Bound By Water (Genesis #1)
1. Willa
CHAPTER 1
WILLA
F or the fourth time this semester, I’m going to be late. I look at my phone. Seven minutes to make it across campus. Mrs. Pembrooke, my boss and the university’s head librarian, hates when students are late. It’s one of her strictest rules, and since it’s one of the few graduate-level work-study programs that allows me to promote my tutoring side gig, I can’t afford to piss her off.
Freshly brewed dark roast fills the air, and I practically whimper when I pass by the little coffee shop. That is obviously not happening today.
I blow dirty blond hair out of my eyes, shift my heavy backpack, and pick up the pace, darting in and out of the students milling around the quad. Of course, it’s almost noon, and the area is packed with those having lunch or visiting with friends. I stare at them with a wistful smile. I’m a little envious of the extra time they have to enjoy this warm fall day, but instead of dwelling on it, I promise myself I’ll relax after I graduate.
I finally reach the other side of the quad and glance at my watch. Three minutes. Time to run. Unfortunately, the sidewalk is also crammed with students, so I take to the grass. Stretching my long legs, I sprint alongside them, snippets of conversation and laughter barely penetrating the sound of my harsh breathing. At five feet ten inches, I eat up the distance quickly. Sweat trickles down my temple. Sixty feet. I’m almost there. I glance at my watch. Twelve o’clock. A minute late would earn me a frown, but not an outright lecture. I smile.
Suddenly, a tiny brown blur comes flying across my path, followed by a guy, tan arms outstretched, blue jersey shining in the bright sun. I blink in confusion. Unable to avoid each other, we collide in an explosion of pain.
Oomph. Air bursts from him the second his body hits mine, and he grunts. Slamming into the ground, my backpack slides off my shoulder, and then, it’s just him and me skidding along the grass, rocks and dirt flying everywhere.
We finally come to a stop, but the world around me keeps spinning so I just lie there, focusing on the sky above, watching tree limbs laden with orange leaves sway back and forth. The heavy smell of sweat, dirt, and grass surrounds me.
The heavy body pinning me to the ground shifts, pressing his muscular frame into me, and I wince. I shift my gaze from the tree to him and stare until my sight sharpens. Square jaw. Firm lips compressed tightly together. High, cut cheekbones. Dark brown eyes snapping with irritation. I frown. Why is he pissed? He hit me.
Laughter and clapping fills the air, and I look past him to the faces above. Guys and girls snicker as they stare down at the two of us. Lovely. An audience to witness this glorious event. I groan.
At the sound, the guy lifts his body off me and jumps up.
“Shit, man, that was epic,” a laughing blond guy wearing another blue jersey says, slapping his friend on the back. “You okay? Coach would kill me if I hurt his star player.”
Epic. I mentally roll my eyes.
“Shut up,” a deep voice above me orders. The laughter stops. “Sorry. We were playing catch, and I didn’t see you crossing the grounds. Let me help you up.”
Happy for the distraction, my eyes turn back toward him.
He extends his hand to me.
Wincing, I sit up, spit out the dirt coating my tongue, then survey the damage. My shirt is torn, with one shoulder hanging by a thread. I pull it off, grateful for the tank top I threw on underneath. Rolling my arms and shoulders, I decide nothing’s broken. The palm of my right hand stings like fire, and I lift it up to examine the damage, finding a huge scrape, with grass and blood embedded in the shredded skin.
I look up and find Mr. Irritated is not only the university’s wide receiver, but he’s also Mr. Popular himself. Trent Hightower. Son of a senator. Politically connected, rich, and because he was lucky enough to also inherit his Italian mother’s genes, extremely good-looking. Light brown complexion, thick dark hair, and a tall body honed from sports.
“Thanks,” I say, raising my hand to take his.
Instead of taking it, he’s staring intently at the mark on my shoulder. “Did I do that to you?”
Even after all these years, the mark with its deep red color and unusual shape continues to draw everyone’s attention. It’s why I always cover it. I automatically raise a hand to pull up my sleeve but forgot I took off my shirt. I sigh, wondering if I can find a hole to crawl into.
“No, it’s an old scar,” I reassure him.
“What’s this? Another woman felled by the great Trent Hightower?” an amused feminine voice pipes up. Blond hair perfectly curled and bouncing with every step, the cheerleader strides up and pops a hand on her hip.
Everyone laughs like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.
Blushing, I let him pull me up. Once standing, I murmur my thanks. My gaze slides from his handsome face to his broad shoulders and long legs. At almost 5’10” myself, most guys are my height or shorter. It’s nice to stand next to someone over six feet.
He says nothing, only stares down at me with an unreadable expression on his handsome face.
Nervously, I glance at my watch. Five past noon. I’m so late. Damn it. I bend over, grab my backpack, shove my shirt in it, then hurry toward the stairs, leaving him standing there. Only once do I look back, but he’s already turned away.
Built in 1754, the library is the epitome of the Georgian period with its symmetrical architecture, multi-paned windows, and stately entrance. Constructed of red brick, like all the buildings on campus, it should blend in, but its sheer size and grandeur is impressive.
The interior boasts the same feeling of prestige as the exterior with hand-carved oak bookshelves that stand floor-to-ceiling on all four levels and a dome that allows in light from above.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness inside, I find Mrs. Pembrooke waiting for me at the circular desk in the center of the room.
