The Deepest End of Love (The Brightest Light #3)

CHAPTER 1

Lila - December

I s it possible to be attracted to someone’s brain?

To the way they articulate their thoughts, string them together, and create new, eye-opening concepts?

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that sapiosexuality is a very real, very unfair thing.

Real, because I’ve never—not in my twenty-three years of life—thought the shifting of organizational culture beyond psychological safety was a seductive topic of discussion. Interesting, sure. Sexy, no.

And unfair, because Reed Abner—the man capturing the entirety of my attention right now—is the last person in this university who should.

“A human-centered design perspective is needed in child-safety culture.” His dress shoes make a firm, echoey thud that adds to the confident way he commands the stage. “I’m not here to point fingers and say who’s to blame for the less-than-ideal mental health tool kits in foster care—although I’m dying to.”

The crowd laughs despite his voice not sounding playful. And when he casually rolls up the sleeves of his light blue shirt, I’m pretty sure the girl next to me sighs.

Did I mention every single student on campus has a crush on this man?

Right on cue, the girl next to me whispers, “God, he’s so hot,” as she squirms in her seat.

I recognize her from my master’s program, although we aren’t close. I’m not the most social person as it is, but I’d like to think I’m never rude to anyone, which is why she gets a tight-lipped smile from me—getting shushed for speaking during an open lecture is never in my plans.

“I can’t believe he’s not married yet. Who wouldn’t want to tie down a man like that ?” she keeps going, oblivious to my preference for silence. To be fair, she isn’t even looking at me. The man on the stage captures everyone’s attention as if he had cast a spell on the whole auditorium before walking in. I’m not positive he hadn’t. “I wouldn’t mind if he put a baby or two in me, you know.”

At that, I can’t help but scrunch my nose. Sure, Dr. Abner is attractive. Like, objectively. What I think about his put-together-but-also-kind-of-rough exterior isn’t relevant. Still, that doesn’t make it appropriate to daydream about having his babies out loud .

She sinks against her seat with another longing sigh. “You’re so lucky you know him. Like, so lucky.”

My pulse jumps in my throat, and my palms get sweaty. An uncomfortable weight falls on my chest at her words because, no, I don’t know him. Not really.

But the fact that people think I do could become a problem.

His voice echoes in my head once again, pulling my attention back to him.

“I’m here to discuss why it’s important to ask ourselves what system improvements are needed and how we can do more for the children and their families not just in our community but on a national level,” Dr. Abner concludes before moving on to the next slide with a click of the little device in his hand.

My own hand moves furiously over my notebook, scribbling every concept and idea that leaves his mouth as if my future depended on it.

Because, whether I want to admit it or not, Reed Abner is an absolute beast.

Doctor of Psychology, renowned researcher, and probably one of the most—if not the most—sought-after academics of his generation in the child welfare and foster care fields.

I’ve heard his current research with the state’s health department holds the record for the largest grant on the East Coast, which could potentially change policies on mental health resources for kids in a very beneficial, long-awaited way.

Given his impressive background, I would be jumping at any and every given opportunity to soak up all that knowledge from the source himself…

If he weren’t my mother’s colleague.

And my parents’ good friend.

And the man I should pretend I don’t know outside of campus for the sake of my career.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, distracting me from all thoughts about Dr. Abner.

Oliver: Vic just booked the beach house. Wire him the money ASAP, okay, babe? I’ll pay you back.

“Workshops can play an important role in strengthening bonds within families and communities,” Dr. Abner continues, but my pen won’t write anymore.

There’s an uncomfortable heaviness in my stomach that wasn’t there five seconds ago. One that won’t let me focus or think.

Another buzz of my phone skyrockets my discomfort levels, and I hate myself for it.

This is my boyfriend.

Oliver: It’s cheap since we’re splitting the costs between the six of us, and there are no other houses around, so we can party as loudly as we want. Win-win.

I hate the sand. I hate parties. I hate alcohol. I hate weed. I hate his friends.

But I don’t hate Oliver.

“The staff should be able to deliver excellent services with respect, accountability, and transparency.”

Dr. Abner changes his PowerPoint slide, but the train of thought that kept me linked to his presentation has long since derailed. I set my notes aside and type out a quick reply.

Me: We’re still doing the dinner cruise, right?

A few months ago, one of my professors at my counseling master’s program suggested an internship at a summer camp in Maine. I was immediately on board. She mentioned the camp coordinator had great connections to a couple of esteemed youth organizations, and if I did a good job, he’d write me a letter of recommendation, opening many doors for me.

But when I brought it up to Oliver, my boyfriend of two years, he didn’t sound that enthusiastic.

“Working during summer? Again ? Jesus, Li. You never do anything fun. You’re lucky I love you, because you’re not exactly the life of the party.”

I gulp at the memory of his words. Oliver could’ve said them one day or one year ago, and he would’ve had a point. I’d have to attend parties to be the life of one, which I very rarely do. Attend them, I mean. I’m for sure never the life of one.

I’d rather stay in, while he always wants to go out. But is it such a boring thing to want to put my career first? To want to follow in my mother’s footsteps and help those in need?

“Of course it’s not a boring thing, babe,” he’d say every time we had this conversation. “But it’s our last summer before we become real adults with reals jobs and shit. Do something fun with me for once.”

