every morning before seven a.m. Except with her is also Violet in the rocking chair.

I didn’t know I needed my sister too, but when both of them wave to me, my soul feels at ease for the first time in three days.

“Both kids here,” Mom calls with a smile. “What lottery did I win this morning?”

“Hey, Momma,” I say, stepping up on the porch and leaning down to kiss her forehead.

“Dang, you just missed Dad,” Violet asks with a smile.

“Darn,” I say, snapping my fingers. I love my dad but thank God he isn’t here to see me bare my soul to my mom and sister.

“Partying hard for the end of semester?” Violet asks.

“You bet.”

“Violet finished her movie,” Mom says with a nod toward her, ever the proud smile on her face.

“Oh yeah?”

Violet raises her co ee mug in a toast-like gesture. “Yep, this is the celebration house, I think.”

Celebration seems wrong to say. I don’t want to be celebrating. I haven’t even finished grading assignments. I saw Delaney’s final come through two days ago. Perfect score, of course. But it unfortunately ruined the whole process for me that day.

“How was class this summer?” Mom asks.

“Good,” I lie. I came here to say more, but now with all eyes on me, I can’t find the words.

Violet peers over at me, and I can feel my own expression tighten. My eyebrows pull in and I think, like any good sister, she’s reading my mind.

“And Delaney?” she asks.

My heart feels like it halts in place. Pandora’s box is now opened and there’s no going back.

“Who is Delaney?” Mom asks, her head tilted in question.

I think I even see her grip her co ee tighter, which sends me back a few paces.

“Nobody,” I blurt out.

“Yes, she’s a somebody,” Violet says. “What’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s something going on.”

Mom blows out a breath of air. “Who is Delaney?”

“Come on, Asher,” Violet says. “Just say it.”

“No,” I say too quickly, which I know is my mistake because a small smile twitches at the edge of Violet’s lips and she nods. She knows she has me. I inhale, and then say, “Yeah, okay, there’s something going on.”

I feel myself instantly relax. It’s a secret finally losing its power. I melt against the porch railing and stare up at the covering, like the tension leaving my body has left me wiped.

“Asher…” It’s a warning from my mom. The ‘I better fill her in soon’ voice.

“I’m… seeing someone,” I say.

“A student,” Violet says through a cough.

My mom’s eyes couldn’t widen more if she tried. And my heart couldn’t sink any lower unless it fell through me to the ground.

“Asher Steven Ellis.”

“It’s not like that,” I say, holding my hands up in arrest.

“She’s a friend too.”

“Students aren’t your friends, Asher,” Mom says. “Come on, you know that. Have me and your daddy taught you nothing about professionalism? Respecting the balance of power? You’re a professor and that is an unfair advantage.”

Shame fills me from the inside out. My face grows hot.

“She’s been hanging out with us,” Violet clarifies for me.

“She’s actually very nice. She’s been staying with Lily. Plus, she’s sta there too.” Her hands aimlessly wave in the air.

“It’s a gray area, Mom.” Gray area. The two words that have somehow been saving me this summer, making me feel like maybe I’m not a complete unethical bastard.

“Thank you,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “For a second there, I thought you weren’t on my side.”

Violet laughs. “I’ll always be on your side. But you need to talk about this. Plus, I’ve been itching to know what’s going on all summer.”

“Nosy.”

She shrugs, taking a sip that appears much too smug for my taste.

“Well?” Mom asks, her eyebrows lifting up as she places her co ee down on the side table next to her.

Oh no, that means business.

So, I get to talking. I tell them as much as I can divulge to my mom and sister. Meeting Delaney, the career fair, and our connection. How she just gets me. Everything I can. But, of course, nothing about that night in the library.

“I like her,” I say. “I never stop thinking about her. She’s smart. Beautiful. Sometimes irritating,” I say with a laugh.

“But she’s a good person. And she’s been through a lot.”

“So, what’s the problem?” Mom asks. I’m trying to read her expression, but she doesn’t seem mad or upset with me

anymore. It’s like all she wants is to understand. So do I. “She leaves tomorrow to go across the country. And… I wasted the last two days. I thought she did something and then she said she didn’t but…”

“You don’t believe her?”

“I do, but…”

“You either do or you don’t, baby,” Mom says. “That’s all there is to it.”

I pause, knowing the answer already. “I do believe her. I trust her.”

“Well, that’s where you went wrong then,” Mom says.

“You let someone else decide what you thought. When was the last time someone got to you like this? I’ve never seen you like this.”

I shrug. “I don’t know the last time something got to me… well, maybe Violet and Keaton. They are still pretty gross together.”

Violet sticks her tongue out at me.

“Asher—” Mom says. There’s that warning again.

“No, it’s like ever since this girl moved to Foxe Hill, something feels di erent,” I say. “I’m running outside again. Working late suddenly doesn’t seem as bad. And I feel like I’ve got a partner. It’s… it’s not so lonely, I guess.”

I didn’t know that was on my mind, but the words ring true. I pause, pushing up from my forearms to lean back against the railing and reaching my arms above my head to hopefully breathe.

