Chapter 4
Classes trickled by as syrupy slow as the fog outside.
An incessant deluge followed me from lecture to lecture as if also intent on teaching me a lesson.
The old-world, gothic charm of the buildings impressed me at every corner; the weather did not.
Even if I usually enjoyed a rainy day, those came with the stipulation of being snuggled up under a blanket with a hot drink and a new book in hand; not traipsing through the cold in search of my last class of the day.
But it was a history class, and those had always been my favorite.
Perhaps the rain collecting on my lashes and spilling down my cheeks wouldn’t bother me once I slipped through the doors and sunk down into a seat—preferably front row—and got dry.
Like most lecture halls at Kilbride, tiered theater seating greeted me, with each orange cushioned seat sporting a tiny desk that barely doubled as an armrest.
The number of people bustling about the room, as early to class as me, was a surprise. I couldn’t miss a prime seat for learning in my favorite subject. The first day of a new class came with the understanding that whatever seat you picked became yours. Part of the routine of class life.
Diverting from routine unsettled me so much that it could ruin my entire day. I had to claim my territory now.
I hustled through the crush of bodies flooding into the lecture hall, students rushing inside and away from the frigid, incessant drizzle outside.
Crushed to my chest, I used my satchel as a shield to break through the crowd.
Neck craned, and practically bouncing on the tips of my toes, I searched for an open desk in the front row—
There.
One left, right on the edge.
A split second before I pivoted around a chatting group, a boy took off his hat and shook himself off like a wet dog.
Droplets splattered across my cheek, startling me out of paying attention to the wet spot on the floor my shoe eagerly gravitated toward.
The squeak of my heel on slick tile mimicked the embarrassing noise that breached my lips as my arms flailed, and the world shifted beneath me.
Hard as iron, a thick arm belted around my waist. I hovered in mid-air, watching in slow motion as my satchel dropped and papers scattered all over the floor like fallen leaves drifting in the breeze.
Time stopped, the world falling into a silent lull as body heat penetrated my coat, seeping into my skin, and a solid frame enveloped me, protected me.
An uncanny shiver zipped down my spine that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, not like it was when other strangers touched me. This was warmth, security, and strong, assured leverage. I wanted to cling to the sensation.
“Careful,” a rich, deep voice rasped against my neck, his breath hot enough to make mine hitch. Tension skittered over me at all points of contact, which happened to be most of my left side and lower back. He was everything and everywhere; concerningly welcome to hold me for as long as he pleased.
My head turned on autopilot, finding a face a hair’s breadth from mine.
Nearly nose to nose, inhaling the air the other exhaled in a slow, thick moment that stretched long enough for me to take in and memorize every detail of a sophisticated and handsome face.
Steel-blue eyes, as serious as a raging squall on the high seas, locked on me, threatening to drown me in the dangerous depths of such an intense stare.
I registered his aristocratic features, dark brows, and the sculpted jawline enhanced by his mustache and trimmed beard.
A loose curl from his short, wavy black hair flopped over his forehead and caught in my blonde fringe, entangling us.
His full mouth parted, and my insides sizzled as I watched it. A dreamy quality warped the world until I realized his lips were moving. Talking.
“Huh?” I said dumbly.
“Careful,” he repeated, the corner of his lips quirking up for a blink, “the floor is wet.”
Time resumed, hitting me like an unavoidable car crash.
“Oh, yes—right. Yes.” I disentangled myself from his body, suppressing a shiver at the loss of warmth.
No one around us stopped, too busy in their own conversations or missions to find the best seat, or simply uncaring.
Embarrassment flooded me, thinking of the spectacle I’d made of myself or the potential of drawing further attention.
“I’m so sorry. That’s entirely my fault.
I should have been watching where I was going. ”
Dropping to my knees, I snatched up my felled notes from the floor, praying they weren’t too wet. I dedicated so much of my energy to the care and details of what I wrote down, it would be a shame to waste knowledge gained on the first day.
A large hand shot out to help me.
My focus faltered as my eyes locked onto long, strong fingers, prominent knuckles, and veins on the back of his hand. Mouthwatering fingers my tongue instantly imagined the feel of.
