My Date with a Book Nerd (Nerds Do it Better #1)
Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
ANNIE
“What about this one?”
A wave of exasperation overtakes me as my mom skids into the bathroom and throws her arms out dramatically. She’s already tried on three outfits this morning.
I take stock of the gold blazer she’s thrown over a ruffled, baby-pink blouse and a denim skirt. I lean over the sink to spit out my toothpaste before shaking my head. “I already said no to the skirt completely.”
“This skirt? Are you sure it was this skirt specifically?” Mom thrusts one leg out and clomps her heeled boot down on the peeling linoleum tile. She looks like a show pony. “Do you see how great my legs look in this?”
“Your legs look great,” I confirm, turning to face her fully. “But you can’t wear denim to this job interview.”
Her answering sigh is so dramatic that I think I hear a phone ringing—Broadway is calling for her. Considering the amount of hairspray she plied her dark curls with this morning, she’s already in hair and makeup for the part.
“Keep the pink blouse. Trade the gold blazer for the pinstripe tan one. And for the love of tacos and Betty White?—”
“May she rest in peace,” Mom interrupts in a hushed, reverent tone.
“Please wear pants.” She cannot show up to an interview for an executive assistant position dressed like an awkward eighties teenager. No matter how much she might feel like a sell-out for going to this interview, we both desperately need a win.
I’m not sure how much longer I can handle staying in this long-term stay motel with my mother. Sharing a room with her is bad enough. Having her whole wardrobe show up here from storage so she can put together interview outfits…
Hoarders is going to show up any minute now. The whole world can watch me cry out all my trauma on Matt Paxton’s shoulder.
“Can I wear the leather pants?” Mom asks, already stripping off the glitzy blazer.
“Definitely not.”
She exaggerates a pout. “And here I hoped you would go to college and turn into a Woo! girl on me. Oh, oh! Then we could share clothes!”
“Keep dreaming,” I droll as I slip past her out of the dilapidated bathroom and into the outdated bedroom we’ve been sharing. It’s a small miracle we at least got the last available two-bedroom option so we’re not sharing a bed too.
If we aren’t both out of here in the next five minutes, I’m going to be late to class and she’s going to miss her interview altogether. In the interest of saving both of our days, I locate the Halloween clothes box in the corner next to the broken dresser.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure if a denim skirt isn’t interview-appropriate attire that my naughty nurse Halloween costume from ten years ago probably shouldn’t make the cut either,” Mom quips as she sits at the end of her unmade bed to watch me rifle through the box.
“Definitely not.” I find what I’m looking for packed all the way at the bottom of the box. “But three years ago you went through that phase where you were obsessed with Blake Lively wearing pantsuits and so you wore a pantsuit every Monday for like six months.”
“I went as Blake Lively for Halloween?” Mom hums. I’m sure she’s checking her mental Rolodex for a memory of this; she won’t find one.
“No.” I pull out the cream pants and present them to her with as much enthusiasm as I can muster for her after she’s been an attention vampire all morning. “We ran into one of the lawyers from Grandpa’s firm and he mentioned how much you looked like your mom in this suit. So you packed this away with the Halloween stuff since you said that was the scariest thing you’d ever heard.”
Mom stands and takes the pants from me. “Oh, right. Ugh. I can’t wear these.”
“You can and you will.” I step around her and give her a solid shove toward the bathroom. “Change fast, please. If you’re not ready in the next two minutes, I’m taking the car keys and running away to find a new family.”
Mom sighs as she makes her way into the bathroom, glancing back once before closing the door to tell me, “Well, I hope your new mommy has chocolate chip cookies on the table and tells you she’s proud of you every day after school!”
I can’t help but laugh as the door clicks shut behind her. Rustling noises confirm she’s changing at decent speed so I sit down on the edge of my own perfectly made bed and inhale a calming breath. If my mom has to be a mess, at least she’s a funny mess.
Humor is all we’ve had some days in the months since our home burned down. The bed and breakfast Mom owned was our home and her livelihood. Losing the house meant we lost nearly everything except for the nonsensical collection of things that made it into the storage shed at the back of the property over the years.
Humor doesn’t help us replace our home.
In less than two minutes, Mom steps out looking far more put together in the light-colored pants and demure pink blouse. She grins as she tells me, “I hope you know I’m proud of you, kid.”
“I know.” That’s one thing I never have to question. I stand up and clap my hands together like a preschool teacher. “Now put on your blazer and try to think businessy thoughts.”
Mom scoffs as she grabs the pinstripe blazer from a pile of abandoned clothes in the center of her bed. “Even I know businessy isn’t a real word. What on earth are they teaching you at this college of yours?”
“Excuse me,” I mumble as I dodge my way through the throng of people separating me from my Literature and Mythology class.
I’m cutting things way too close for comfort today. Once my LitMyth professor shuts the door, you’re out of luck. No sliding in late or knocking on his door with even the most viable of excuses.
I take the steps to the second floor two at a time even though my legs aren’t that long and I’m panting by the time I reach the top. I would rather embarrass myself in front of an entire lecture hall than risk missing this class. Luckily, the second floor isn’t as crowded so I’m able to raise my pace to a jog as I make for the door to the large lecture hall.
I’m almost there when a door two down from my destination opens and Professor Parks steps out. My heart somersaults as we move toward each other from opposite directions, both of us reaching the lecture hall door at the exact same moment.
“Miss Kirkpatrick.” Professor Parks greets me with a shrewd look. His mouth usually sits in a thin, fine line when he’s not lecturing. The corners of his mouth turn downward as we stand locked in tense silence for what feels like a full minute.
I cave first, dropping my gaze to the floor as my voice rises barely above a whisper to ask, “Am I too late?”
“Class begins when I enter the hall. Have I entered the hall yet?”
“No, sir.” My heart leaps for joy as I clutch my backpack strap with one hand and reach for the door with my other.
Professor Parks clears his throat. “Make arrangements to come to my office hours this afternoon, Miss Kirkpatrick. We need to discuss the last paper you submitted.”
“Yes, sir.” I’m not even sure if my words are loud enough for him to hear me. I am an embarrassed, whimpering mess in the face of authority.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second as I pull the door open, releasing the buzz of voices inside. The conversations taking place around the hall all cut off abruptly, and I can see a few faces turn to gape at me as they realize I’m entering right as the clock strikes for class to start. Everyone is expecting Professor Parks.
I stumble like a deer in headlights toward an open seat a few rows from the back while Professor Parks enters just behind me.
“Do you know what I love about morning classes?” the professor asks as he descends the steps that split the lecture hall into two sides. He waits until he reaches the ground level and steps behind the solid oak lectern at the front of the room. “You’ll have all day to dwell on how I’m about to ruin The Little Mermaid for you. My apologies to those of you misfortunate enough to still be attempting to look back on your childhood fondly.”
There are a few nervous chuckles as Professor Parks flashes a teasing smile. A woman with platinum blonde hair sitting in the row in front of me whispers, “So hot,” to her friend just loudly enough for me to overhear her. The two start a whispered conversation detailing their favorite features, leaving me unfortunately involved in a conversation I have no interest in.
My nose wrinkles. I don’t particularly see the appeal. I also don’t care that my classmates think Professor Parks is the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. My only concern is with surviving this class.