“You know,” Violet chimes in. “Long distance works for a lot of people.”

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “She’s got her own goals. She doesn’t want to be tied to Foxe Hill. And… she may not want me. I kept something from her too. I should have told her upfront, but I didn’t.”

A single eyebrow on Mom’s face lifts. “You lied?”

“No, I didn’t lie,” I say. “I just… didn’t address something.”

“Then stop being dumb, son. Apologize. Move on. And go build up some airplane miles so I can meet this girl.”

“I can’t,” I say. I hate how my voice cracks a bit. “I think it’s too late. I was a jerk to her last night. And of course she’s upset. The thing I kept from her is bad. It a ects her future.”

“Then say something.”

“It’s not even remotely my place.”

Mom purses her lips and sighs. “What feels right in your heart?”

Delaney feels right. I know that for a fact. But then there’s the issue with the budget. I believe her, but I’m still hurt. It’s all jumbling together in my mind.

“Fighting for something,” I say. “But I don’t know what.”

“Tell me when you figure it out,” Violet says. “I want to see you make a fool of yourself.”

Always the little sister.

“Funny.”

TWENTY-ONE

Delaney

I

expected to go visit Deborah in person, but after my conversation with Asher, I’m not surprised when she calls me instead.

“Delaney.”

“Hi, Deborah.”

“Listen, I’m still working through my address book and I’m curious, is there a college you’re looking to work at? I can see if I have any contacts there.”

“No,” I say. I don’t even know how to handle this conversation when the other side is lying to me. Do I call her out? I should, but I’m just too exhausted to say anything. I’m having to parse every outcome and every single one seems fruitless.

If I say she’s lying, I risk the possibility that she isn’t.

Then I’m cut out of any potential references. If I say nothing, then she’s gotten away with this scam of a summer. But even if I wanted to speak up, what would it ultimately accomplish?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

“I’ll connect with your mentor,” she says. “Send some things his way.”

I want to laugh. My mentor. The man who didn’t call me once while I was out here. The man I assumed would help me

out as well.

I try one last option.

“You know, a written letter might work better,” I say. “I think I could do that.”

There’s a pregnant pause, much too long to ease my own irritation.

“Sure,” she says. “Absolutely, Delaney. I’ll email it to you.”

But I can hear the waver in her voice.

She won’t, will she?

And why? Why is this happening and why won’t she do anything to help me out when I did the entire budget for her?

But better yet, why didn’t she even follow it?

These are all things I want to say—things I want to shout —but can’t bring myself to. I’m angry. I’m hurt. And I want nothing more than to watch Deborah’s life crumble down around her. But that isn’t happening today. I don’t have anything I can do but take it and run with my tail between my legs with my lesson learned.

I thank her for her time and then we hang up. The conversation over. No performance review. No summary. No nothing.

All I have left to do is pack, so I start immediately. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to. If I leave tonight, it will all be behind me. I’ll be back at my apartment in no time.

But it’s weird how that suddenly feels a little less like home now. It’s funny how some places can feel like a new home within six weeks.

To me, ‘home’ is now this silly, small attic, the slight summer breeze that rolls through the window, and the subtle rocking of the chair in the corner. Home are these same floors where I’ve gotten ready every morning for six

weeks. Home is the smell of Lily’s paint in the kitchen. Home are crickets at night.

And now, it’s over.

I think I would like something akin to this—some old cottage o the beaten path. Maybe a garden. A garden where I’d likely kill the flowers every time, but maybe not. Maybe I’d grow a green thumb.

I sit on the wooden floor, folding shirt after shirt until they fit in my luggage.

“When are you heading out?”

I turn and see Lily on the threshold, holding a steaming mug with the teabag label tied around the handle. She extends it out as an o ering and I nod, reaching out to take it from her.

She sits on my bed—her bed—and crosses her legs.

“Tonight,” I say.

Her hands freeze on her knees.

“So soon?” she asks.

“I gotta get back,” I say. “I gotta get home.”

The word reverberates through me and feels fake.

I look up at Lily, still staring at me like I’ve paused time and kept her sitting there in shock. I try to change the subject.

“I’ll miss our puzzles,” I say, feeling a bit sappy but whatever. I can be sappy when the crickets chirp outside and a low hum of wind is our symphony for a final night in town.

“Stay,” Lily says quickly. “Please. One more night. One more puzzle, Delaney.”

“There’s nothing for me,” I say, lifting my knees to my chin and spinning on the spot to redirect myself away from the meticulously packed luggage and to face her.

“My happiness?” she asks.

I smile. I’ll miss her.

Lily glances at the wall, shaking her head. For a second, I wonder if she’s mad at me and when her eyes land on me once more, open and her eyebrows raised, I can tell that she absolutely is.

“Woah, what are you looking at me like that for?” I ask.

“You,” she says as if it’s an accusation. “Leaving. I mean, what about Asher too?”

My mouth sours. So much so that I can’t help but suck in a breath of air, pursing my lips. But the feeling of being watched makes me self-conscious because nobody knew our dirty secret and now isn’t a time I want to reveal it. Not when I can make it out of here alive with some of my pride intact.