My insides quivered. Oh, lord have mercy.
“No, think nothing of it. These things tend to happen when it rains. Orientation week only worsens the nerves. Especially for new students. I’m guessing a transfer?”
My neck warmed.
“How could you tell I was new?”
He dipped his head before handing over my composition notebook as if shrugging off an easy read. The slow curl of his sensual mouth made my stomach flutter. It was like that grin was a secret, only for my eyes.
“The easy answer? Practice. Lots of years reading people.” Our fingers brushed purposefully as he reached for my pen at the same time as me. The air in my throat caught, and our eyes snapped together. “I haven’t seen you around here before, Miss…?”
“Ophelia,” I breathed, “Um, Ashcroft. Ophelia Ashcroft.”
His brows knitted together, and his mouth pulled to the side as recognition struck.
My skipping heart sank a fraction to think of repeating the same interaction as that morning.
About how my dad’s sins seemed to follow me everywhere I went.
A father-shaped wound, raw and tender in the meat of me.
If I could untether him from my blood and differentiate our make, I would.
“Ashcroft? Like the—”
“The CEO who was very publicly caught having an affair? Yes,” I grumped. One of my folders crinkled at the corner as I jammed it into my satchel. I winced and sheepishly slowed to steady myself.
He seemed blindsided by my statement. As if I’d walloped him over the head with my satchel instead of tucking it close.
An almost comical reaction on a face that appeared too refined for emotive expressions.
“What? God, what have I missed? No. Ashcroft, like the former languages professor. Hunter Ashcroft.”
“Oh.” It was my turn to blink dazedly. “Yes, he was my grandfather.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised that so many people recognized the name of my grandfather, least of all in the town our family helped establish generations ago. Yet it stumped me each time. Likely from only spending winter holidays in town while growing up.
My grandfather might have been the only Ashcroft worthy of the name and the long, detailed history that it carried.
A brilliant man with a profound understanding of languages that went beyond the standard of his generation.
Hunter Ashcroft had been a kind, attentive, and doting grandparent, and a man who bore the burden of our surname with pride.
Only his death spared him from the shame of my father’s lapse in decency.
The attractive stranger hummed in acknowledgment.
He stared with those intense, sea-storm eyes, almost calculating and severe.
I could easily believe in his power of observation.
Like he viewed the world through a magnifying glass, analyzing every minute detail that passed him by.
It might have intimidated me if not for the trembling flame breathing to life in my lower belly.
“The Ashcrofts can’t seem to resist Kilbride,” he said. It wasn’t a ‘Welcome home,’ but it almost felt like one. Like stepping into an old, well-worn pair of boots built to last through whatever terrain I dared hike.
Or mountain I dared climb.
It had been too long since someone touched me if I was ready to start panting over a stranger after one embarrassing interaction.
Not since that guy I met at that pub after finals.
Months since the hands of another had made me feel good, and my fingers couldn’t quite reach that one spot that I needed to see stars.
The lack of release might have been adding to my frazzled state.
Pent-up stress layered thick on top of everything else.
“Thanks.” I stood, and he rose alongside me, stretching to his full height with a predatory grace that made my spine tingle.
My head stopped under his chin, my eyes level with his chest. He towered over me, exactly mountain height.
Further conversation escaped me as an alarm chimed, marking the start of class. “Oh, shoot. Thanks again.”
He nodded, staring after me as I extricated myself from the encounter, cheeks flushed and blood humming.
Thankfully, the front row corner seat remained open as the average student seemed content to hide in the back.
Perfect for catching up on sleep or working on other assignments out of sight of the instructor.
I was too excited about the subject to even consider such blasphemy.
History courses received my full attention, like the devout at a Sunday service.
Unable to locate my favorite pen I’d used all day, I grabbed a backup and opened the syllabus.
I looked down towards the front of the lecture hall.
Handsome Stranger had moved behind the podium and began turning on a projector.
My heart stalled, and my stomach dropped.
Maybe he was offering a helping hand, but…