Her eyes widen when she sees my disheveled look. “What on earth happened to you?”
“A run in with a football player,” I reply with a wince, setting my backpack under the desk. I grab a tissue and carefully try to wipe the dirt from my scraped palm. “Sorry I’m late.”
In response, she jerks open a drawer and pulls out the first aid kit. “Go to the bathroom and clean up. I’ll man the desk until you return.” With a frown, she turns to the girl hovering at the counter. “How can I help you?”
While the girl stammers out her reply, I take the kit and make my way to the bathroom.
Lexie, another graduate student, sidles up to me along the way. “Good thing you look so bad. She was livid you were late again.”
“I’m sure. If she would just let me shift my hours by thirty minutes, I’d never be late,” I grumble, pushing open the door to the restroom. “I didn’t even get coffee today. My advisor held a mandatory meeting for all the DPT graduate students. It’s not like I could skip it.”
Lexie gives me a commiserating nod and walks away. “I hear you. I’d better get these books shelved before she hunts me down.”
Thank goodness this is my last semester on campus. The DPT, or Doctorate of Physical Therapy, program is no joke with its mixture of classwork and clinical rotations. Between this job, the tutoring, and sheer number of class hours I’m taking in order to finish early, I’m stretched to the max. But I keep reminding myself how close I am to finishing. The only thing I have next semester is a clinical rotation. Then I’m done.
Weary, I turn on the cold water and thrust my hand under it. Gritting my teeth, I clean out the debris and smear some antibiotic ointment on it, then stick a couple of Band-Aids across the wound. Finished, I turn my attention to the rest of me. The gruesome vision in the mirror has me twisting my lips. Tired forest-green eyes surrounded by pale dirt-smudged skin is only the beginning of the hot mess. My long, dirty blond hair is plastered to my sweaty face and full of dirt and grass. Without a brush, I finger comb through it, pick out the remaining green blades, and clean the dirtiest strands. Once done, I wash my face and arms. That’s the best I can do for now.
Turning around, I glance over my shoulder and into the mirror behind me to see if there’s anything on my backside. My tank top was pretty much covered by my other shirt, so it looks good, but my jeans are streaked with dark green and brown stains. Wrinkling my nose, I decide to wrap my torn shirt around my waist when I get back to the desk.
Picking up the kit, I return to find Lexie standing at the circular desk with a flower in one hand and a note in the other. She thrusts them at me.
“You didn’t tell me you ran into Trent Hightower,” she squeals. “Literally.”
I look down at the recently picked pink rose and note. “I’m guessing this is from him?” When she nods, I open the folded paper.
Sorry I hit you! I hope you’re not hurt too bad. Coffee sometime? 615-999-5555.
“That was sweet of him,” I murmur, unsure how to respond. He’s a senior in college, but still three years behind me. I fold the note and slip it into the backpack at my feet. “Do we have a vase?”
Lexie blinks. “Is that it? The best-looking guy on campus asks you out, and all you can do is ask for a vase?” She rolls her eyes and grabs a paper cup. “Put it in here.” When I drop it in, she grabs a water bottle and pours some water in it. “Well?”
“It’s not a date. He’s just trying to apologize for running into me,” I tell her. “It’s fine. It was an accident. No need to ask me out for coffee.”
She gives a sad shake of her head. “I don’t get you. Trent Hightower doesn’t have to ask girls to go anywhere. They practically beg him. If it was me, I would jump on that so fast.”
Ignoring her, I reach down and pull my ragged shirt out of my backpack, then flip it inside out and tie it around my waist. That will have to do until I get home. Mrs. Pembrooke swings by the desk, nods her approval, then gives Lexie a pointed stare.
Lexie sighs and grabs the stack of books waiting to be shelved off the counter. After she leaves, Mrs. Pembrooke walks off.
Sitting down, I stuff the first aid kit back in the drawer and start checking in the books on the return cart. Getting coffee with Trent will only make things worse. I just want to forget the embarrassing incident, and I’m sure he does too.
Several students come up to the desk, asking for various books, and after answering their questions, I continue the rest of the monotonous tasks until the students working the evening shift come in, then I grab my stuff. At the last second, I pick up the paper cup with the rose in it. Inhaling its sweet fragrance, I smile. The rose is beautiful, and it’s not as if someone gives me flowers every day. I try to think of the last time I received some and realize it was my sixteenth birthday. The day of the crash. My smile dims, and I head out.
It doesn’t take me long to get from campus to my little studio apartment above the garage. I walk up the steps and into the small, tidy interior. After dropping the backpack on a hook by the door, I set the cup with the flower in it on my coffee table and plop down on the couch. Thirty minutes of rest. That’s all I need, then I can get up and throw something together for tonight.
What a crazy day. I shift and wince at my sore muscles. I’ll definitely need a hot shower before bed. Although, it wasn’t all bad. Trent’s brown eyes flash in my mind, but I shove the image away and focus on the news I got this morning.
My DPT advisor gave his graduate students their final semester assignments for clinical rotations, and I’m so excited. I’ll be working at the children’s hospital, focusing on neurological rehabilitation, which is exactly what I want to do when I graduate. It’s the whole reason I decided to become a physical therapist. To help kids get the help they need to live functional lives. Like my physical therapist, Kyle, did for me.