And sleeping with my professor is not on a list of items I’m proud of.

“That. Right there,” she says, pointing at me.

“What?”

“That whole deep breaths thing. You do that when we talk about him.”

“It’s not about him. I’m just sad I have to leave,” I say. It isn’t untrue, but when I think of leaving, I have a lot of thoughts run through my head. I’ll miss the bonfires at Kayla’s house on Fridays, I’ll miss the way the chickens in Lily’s yard sound first thing in the morning, but then… I’ll also miss that tingling on the back of my neck. Or, if anything, awaiting it. Just wondering when it will happen again, when he will walk into a room again.

“I have eyes,” Lily says. “I know you guys are together.

You kept sneaking out for donuts. And one of the cherry donuts was always missing. Those are his favorites.”

“What if I ate those?”

“Girl, you hate pastries.”

I sigh. “Fine. Yes, I slept with my professor. I’m a harlot.

Happy?”

I look up and meet her gaze and when all I see is sadness, it only brings me down further.

“It’s okay to like someone,” she says. “It’s okay to not be perfect. We all make mistakes. But I don’t think Asher is a mistake.”

I pause, and we sit in silence for a moment.

“I’ll come visit,” I lie.

Lily nods like maybe she knows.

I look her in the eyes, disappointment flooding through me. I’m sad to be leaving, but also I’m sad because when I look into her eyes, there’s nothing. Nothing like what I experience when I look into Asher’s eyes. And I wonder if I’ll ever feel anything with anyone, friend or lover, the way I felt with Asher.

I lift myself to my feet, walking past where Lily now picks at her nails, looking to the floor. Then she tilts her head to the side and bends down to grab something under the bed.

I follow her eyes to the floor where an orange book sticks out right at the edge.

“I recognize this,” she says. “This is Asher’s book.”

My heart drops when she flicks open a page and it opens directly to the word scribbled in the top right corner of the damaged pages.

Her. “You can give it back to him,” I say.

Her eyes peek up at me, but she continues to flip through the book, at least finally navigating away from the page that chars my heart.

“How’d it get here?” she asks.

“He let me borrow it.”

“He never lets this leave his side.” She keeps turning each page and I find my legs leaning closer with each page flip, a slight twitch in my knee when one of the pages snags for a

moment before peeling apart from the other. “Asher doesn’t just let people borrow this book. Ever.”

“Well, he’ll be happy to have it back then,” I say with a shrug.

Lily looks from the book and then to me.

“Delaney, I’ve never seen Asher date anyone. Not seriously. Just people here and there. But it’s all surface level,” Lily continues. “Something to” —her mouth screws up. The sweet girl doesn’t even want to address it— “to keep the bed warm.”

I laugh and she smiles up at me, all pink cheeks and flushed neck.

“My point is… Asher is picky,” she says. “And he wouldn’t just willy-nilly give his book to a random person.

He likes you. Or respects you. Or whatever it is you two have going on.”

“He’s complicated.”

“Well, of course he is. He’s Asher. He’s been a mess recently, but he’s a lovable mess. And he’s our mess, you know? And Delaney, I just want our mess to be cleaned up again.”

“Should I get a mop or…”

“I see the way he looks at you,” she continues, ignoring my snark. “I see the way you look at him. I don’t see anyone else look at anyone like that, like maybe if you look away for just a second, you’ll never be able to find each other ever again.”

I’ve never heard it said so accurately, my feelings for Asher. Or whatever it is we have going on.

“Lily, come on,” I say with a small laugh. “That sounds ridiculous.”

“I think y’all are like puzzle pieces. You just fit.”

“Thanks, Lily. But I’m just not sure.”

“Well, you do what you think is right,” she says. “But please stay. Just one more night.”

Unfortunately, I’m not sure what is right anymore. But staying here to be with my new friend Lily seems like it might fall in that category.

TWENTY-TWO

Asher

T

he floor of my o ce welcomed me back with loving arms Saturday night.

I didn’t know where else to go after I spoke with my mom, so I came here. Just me and the floor, grading papers to folk music.

My o ce floor must have missed the days when I’d get some food from the nearby diner, leaving various syrup stains on the carpet. Well, here we are again, old friend, sitting on you with French toast in a Styrofoam to-go box and too many papers that I have to grade by myself.

Alone. Once again.

I haven’t heard from Delaney since Friday. She leaves tomorrow and I don’t know how to approach the situation.

Mom says to call her and apologize, but would she even want me to? Or would it just leave us in a worse place, with her in another state and our relationship a giant question mark?

I shake my head.

No, I shouldn’t think about her. It’ll only make things worse. She was a summer fling, at best. And that’s that. I have flings with out-of-towners from time to time. How is she any di erent?

I lean back on my palms and take another bite of toast. A drop of syrup lands on my chest and I stare down at it. A tainted spot of sticky mess on my crisp white button-up. A shirt I threw on just to feel some sense of normalcy in my life.

I should have known the universe wouldn’t allow for such nonsense on a Saturday.

I unbutton my shirt, shucking it and setting it over the back of my desk chair. I grab a pillow from my couch, toss it on the floor, and lay down, settling into the pillow and closing my eyes.