And every time, I didn’t bother mentioning I already have a job. I’ve been writing articles for a renowned students’ website for a couple of years now. To Oliver, though, writing about studying tips or “How to Know If a BA Program Is for You” from the comfort of my couch isn’t a serious job, so he doesn’t get it when I tell him that no, I can’t skip work any time I feel like it.

“There’s this beach house in South Carolina we’ve been trying to book for two years, and it’s just become available for the first time,” he told me a few weeks ago. “Look at the pictures. Doesn’t it look sick? Please don’t be boring and just say you’re coming.”

As soon as I spotted the outdoor jacuzzi and infinity pool, I understood why it’d always been fully booked. And sure, it was a bit pricey, but I could afford it if I wrote a few more articles this month. Agreeing was on the tip of my tongue when I saw the dates they wanted to book it for.

“The summer camp internship starts that same week,” I muttered, my heart sinking with Oliver’s groan.

“You’ll get another internship, babe,” he reasoned. “But when will we have the chance to book this insane beach house again? Think about it.”

I was thinking about it, but I wasn’t too convinced until he added with a knowing smirk, “Plus, there’s this dinner cruise at sunset thing where we’re going. It’ll be romantic. When was the last time we did something romantic?”

A dinner cruise truly sounded like a dream I wouldn’t want to wake up from. So, when I read his reply now, my heart sinks.

Oliver: My friends want to do stuff together, all of us. We’ll see about the dinner cruise.

For years, I’ve been working my ass off to get the best grades and opportunities that would steer me in the direction of the future I’ve always dreamed of—becoming a youth counselor. First with high school, then with my BA in psychology and numerous extracurricular courses, and now with my master’s. A 4.0 GPA can’t be maintained without hard work and discipline, but maybe I’ve been focusing a little too much on the textbooks.

I can’t even remember the last time I went out with my best friend, Mariah. Or with Oliver, for that matter.

A couple of weeks ago, I thought a few days at a beach house with Oliver and his friends couldn’t be too bad. Maybe it’s not healthy to feel this way, but I’m scared Oliver and I will grow apart if I keep not being the life of the party.

So, I’d said yes.

I’d said goodbye to a summer internship I was dying to do and put “saving my relationship with Oliver” at the top of my list. Only for him to say the one activity I wanted us to do as a couple may not happen.

Something sharp and heavy that feels a lot like betrayal shoots through my chest as I reply to Oliver, but I ignore it.

Me: What are you up to?

Oliver: Studying at Kev’s dorm. You coming home after that lecture thing?

Me: No, I’m going to the library for a couple hours to work on my thesis. Good luck on your paper :)

I shift in my seat, trying to convince myself that not applying to the summer camp internship was the right choice. That going with Oliver and his friends to Myrtle Beach instead won’t mean the end of my career. It won’t .

I might have missed the deadline for summer internships—including the camp—but Warlington University offers plenty of internship opportunities for master’s students. I’ll be fine.

Something else will come up. It has to. I’ll look into my options later when I’m at the library.

“Unfortunately, we only have time for one more question.”

I snap my head up in the direction of the stage, of the man commanding it. And I know I’m not imagining the moment our eyes meet, just like they’ve done countless times before.

With those deep brown eyes still on me, he asks, “Does anyone have a relevant question?”

Several already-raised hands raise even higher. Some wave, trying to catch his attention.

Asking him how his model will tackle sexual education could help with my thesis.

This is a great opportunity to get a direct answer from one of the most prominent figures in psychology.

But my hand doesn’t move, my mouth doesn’t open, and Dr. Abner takes his eyes off me and points to a student in the front row.

I expected to feel relief about not being under his silent pressure, but the organ in my chest sinks instead.

No. I made the right choice.

People at Warlington University have heard about the children’s books Dr. Abner co-writes with my mom. Some of them have gone as far as to ask me if I could give them his number—as if I had it in the first place.

Being a young woman in academia is hard enough—I don’t want to deal with any whispers about me getting special treatment or opportunities because a professor works with my mom. The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself where he’s concerned.

It doesn’t matter that Dr. Abner is not my professor, just a professor here. To some people, that won’t make a difference.

His academic articles might be fueling my literature review for my thesis, and I might have watched his talks online once or twice or seventy times, and my parents might bring him up in conversation every other day. But I , Lila Callaghan, have nothing to do with him.

And I hope the people around me can see that, too.

After a standing ovation once his talk is over, the auditorium clears out. As I wait for the last rows to leave, my traitorous gaze shifts to the bottom of the stage, where Dr. Abner is being accosted by a handful of professors and students.

He’s so ridiculously tall, I have a clear vision of that chiseled, stubbled jaw and hard eyes that—

Crap.

Our eyes lock again, making time stop around me.

My heart does a weird cartwheel thing when he arches an inquisitive eyebrow, but it doesn’t stop me from arching mine back.

A silent question.

A challenge.

What am I doing? Get away from him.

I lower my head and clutch my notebook tightly in my hand as I leave the auditorium, not looking back.

Listening to and taking notes are the only things that should tie me to Reed Abner. The only things that will .

Too bad my life has other plans.