Chapter 29
The rest of the trip is a perfect wintry blur, like they put gingerbread and tinsel in a snow globe and shook it all up.
Something has changed between the two of them, something on a molecular level, invisible to the human eye.
It’s in the way his fingertips always find hers, even in the dark.
The way she drags him toward her in bed, unwilling to leave any space between their bodies.
It feels almost cruel that he has to drop her off at her house when they get back to LA—so much so that Nick doubles back when he’s halfway down her block, desperate for more time with her. And there she is, still waiting at her gate with a smile that makes him weak in the knees.
He loves her. He loves her, and she loves him back, this statistical improbability that now feels inevitable.
Then, on the first day of the new quarter, Nick makes an appointment to see the dean. No matter how determined he is to keep reality at bay, it’s crashing back into him one way or another.
And what he’s learned from dating Ramona is that he can’t fight it—but he can change its course.
“Happy New Year,” Dean Eckhart says when he enters her office, and he returns the greeting.
“Or at least, mostly happy,” Nick amends. He passes her the letter he printed out last night, after laboring over the wording for hours.
Dean Eckhart’s brow furrows as she reads it. “You’re…resigning?”
Nick nods, taking a seat and hoping they don’t have to draw this out too long—that’ll only make it harder.
He made the decision as soon as Ramona showed him the video.
During those days between Christmas and New Year’s, he took stock of his career, his privacy, and the intersection of the two.
His inbox had continued to blow up, everything from congratulatory emails from past students to anonymous threats, though the dean had been suspiciously quiet—probably staying offline during the holidays.
Of course Ramona is worth giving up some of his privacy; he meant what he told her.
And the threats don’t scare him—anyone can type out vitriol from behind a faceless account.
He’s already scheduled another security upgrade.
But the undeniable link between their relationship and the university remains, and he doesn’t want any of this to jeopardize her academic future. He’d much rather resign on his own terms than face any bureaucratic wrath.
“I’m sure you saw the video of Ramona Wilder and me,” he says.
“I don’t want to make a mess for the department, so I figured I’d try to get ahead of it all this time.
Or at least, as much of it as I could.” He wrings his hands, then finds he doesn’t have to force the confidence into his voice—it’s already there.
“Yes, I’m dating a UCLA student. She was in my class, and now she’s not, and if there isn’t a way for both of us to go forward here, well… I’d rather be the one to step back.”
The dean traces her index finger along the tiny DNA sculpture on her desk. “You love this job. And you’re great at it.”
“I do,” he says. “But I might love her more.”
The might is a wild understatement. He absolutely, definitively, wholeheartedly loves her more. If he has to choose, he’ll choose her every time.
“We’ve gotten some emails, yes,” Dean Eckhart says.
“But people love complaining, especially to a large publicly funded university like ours, and if I had to let go of everyone who’s ever had so much as a disagreement…
well, there probably wouldn’t be anyone left on staff.
But it’s a little murky, isn’t it, since the video went up after the quarter ended, and after final grades were submitted.
And now—” She clicks a few things on her laptop, then turns it around to show him Ramona’s UCLA student profile.
“She just transferred to the business school. So technically, this is out of my jurisdiction, and I’d say you don’t have anything to worry about. ”
Nick stares at the screen.
She didn’t…she didn’t do this for him, did she? She’s been secretive about her winter quarter classes so he hasn’t pressed, respecting that maybe she needed some extra time to figure it all out.
“I know you’re trying to do the valiant, honorable thing here,” Dean Eckhart continues, “but you don’t have to sacrifice your job to do it.
You’ve been consistently published, your courses always fill up, and your student evals last quarter were off the charts.
With your tenure review approaching, I hate the idea of you having to start from scratch somewhere else.
” She gives him a small smile. “And I really hate the idea of us losing you.”
“Thank you,” he manages, still trying to process it all. “I didn’t know what would be possible, so…I thought I was making it easy for everyone. But I didn’t—I don’t want to quit.”
In a surprising display of warmth, she reaches across the desk and gives him a pat on the wrist. “My husband was my TA when we met, back in grad school. We didn’t tell anyone until after he graduated. Of course, it was much easier back then, but you can’t always control when love finds you.”
Nick just gapes at her, because that was the last thing he expected to hear.
And then the dean feeds his resignation through a paper shredder.
—
When he opens the door to his office, Ramona is sitting in his chair.