This is how I should be. In my o ce on a weekend doing work.

Relief will come eventually. I’ll get some adjunct professor to come in, at least for enough time to ease the stress. And eventually I’ll also find someone else to care for.

I’ll find someone… but not another Delaney.

No, stop. Don’t think about— I need to be content again with just being Asher. Asher at the bonfires on Fridays. Asher with his friends moving on with their lives. Asher doing nothing but being the same Asher as always. Asher with an empty chest.

Not like Delaney, who took a risk. She jumped across the country to a whole new town. Yet here I am on the floor of my o ce with syrup. Even if I asked her to be long distance, would she? Would I even be enough for her?

A part of me wants to wallow and another part of me just wants company. It’s like no matter how much French toast I shovel into my mouth, I never feel quite full. Delaney took some part of me with her and I’m not sure I’ll get it back.

I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of being overworked and stressed. I’m tired of being tired.

No. Tired of being stagnant.

I get o the floor, walking toward the door and throwing it open. The halls are empty at night. But, when I look out the window toward the teacher’s lot, I know someone else who might be here. And I’m right. Deborah’s car is there.

And I’d like a word with her. No more can I just sit here on my own. I’ve got to take action, just like Delaney does.

Did Delaney give Deborah the correct researched budget?

Did Deb simply change it? I don’t know, but I trust Delaney.

And I think it’s worth it to find out the truth.

I finally reach the end of the hall and stand right in front of Deb’s o ce. I open the executive door, walking into the lobby. Deb’s door is closed, but it always is. And I don’t knock because, hell, I never do.

Instead, I open the door only to find Deb, the dean of Foxe Hill Community College, bent over the desk, her skirt riding high, her eyes jammed closed, a low mu ed moan as Curtis from the math department is breathing heavy enough to give himself a heart attack.

Both of their eyes rip open and then there’s me with my hands held up in the air in surrender.

Except I don’t think I’m the one in trouble here.

TWENTY-THREE

Delaney

O

ne more donut is the thing I need before leaving Foxe Hill for the first and last time. Lily decided to join me Sunday morning with just us sitting at the window, newspaper in hand. I wasn’t much of a pastry person, but I think these six weeks have converted me.

We watch the end of summer through the window: a wave of kids pedaling past on their bikes, the sounds of Keaton and Violet outside the movie theater showing people inside for the Sunday morning summer feature, and the everpresent hum of folk music over the donut shop speakers.

It reminds me too much of Asher’s music, but I embrace it. It can’t hurt to be a bit nostalgic. I still haven’t heard from him since Friday night. In his defense, I haven’t called either.

I know I got too angry with him. I don’t think he’d forgive me so why make a bad thing worse? Even if it does kill me inside.

I look to Lily, reaching over to hug my arm.

“Don’t go,” she says in a small whine.

“I gotta.”

“Well then, come back. You have a bit of twang to your voice. I can hear it. Foxe Hill seeped into your bones, didn’t it?”

I laugh. “It might have.”

“So, you’ll come back?” she asks.

I scrunch my face up and nod. “I might.”

“There was too much hesitation in that,” she says, accusatory.

I sigh, looking down at the donut I wish I was still enjoying, but something about the gooey cherry center too closely mirrors my own stomach’s unease.

“I can’t,” I admit. “It’s not my town, you know?” It’s his town.

She rolls her eyes with a sad smile.

We look out the window again, screaming kids somehow comforting rather than terrifying.

Yes, I will miss this town.

“You’ll go far,” Lily says. “I’m rooting for you. I bet you’ll be able to get anywhere with that dean’s recommendation.”

I let out a laughing sco . Right. That.

“She didn’t give me anything,” I mutter.

“What?!” Lily says, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard her voice that loud. She’s quiet and modest. This Lily is new with a furrowed brow and confusion.

“Yeah,” I say with a shrug. “It was a wash.”

Lily’s lips press into a tight line. “That’s crazy. You didn’t get references? At least get a written letter.”

“I asked, but I doubt she will.”

“Delaney.” Lily lets out a heavier sigh than I’ve ever seen leave a person’s mouth.

“What?”

“You didn’t tell me you lost pretty much every reason why you came here.”

“Things happen.”

Lily nudges my arm roughly, pushing it so that my donut falls out of my hand and onto the floor.

“Hey!” I say, looking down at it and back up to her.

“Forget the donut. I’ll buy you another,” she says. Her eyes widen as she clutches my shoulders, shaking me back and forth. “But, now, go. Get going. Go talk to Deb.” “Get going… doing what…”

“You came here for a reason,” she says. “So I want you to storm into the dean’s o ce right now, girl, and demand something. Anything.”

“But—” “Right now.”

“I can’t just—” “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’ve gotten soft, because that’s not the Delaney I know.”

I shake my head, exhaling. “Who is the Delaney you know?”

“The one who barreled into town without a care in the world. The one who does the right thing the right way. I saw you working on that budget. You deserve something from that woman. And you would ask for it. That’s the Delaney who I know. The strong woman who has me shouting in a donut shop.”

