Chapter 5 #2
Except he can hear her and she probably thinks she’s mumbling under her breath, but she’s absolutely talking out loud in the same voice she uses to command the attention of every undergrad course she’s helmed in the last few years and every presentation she’s given.
“It has to say I’m responsible and qualified, but also relatable, and that college students will listen when I tell them to use peer-reviewed sources for their research and to thoroughly investigate the credentials of a study’s author to understand their biases, but also . . .”
“I don’t think a shirt can do that kind of work,” he can’t help but chime in, and then silence. A beat and then another before . . .
“I need it to, if I want them to hire me,” she calls back, clearly annoyed. He can almost feel her glare through the layers of Sheetrock between them.
“They’re going to hire you because you’re the best and not because of what shirt you’re wearing.”
She’s quiet again for a moment and when she speaks again, her voice is lower, resigned almost. “Women get judged for all kinds of things in their interviews that a man would never even consider worrying about. Before I left teaching, I sat on interview committees where female candidates got ripped apart for the absolute stupidest things. For too much heel height or not enough, for the way they did or didn’t do their hair.
Contoured makeup? Trying too hard. No makeup?
Not professional. A suit? Too prudish and buttoned-up.
A dress? Not taking it seriously enough.
Of course it was never said exactly like that, no one wanted a lawsuit on their hands, but the implications were strong and obvious. ”
And he knows that, of course he does, intellectually, but the idea that she’ll be treated that way makes his gut roll.
The silence that falls between them is weighty and then . . .
“Xavier?”
“Yeah, boss?”
“I need your opinion.”
“On your shirt?”
“Yeah, so when I don’t get this job I can blame it on your choice.”
“Fair enough,” he mutters, standing up and ignoring Amelia moving away from her tiny cat computer to the spot he just vacated. He closes his laptop because he knows when he gets back, she’ll be resting atop it.
A few strides of his bare feet get him to the doorway and he leans against the frame, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Which one?” she asks, spinning toward him and he only has a second to register that she’s only wearing a pair of ratty, too small pajama shorts and a bra before he lifts his eyes up and away to her ceiling.
Fuck, that was a lot of smooth olive skin on display, generous curves spilling just slightly over the edges of cotton, but as he lowers his eyes, he does his best to only focus on the shirts she’s holding up for his perusal.
If she cares about him seeing her like this, she doesn’t show it.
But then why would she? He’s the one with the feelings, not her.
He adjusts his glasses, ones he wears to protect his light eyes from the constant screen glare of his laptop, to buy himself some time.
One is a white sleeveless blouse with a high neck and the other is a black scoop neck with capped sleeves. The first is maybe a little dressier, the second, a bit more professional. But neither one is quite . . .
His mind flashes back to last year, in Chicago for the American Library Association’s annual conference. Bianca presented a paper on disinformation becoming a standard part of high school research practices and the implications once students made it to post-secondary education.
He clicks his tongue after a moment and looks up into her eyes. “You look good in anything, you know that, right?”
“Obviously,” she quips sarcastically and plays it off with a shrug. He raises his eyebrows at her and is ignored. “I just need—”
“Neither of those,” he says, cutting her off, and glancing around her bedroom to the pile of shirts she discarded on her bed. “Can I?”
“Go for it.”
He digs around for a few seconds before he lets out a soft, “There it is,” pulling out a soft green blouse with long sheer sleeves. The V neckline is deep, but not so much that it’s unprofessional, and the fabric shimmers in the low light of her bedroom as he holds it up.
“That’s the shirt I wore . . .”
“At ALA last year when you were presenting your paper on disinformation becoming a standard part of secondary school research practices.”
Her eyes flick from the shirt to him, wide with surprise. “You remember that?”
Shit. He lifts his free hand to the back of his head and looks away, rocking slowly from his toes to his heels.
“It was a good paper and your presentation was amazing,” he says, ducking his head and then looking back up to meet her gaze, “so you should wear this and channel some of that this afternoon. Besides, it really brought out the amber in your eyes.” He shoots her a small grin and lays the shirt on top of the others before heading back out of the room.
A few seconds tick by before she says, “Thanks.”
“No problem, boss,” he calls back over his shoulder and then turns to see Amelia laid out across his laptop, basking in the warmth it’s giving off.
He’s still staring at her, contemplating whether or not she’ll move if he pretends to be working on her tiny cardboard computer, when he hears a muted curse from the room behind him.
“Shit.”
“Everything okay?”
“Is your Wi-Fi out on your laptop?”
“Uh, hang on,” he says with a sigh. Gingerly, he grasps the edges of his computer and slides it out from under the gray furball until she lets out a mewl of protest and thwacks at his hand, claws extended.
His skin stings at the contact, but the movement gives him the room to slide the machine free while Amelia rolls over in a melodramatic swoon at her chosen bed being cruelly snatched away.
He settles down to the couch cushions again and opens up the laptop only to see an exclamation point where his Wi-Fi signal should be.
“Ummm . . . fuck. Yeah, it is.”
Her Wi-Fi has been in and out for a couple of days, but he’s actually found it helpful while he’s working since most of his work is saved on his hard drive and internet access just leads to more cat videos instead of editing.