“Good morning, professor,” she says, looking like his filthiest dreams personified: button-up shirt undone at her throat, long hair catching the early-morning light, shoes propped on the desk. In front of her is a bright red apple. “You really need to get in the habit of locking your door.”
He grins as he snatches up the apple, marvels at how comfortable she is in his office now.
Then again, she never struck him as uncomfortable, not even that first time—more like she was marking her territory, even in a place that wasn’t hers.
Running her hands along his bookshelf and testing his patience.
It occurs to him now that he probably would have let her tear the place apart.
“When’s your first class?” he asks.
“Not for a couple hours, but I wanted to get a head start. I’m going to miss not having you to ogle.”
Even now, his face heats at the compliment. “Really? Because I think I’m about to have the most productive quarter of my life,” he says. “Come here. You’re cute.”
She brings her legs down from his desk, flashing the special podiatrist-recommended shoes she’s wearing, the ones with the chunkiest soles he’s ever seen. “Even in these shoes?”
“Especially in those shoes.”
When she gets up from the chair, he pulls her in for a kiss before he sits down, gesturing for her to slide onto his lap. His first class isn’t until tomorrow, and he’s ahead on his prep work…
“You know,” she says, “I should lodge an official complaint. Winter quarter just started, but I still haven’t gotten my fall grades yet.”
Nick levels her with a serious look, trying his hardest to hold back a laugh. “Ramona.”
“What?”
“They’re in the student portal.”
She heaves a groan, giving his chest a dramatic thump. “You’re fucking kidding me,” she says. “I could have had instant validation this whole time and didn’t even know?”
“I mentioned it in class! Multiple times!”
“I was distracted. By your face. And your body. And that thing you do when you’re pretending not to look at me but you really want to look at me.” With a shake of her head, she reaches for her phone. “Now I don’t know if I want you to watch.”
“I promise, it’s not bad.”
The way the anxiety plays across her face as she opens up the portal—lower lip between her teeth, brow scrunched—somehow makes him love her even more.
“Philosophy, B,” she reads. “Reasonable. Some of that reading was a snooze. Marine biology, B-plus.” Then she meets his gaze over her phone. “Psychology…A-minus.”
“You earned it,” he says. “You did a phenomenal job. Really.”
“But not perfect?” she teases, but she’s grinning, clearly thrilled about her grades. “Tell me that the next time I sleep with the professor.”
“I have something else for you.” When she lifts her eyebrows suggestively, he clarifies: “Not that kind of something else. At least, not yet.” Still balancing her on his lap, he opens his desk drawer and hands her the page he printed on cardstock after spending much too long formatting it.
“You printed out my report card?” she asks when he passes it to her, but then her eyes drop to the paper and her confusion morphs to a soft “…Oh.”
Ramona Wilder Report Card
Antique Collecting
A
Bedroom
A+
Culinary Arts 101
C+
Feline Parenting
A
Clippers Team Spirit
B+
Steadfast, Unwavering Empathy
A+
When she doesn’t say anything, he runs a nervous hand through his hair. “I know it’s silly,” he says. “But I guess you bring that out in me.”
Ramona’s fingertips tremble on the piece of cardstock. “Nick,” she starts, and god, the way she says his name. Pure magic, the way she can make a single syllable sound so precious. “I am so fucking grateful to the universe or the algorithm or whatever higher power put me in your class.”
“The dean of the life sciences department.”
“I’ll send her a fruit basket.”
Only four months ago, she was in this office asking him if he could teach her. For so long, he couldn’t imagine he’d be enough for her. But she shows him again and again that he is, and he’s finally started to believe it.
It just never occurred to him that he could have everything he wanted.
Ramona brushes her hand along his cheek, drops her thumb to his lower lip. “I’m deeply, madly in love with you, in case I haven’t told you yet today.”
“Because of the report card?” he asks, even as his heart swells in his chest. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to the sound of those words.
“Because of you.”
She kisses him, warmth and sweetness and the pure joy of finding that person who understands you like no one else ever has. I love you as his hands press against her back. I love you as she clings to the lapels of his shirt.
“So,” he says after a few breathless minutes. “Business major?”
Ramona fiddles with his top button. “Maybe,” she says. “I’m working a few things out. But first—”
Then she slides off his lap, and he misses her instantly.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m locking the door.”