“And I’m very proud of you for it, Lily.” I giggle.

She shakes her head, all humor lost. “You’re the woman who is my friend. And I only want the best for you.”

Friend. A real friend who goes outside her own comfort zone to put you in your place. I haven’t had this type of push since my mom. She encouraged me to get scholarships, to put myself first, to be the type of person that would make myself proud. And I’m just going to sit here and take it?

No. That’s not me. I’m not squishy. I’m me. I’m my mother’s daughter that worked hard to be where I’m at, to be who I am, and I can’t let down that person now.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay, yes, let’s do this.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Asher

S

ure, I could have sat there like I always did, mulling over Foxe Hill secrets and doing nothing about them. Or I could do something about the knowledge that Deb is sleeping with another professor, a professor that directly reports to her. A professor that gets all the funding year after year. And now I know why.

I slept on it that night, not answering any of Deb’s thirty or so calls and emails. But I came back the next morning with a plan.

I wonder what Delaney would think about what I’m about to do. I wonder if she would be mad at me, telling me how I’m making an unethical decision, the one I know I’ve already decided to make. But I’m doing what needs to be done. I’m taking action like she does. I’m changing my life under my terms.

I swing open the door to my truck once I’m in the teacher’s lot. Deb’s little black Audi is already parked. I wonder if she even left last night.

I know how this may turn out and I know this is the only outcome that needs to happen. I can feel in my bones—the questionable thing to do that is somehow also right. And even though my fingers hover over my phone, tempted to

type what I need to type, to let Delaney know I’m sorry, I know it would be reckless. It wouldn’t solve anything.

Afterward, if I’m not fired, I’ll say something. But right now, I’m not the man she needs me to be. But I will be.

I walk across the courtyard and barrel down the hall.

Faces pass me. The sun rising through the windows casts my shadow like an orange silhouette across the walls with ancient art and irrelevant accolades. I see Curtis who stammers out a small, weak good morning before racing back into his o ce—the too big o ce that is a product of too many years of favoritism.

But I’ll confront him later.

It’s Deb I’m after.

I rip open the door to the executive o ce and don’t bother knocking on Deb’s o ce door before I swing that open too.

Deb jumps in her chair, hand placed to her chest.

“Jesus, Asher, I—” “Let’s talk.”

She pauses, narrowing her eyes at me. I always thought there was a threshold to how thin her lips can get, but I have now seen them disappear completely in her disdain.

I say nothing, but slowly and assuredly close the door behind me and sit in the chair across from her.

TWENTY-FIVE

Delaney

T

oday was the first day I drove to Foxe Hill Community College without my GPS. I didn’t miss my exit, nor did I miss the loop leading o the main road that empties right next to the teacher’s lounge.

I know this town. I know this school. And I know I’m about to do the right thing.

My feet pound the ground as I practically power walk across the courtyard, over the manicured lawn, and into the Thomas Building. I don’t stop for anything. Other teachers, some of whom I’ve never met, are roaming around, likely getting their stu set up for fall semester. But when I zoom by, they look at me and they stare. And maybe they know who I am. Or maybe I’m just walking too fast down the halls, which is fair. But I don’t know, and I don’t care.

When I reach the executive o ces, I shove Deb’s waiting room door open then push through her o ce door so quick I almost don’t turn the handle fast enough.

She’s sitting behind her desk, forehead poised in her palms.

“What,” she groans, not even looking up.

“I’d like a written statement.” Then the forceful nature of my entrance hits me, and I remember to say the age-old

Foxe Hill equivalent of ‘please.’ “Ma’am.”

Once that formality is out of the way, the rest of my common sense follows suit.

I can’t just storm into an o ce demanding a written reference. What in the world am I doing? But when Deb’s head pops up faster than I barged in here and a sly smile spreads across her face, I wonder if maybe I just made a halfway decent decision.

Deb likes me for my tenacity. She has since day one. It’s what ultimately even drew Asher toward me. I’m worth it and I can do this. So I continue.

“I was told you had references for me,” I say, riding the wave of nonsensical behavior. “It was why I came here to begin with. Now, if you don’t have them, that’s fine. I can’t change that. But a written reference will su ce. I can take that. And I want it written while I’m still here.”

Deb eyes me up and down, looking to my sandals littered with freshly mown grass and up to my shorts that are, admittedly, a bit too short for an academic environment.

This plus my t-shirt I got at the career fair makes me look like a kid more than the sta . In my defense, I was set to leave for a long road trip.

The dean leans back in her chair, the squeak of the leather following with it. She clicks her tongue against her teeth, a thinking noise she’s never made. She’s normally so composed, but I can now see some strands askew, as if she’s been in that same initial position of stress for some time.

“Seems like I’ve got quite a bit of company today,” she says.

And then, there’s that tickle on the back of my neck and when I look to the left, I shouldn’t be surprised to find who is sitting there.

Professor Asher Ellis sits, elbow poised on the arm of the rigid chair, looking at me with a twitch of satisfaction at the

edge of his mouth.

“Sit down,” Deb says. The words are like a whip striking out from her mouth, so I do as I’m told and sit in the only remaining armchair in her o ce. It feels just as straightbacked and unmoving as it looks.