“Crap. Okay. I’m just gonna go to campus to do this then.”
He hums his agreement. That’s probably a good idea for both of them. Her for a hardwired ethernet connection and for him? Well, he’s shit at getting work done when she’s around.
Which is why instead of concentrating on his presentation, he’s more focused on a second curse in as many minutes muttered from her bedroom.
“Fuck.”
“What now?”
She moves into the living room, still in those ratty shorts and bra, though thankfully she’s pulled an oversized sweater over her shoulders, mostly covering up as she perches on the only bit of furniture not covered with his research materials, the edge of the coffee table beside his laptop.
Without a word, she hands him her phone.
It looks like a brand-new group chat entitled B’s Bridal Bitches , and the top text is from Lexi. Her sister added every friend from the party, plus Julie, the girl whose room he’s currently occupying while she’s out being a rising pop star.
—Drinks Tonight @ Frankie’s house. 7 p.m. Triple celebration: PhD, Engagement and FUCKING KILLING YOUR INTERVIEW TODAY.
There are already four thumbs up on the text and a message underneath from Julie.
—Love you, B. I’m gonna need a FULL EXPLANATION when we swing back to LA in a couple of weeks. Have a shot for me tonight, bitches! xo
“So, I’m on my own for dinner tonight? No problem.”
“No, that’s not—I mean, yeah, you are, sorry, but . . . this isn’t just drinks.”
“Then what . . .” He trails off, furrowing his brow.
He has to push his glasses back up his nose and for a second she doesn’t respond, just blinks at him once and then twice with her bottom lip caught against her teeth.
He tilts his head in question, trying to ignore the voice in his head that wonders what kind of sound she’d make if he gently bit her bottom lip just like that, and he’s brought back when Bianca gives herself a little shake and her eyes refocus on his.
“Sorry, yeah, that was, you know, family and significant others, but tonight . . . tonight is the debrief. Tonight is the real test of this whole thing. There were buffers during the surprise party. Tonight it’s just me and my best friends, a lot of alcohol, and the flimsiest cover story known to man. ”
“Okay?” He’s not sure what she’s looking for from him and her teeth are worrying that bottom lip again. The soft groan he lets escape nearly drowns out what she says, as she takes back her phone. “You want me to text you?” he clarifies.
She shakes her head with a frustrated huff. “No, no, not text. Sext. ”
Yeah, no way he heard that right. She can’t want that, can she? But she’s still talking and so he tries desperately to follow her logic.
“If I go out tonight, the story we came up with, it isn’t gonna hold up if there’s alcohol involved and I thought . . .”
And it all clicks in his head.
“You could show them and they can dissect my words, and thus our relationship, to the billionth degree without getting suspicious?”
“Oh good, you get it.” Her relief is palpable, her smile easy and her eyes no longer wide and panicked.
Xavier lets out an exasperated breath, but he finds himself grinning back at her. “Yeah, no problem, I can do that. But . . .”
“But?”
“We can’t just do a back and forth right now. It won’t look right. How about this? I’ll text you normally, like I would no matter what, but I’ll add in some extra flavor.”
“Flavor?”
“I don’t know what to call it, but just go with it, okay?”
Then, for a moment, sheer panic takes over her face. “No nudes.”
Xavier clears his throat, not sure whether he should be offended or not. “Not my style.”
Her face immediately crunches up and he thinks he reads embarrassment there.
“I . . . Sorry, I just . . . And it’s not that I don’t trust you, but that’s such a bad idea for so many reasons.
Not that people shouldn’t be able to share naked pictures of themselves if they want to, but there’s no guarantee that they won’t end up everywhere, even by accident. ”
“And besides that,” he says, with a tilt of his head, “I’d never send you anything that you wouldn’t want to see and I’d never ask you to show me something that isn’t for my eyes.”
“Right, of course. You wouldn’t want . . . obviously not.”
For a long second his eyes hold hers and then flick quickly to her lips and then lower, over her body.
And for a second he thinks that maybe, just maybe, she’s going to lean forward and then slide into his lap, her thighs landing on either side of his, and that maybe he could close that final distance between them and finally . . .
No.
No, Xavier.
That’s not part of the deal and way over the line.
Not that they ever really decided on where that line is. But touching her like that? Kissing her? That’s gotta be over it. No matter how much he wants to.
And he really wants to.
Of course he does.
Obviously.
But wanting and actually following through with it are two different things and there’s no reason to go there, not when he’s leaving at the end of all this.
“Okay, okay, great,” she says, standing and heading back toward her bedroom. “I’m gonna finish getting ready.”
“I’ll be here,” he says, stretching his neck back and forth and looking back down at the laptop, waking up the screen and groaning. “Eyes melting out of their sockets from dissertation overload.”
“It’ll be over soon,” she says. “And when you’re reuniting the Parthenon marbles with the Acropolis, it’ll have all been worth it.”
“Easy for you to say, Doctor .”
Her face lights up with joy at the title and then her expression softens in sympathy. “Just four more days.”
“No, wait, I changed my mind, that’s too soon,” he whines and she laughs, shutting the door behind her.