“Now, I think we all have stu to air out, so let’s do it,” she says. “Asher, you want two new hires.”

He clears his throat and says, “I should have gotten them anyway.”

I didn’t realize how much I’d missed his voice. The strength, the confidence, and, in this moment, the decisiveness of not backing down.

Deborah raises an eyebrow and then looks to me. “And you want a written letter.”

I nod. Her narrowed gaze could have cracked a fully grown tree right in half, but I try to keep my back straight.

Confidence. Pure confidence.

“I think we can come to some type of agreement for all of us,” she says.

That seemed easy. Too easy.

I look from her to Asher and back.

There’s something more to this. And, just like that, her strong demeanor fades and her eyebrows crease in.

“Listen, I understand your frustrations,” she says, looking to him. “I do.”

“You’ve been funneling funds to Curtis for years,” Asher says.

She sighs. “I know. And I’m not proud of it.”

I’m missing something here. Something vital. But I don’t say a word.

“I’ve made some mistakes,” she continues. “And I’ve burned a lot of bridges with my mistakes. I led you here under false pretenses, Delaney. I’m sorry. I don’t have a lot

of references and, depending on where you want to go, my own word may not take you far.”

My chest tightens. So this is it. This is where my fate lies —in the hands of a liar and a scam artist.

“And Asher… well… you understand. I can’t have this getting out. And I would do the same for you. I have done the same.”

Asher tilts his head to the side. “Not even Curtis?”

“Not even Curtis.”

And then it dawns on me… she’s sleeping with someone too. Curtis, the math professor. We’d understand because we’re in the same boat.

Holy shit.

And she looks terrified about it.

The sad thing is… I can see her as my future in thirty years. An administrative professional, held together by super glue, not capable of letting herself make one wrong move.

Not able to be free. Is Curtis her version of Asher? Would I be in the same position if I followed in her steps, down this path of perceived perfection? And how can we judge her when we did the same?

“I won’t tell,” I say out loud.

Her eyes swivel to me and for once, they pull inward.

She’s worried. She knows we hold the cards. She knows, for once, she’s beholden to someone else.

“I wouldn’t either,” Asher says.

I can see her chest rising and falling, her eyes turned to slits and her fingernails digging into the arms of her leather chair. I wonder if she’s confused by his loyalty. But that’s just who Asher is. He keeps his word. Loyal through and through.

“I just want fairness, Deb,” he continues. “That’s all I want. I know we can a ord more help for me if we don’t send it all to the math department.”

Deborah glances at me but I don’t have to say anything because we both know he’s right. I showed her he was right just a few weeks ago. I knew I hadn’t made a mistake.

“Done,” she says. “Two new hires. Place out feelers this afternoon.”

“And what about Delaney?” he asks.

My heart leaps, but I stay silent.

“I’ll do what I can,” she says. “Tell me where you want to apply, and I’ll talk to whoever I know that might help. I can’t guarantee anything, though. And I’ll have your letter written in an hour, Delaney. Signed and everything.”

The whole moment hits me with the force of a ton of bricks, but only if one brick had a note attached to it scrawled, ‘congrats.’

Bittersweet.

TWENTY-SIX

Asher

I

’ve lived in Foxe Hill for my entire life and not once have I pulled a stunt like that. I wasn’t sure I was capable of standing my ground but walking out in the courtyard with Delaney beside me—us keeping our distance as professor and student—I know nobody else could have given me the strength to.

I glance over to look at her. Delaney’s hair glows in the afternoon sun, illuminating her like the halo she deserves but casting a dark shadow over half her face, giving her the chiaroscuro e ect of a divine painting. That befitting a demure angel like herself, one that gazes o in the distance in search for a better life. One she deserves.

But now her hazel eyes look only at me, darting between each of mine as if searching for an answer.

“I’m sorry,” I say, the sentence bursting out of me. “I should have believed you. And I shouldn’t have kept the truth from you.”

She shakes her head, her lips parted. “No, you put your job in jeopardy because you believed me. And then you got me my recommendation. I can’t thank you enough.”

My chest swells.

“I would do it again,” I say because my heart somehow feels the need to speak for me. I let it. “I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try.”

“Try what?” she asks.

I laugh. “To keep you. To be the man you deserve. The one who fights. Because you… make me feel like me.”

Her head tilts to the side and for a second I wonder if she’s crying or if she’s just confused. Maybe it’s both. But then she smiles, and it’s the same knowing smile I’m accustomed to. The one I want to see for many days to come.

“You’re such a romantic,” she says with almost a lilt of annoyance to it. But the smile overpowers that, and I know she’s joking. “But I never want to do that again. My stomach hurts.”

I look out to the parking lot, wondering where we go from here. What happens next?

But then, I make the only decision I can think of that would seem neutral and easy.

“Think your stomach can handle some diner food?” I ask.

Delaney laughs, light and airy. Beautiful.

T HE BREAKFAST CAFÉ TASTES MUCH BETTER WHEN I’ M NOT EATING IT while wallowing in my own self-pity. The toast is buttery, syrupy, and everything I need in this moment. The only thing unsettling in my stomach now is the weight of what we just did, but it’s not something we can take back and I know that.

We silently fork piece after piece in our mouths. We’ve exchanged a couple words since sitting down at the same booth we were in just six weeks ago, but somehow the silence works just fine for us. I can feel every time she looks at me and I know deep in my French toast-filled soul that

every time I look up at her, she’s feeling the same sensation as well.

“So, where will you go?” I ask.

She sighs. “I don’t know. Back to Maryland. I’ll graduate.

Then… wherever Deborah’s reference will take me, I guess.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it figured out.”

“Well, and a word with my mentor,” she says, shaking her fork. “I’ll definitely have to speak with him.”

I laugh. “I bet your trust is shook for a while, huh?”

“Sort of. But also not. Foxe Hill taught me it’s okay to open yourself up, you know?”

I see her twirling the pinky ring and smile to myself. I’ll miss seeing that.

“You’re attached to that, aren’t you?”

Delaney nods. “Yeah. It was my mom’s.”

My heart aches for her, but I try not to push it anymore. I let her look out the window in silence, thinking of maybe this town, her mom, or whatever it is she needs to meditate on. All I want is to spend as much time with her as I can.

“So, let me ask you a question,” she says.

“Shoot.”

She narrows her eyes. “What exactly did you have on Deb?” I laugh. “The same thing she has on us.”

“Curtis?”

“You know it.”

She laughs and then I’m laughing and we’re just sitting in the diner, suddenly unable to stop. I can’t remember the last time I had tears from laughing, but this one will stay in my memory for a while.

After we calm down, her patting her eyes with a napkin and me rubbing my hands over my face, she lets out a calming exhale.

“You know the answer I really want to know about?” she asks.

I hum a note of agreement, inviting her to ask.

She digs in her purse and pulls out my orange book. My poetry book. The one I let her borrow. And somehow, now it doesn’t seem as sentimental. Nothing more than a crutch when the real source of happiness sits right in front of me.

“Who was the poem about?” she asks.

I lift an eyebrow.

“The poem,” she says, flipping through, turning pages until it reaches the one that has sixteen-year-old Asher’s scrawl in the corner—the word ‘Her.’ I smile.

“That poem described my crush at the time,” I say.

“Some girl I went to prom with. I honestly don’t even remember her name. But I do remember thinking that poem captured the feeling in my soul when I saw her. Little did I know that poem didn’t know shit.”

Delaney’s face falls but I shake my head.

“No, what I felt for some girl in high school was nothing… nothing compared to you. No poem could ever describe you.”

Her chest rises and falls. It directly mirrors how nervous I am. How excited. How right this all seems.

I smooth my hands on the tabletop, reaching across to o er an invitation of which she willingly accepts, allowing her smooth hands to fall into mine.

“You are… everything I’ve read about. You’re the type of woman they write poetry about. Wars won for. And, Delaney, I want you. And I want to at least try this. Because I think if we try, then that’s all we’ll need to do. You and me? We just fit.”

“Like a puzzle piece.”

“Yeah. Like a puzzle piece.”

She’s smiling back at me, biting her lower lip and nodding.

“So, what now?” she asks. “Long distance?”

“Whatever it needs to be,” I say.

We eat the last of our meal, walking out to the parking lot, not holding hands. All I want to do is reach out and touch her, but I don’t take the chance now that we’re outside the comfort of our booth. When we walk back to our cars, parked side by side—my large black pickup and her small beater—I peer inside her back window. It’s piled high with luggage.

“You were close to leaving, weren’t you?” I ask.

She nods. “Yep, and I would have never looked back.”

My hand goes to my heart. “Harsh words, Delaney.”

She smiles, not hesitating before saying, “You love them.”

Love. The word makes her scrunch her nose in disdain at how cheesy it is, how perfect this imperfect day was, and how most days seem to be like that with us. I scrunch my nose in response and she giggles. I lean my forehead against hers, letting out a sigh.

“Come home with me,” I say.

I wait for her answer, closing my eyes to let the nerves pass through me. No, not nerves. The happiness. The excitement.

Delaney nods against me and sighs. “Of course I will.”

Epilogue

Delaney

F

our months later “You know, my o ce is smaller than I thought it would be. But at the end of the day, it’s mine and I guess that’s all that matters.”

Asher laughs. “I didn’t have my own o ce until my late twenties. I think you’re doing okay.”

He slings an arm around me, and I lean into him. But we only stand there for a moment before another body shimmies past us into the room, his arms full of a chair that gets lowered down to the ground.

“Am I the only one doing work here?” Max asks. “Come on, I’m not even getting paid.”

“Delaney, did you want this?” Lily appears on the threshold beside Max, holding up a ruddy door stopper. “I think it came with the room.”

“Yes, I’m going for the whole open door policy thing.”

Asher laughs and kisses me. “Good call.”

The good thing about him working at Foxe Hill Community and me getting a job at the city school nearby is

that we don’t have to hide our feelings. Not like Deborah and Curtis do.

Whenever I visit Asher at Foxe Hill Community, they pass in the hall like ships in the night, never quite meeting. But I still wave at Curtis and he scurries into his oversized o ce, quiet as a mouse. I think maybe Deb likes that about him.

I try to stop by on my way home from work if Asher is working late. It’s getting close to where he doesn’t have to, but it’s still hectic as he shows the new hires the ropes. I’m just excited for when we’re both back on a normal schedule.

It’s been lonely sitting at his house by myself at night. I’ve gotten accustomed to just driving to Lily’s for company. I think she appreciates it. She gets lost in her art when she’s left in an empty house. Though most times Max is already there when I stop by. I keep an eye on them, especially with how they’ve been looking at each other lately.

“Rock, paper, scissors for the next box?” he asks her.

Lily already has her fist at the ready as they silently race to win before both running o together anyway.

I walk across the room to Asher and he instantly wraps a hand around my waist. I can feel the goose bumps fall over my flesh as he twists me in his arms. My hands go up behind his neck.

“Sure you want to be kissing the admin on sta ?” I ask.

“Of course. I love to say I’m dating a future dean,” he says. “It’s hot.”

“As hot as saying you’re with a student?” I ask.

Asher grins. “Hotter.”

I lean forward, setting my head against his chest as we both start to sway. There’s no music, but we let the calm silence between us carry the dance forward.

I made the decision to move here based on instinct alone.

I took the time to look at bigger schools. Deb’s reference, if taken far enough away from Foxe Hill, was fantastic since

her reputation was unknown. I guess she’d pissed o enough people in her time to have her opinion mean nothing. But, on its own, her letter was a golden ticket. It said stu about me I wasn’t even sure could be true, but I appreciated it all the same.

It got me interviews at some top schools on the east coast.

But interview after interview proved to be missing something. A key element. They were less about recruiting, less people-focused, more numbers-focused.

It was by chance that the college in the city near Foxe Hill was hiring—the same college Asher received his doctorate degree at. I didn’t even need Deb’s recommendation. They loved me on my own.

Something in me knew I was just waiting to be drawn back to Foxe Hill.

“So, how do you feel?” Asher asks. “Happy? Fulfilled?”

That doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“I feel like I can make a di erence,” I say. “Like I’m home.”

THE END

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A fake relationship romance between a van life princess and the hot, single dad mechanic. *** STANDALONES Thick As Thieves Owen & Francesca’s story A frenemies-to-lovers romantic comedy between a sassy Brit and her swoon-worthy New York man. Owen might be the man Francesca has been looking for all this time.

Unfortunately for her, this statement might be true in more ways than one.

Across the Night Aiden & Sadie’s story Sadie spends her nights as a hotel manager. Work is all she knows—that is, until Aiden Wrenn. Destiny has a weird way of bringing two sleepless people together, but maybe fairytales aren’t so far-fetched.

Acknowledgments

This book was a pivotal point in writing for me. What started as a simple sequel turned into a delayed release, too many tears, and lots of introspection and learning. That sounds SUPER dramatic but, trust me, it totally was. Present Perfect carries with it more hard work than I ever thought possible for a book so short. And for that, I can never properly express what this experience taught me. I also can’t possibly express how thankful I am for the people who helped me through it, but I’ll try.

I must thank my sister-in-law first and foremost. This book is dedicated to you for a reason. You were my rock throughout this whole process. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve called you in a panic and somehow you were able to talk me down from it. When I was on a tight deadline, you read every chapter right after I wrote it and you even kept pushing me for the next one when you finished. Thank you for being the sister I never had.

A HUGE thank you to my editor, Ellie, who understood when I said I needed to delay a couple months. It was our first time

working together and you were the most chill, understanding person about it all. Thank you so, so much.

Thanks to my Dad because you always deserve to be preserved in the acknowledgements of each book. Your support means everything. I can’t imagine it’s easy after you read that one book of mine and are now all too aware of the type of scenes I write. Yep, your daughter writes smut.

Shout-out to Jenny Bunting for laying down hard truths in the beginning that I needed to hear. You were right. Thanks, bud.

And, wow, a massive thanks to YOU. Yes, you, the person holding this book or e-reader or however you’re reading this! If you’re new, I’m so happy you made it this far, and I hope you enjoyed it. If you’ve been here since Cameron and Grace, HOLY MOLY you’re still reading my books?! WHAT! Thank you so much for letting me live my dream.

And, finally, thank you to my husband… I thought I’d never get married, yet here you are. You know exactly when to let me be pitiful and whine, yet also when to kick me into my o ce to put those damn words down on the page--no matter how much imposter syndrome I have. You make me feel like the real deal. I don’t know how to express just how grateful I am that you love me, so I guess I’ll just spend the rest of our lives figuring out how.

About the Author

Julie Olivia writes romance novels with a lot of spice and even more sass! Her stories are filled with quippy banter, saucy bedroom scenes, nose-snort laughs, and will give you warm fuzzies in your soul. During her free time, she reads way too many romance books and lusts after far too many lemon-filled donuts. She can be easily bribed by both. Julie lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband who has a swoon-worthy, low voice and their one cat whose meows are not swoony one bit.

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