Chapter 5
FIVE
TORI
My first few weeks at Middle Peak are exactly as thrilling as one would expect organizing academic calendars and learning how to navigate a glitchy student portal to be—not one bit.
I miss spreadsheets. I miss formulas. I miss the predictability of numbers that don’t talk back or make passive-aggressive comments about departmental budget cuts.
Accounting had its downsides, but at least I wasn’t fielding questions about professor office hours that don’t seem to be posted anywhere or musical room assignments for professors who forget that I do not, in fact, know my way around this campus just yet.
I hate feeling overwhelmed because when I’m overwhelmed, I act like a bitch.
And in those moments when I’m feeling particularly bitchy, Leo decides that is the exact right moment he should talk to me.
I’m elbow-deep in a game of match the syllabus PDF to the online course when I hear his summons from his desk across the pod.
He could pick up the phone on his desk and call.
He could also get off his entitled ass and walk to ask me a question.
But, no. He yells for me like his personal housemaid, at his beck and call.
“Victoria!” he shouts. “Got a second?” Of course, your majesty. I have all the seconds for you. I am certainly not in the middle of sorting fifty bajillion classes worth of syllabi for four other professors.
I stand and walk into his office to find him sitting with his elbows propped on his desk, fingers steepled under his chin. The smirk on his face suggests he knows exactly how annoyed I am to be summoned like the help.
And the worst part? He looks pleased about it.
His office smells like coffee and sarcasm, like it’s been marinating in his smug for years. Papers are spread across the desk in what I can only assume is his version of organized chaos. A Rubik’s Cube sits near the edge—half-solved, just like him.
I force a polite smile. “What do you need, Professor Euler?”
He raises an eyebrow like he’s debating whether or not to correct the formality. He doesn’t. Just leans back like a man with all the time in the world.
“Copies. Calc exam. I need thirty.” He slides a stack of papers across the desk and pats the top like it’s the 1950s and we’re in the Mad Men era. Sure, dude. Would you like to tack on a ‘thank you, sweetheart’ to the end of that?
I step forward and take the papers, flipping through the pages as a reflex. I’m not even trying to be difficult—I just can’t not double-check things. It’s hardwired into me, like hitting the lock button on my key fob three times or shampooing my hair twice before using conditioner. A compulsion.
“Looks clean,” I murmur, mostly to myself. But then—on page three—I stop. My brows draw together.
“Wait.”
Leo tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Problem?”
I tap the question. “Yeah. This integral’s set up wrong.”
He pushes back from his desk and comes around to stand beside me, arms crossed, shoulder nearly brushing mine. I don’t step away, even though the heat rolling off him is annoying. Or maybe it’s me. Either way, I hold my ground.
He peers over the page like I’ve just accused him of plagiarism.
“No, it’s not.”
“It is,” I say, not bothering to soften it. “Your u-substitution doesn’t simplify the integral. You skipped a sign change, and the bounds don’t align. If someone solves it as written, the final answer’ll be off by a factor of two.”
There’s a beat of silence. Not just a pause—a beat. That subtle moment where something shifts in the air and both people know it.
He’s still looking at me. Not the paper.
Then, flatly, “It’s correct.”
This smug asshole. I slap the exam against his chest, holding it there to let him know I’m not backing down. “I have two degrees in accounting. Took AP Calc my sophomore year of high school. I know how to spot a sign error. This one’s textbook.”
“It is from a textbook,” he counters, that infuriating note of logic-meets-ego threading through every word.
I scoff. “Which doesn’t make it right.”
His jaw works. He opens his mouth like he’s about to deliver a lecture, but nothing comes out. Instead, he snatches the exam from my hands—almost defensively—and flips to the equation in question. His eyes scan it fast, then slower.
I wait. Because I’m right. And I want him to feel that.
His fingers tighten at the top of the page. His posture stiffens. For a second, I think he might rip it in half.
Then, grudgingly, “I’ll fix it.”
“I’ll wait,” I say sweetly, stepping back.
His eyes lift to mine. And for the first time since I got here, something flickers behind that cocky exterior. Not irritation. Not condescension.
Respect. Or maybe... curiosity?
It lasts exactly one second before he smirks. “Didn’t peg you for a math snob, Victoria.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m a math competent. Also, it’s Tori. Stop calling me Victoria. You are not my father.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Noted.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. That’s what makes it fun.”
I roll my eyes and turn to walk out, but before I reach the door, I toss over my shoulder, “You can walk that corrected exam to my desk when you’re done, Dr. Euler. I’m not a dog or a maid to be summoned.”
“Noted again,” he calls out.
But his voice sounds less amused this time. More like someone realizing they’ve underestimated their opponent.
I settle into my chair and pull my keyboard closer, pretending to be far busier than I am. Not that I’m not busy—but I make a point to look very absorbed. If he wants me to drop everything and jump every time he snaps his fingers, he’ll have to try a little harder.
It’s petty. I know that. But so is he.
A few minutes later, a revised packet lands silently on the edge of my desk.
He doesn’t say a word. Just drops it off like a sulky teenager handing in late homework and walks away.
I don’t even glance up, though I track him from the corner of my eye.
His stupid shoulders are annoyingly broad for someone who eats vending machine Pop-Tarts for breakfast.
I wait until he’s fully back in his office and walk to the copy room with the kind of pointed grace usually reserved for pageant contestants.
I load the document, hit start, and listen to the comforting whirrrrr-chunk of paper feeding through the machine.
Thirty clean copies. I check the page numbers twice.
I may be spiteful, but I’m not careless.
I slide them into a file folder and walk them back toward his door. He sees me coming and doesn't move from his desk. Doesn’t say a word. Just waits, fingers steepled again like some smug little academic mafioso.
Setting the folder down with more force than necessary, I affix a secretary of the year smile on my face and say, “Your precious exam, now error-free.”
“Much appreciated,” he says, his tone maddeningly even.
As I’m halfway out the door, Leo calls after me. “So, two degrees in accounting?”
I pause. Turn. “What, did that not come through loud and clear when I refused to copy your broken integral?”
He shrugs, unfazed. “Just confirming it wasn’t a bluff.”
“Not a bluff,” I say, stepping just far enough back into view. “Earned both. With honors.”
“Impressive. And yet here you are—babysitting professors and decoding department email chains.”
I shrug. “When I left Moraine, Dexter mentioned this job was open. Figured if I was going to babysit anyone, math professors were at least numerically consistent.”
He huffs a laugh. “Debatable.”
Leo leans back in his chair, stretching out like we’re settling in for a conversation neither of us really invited.
“So. Left Moraine, huh? What was so bad you had to run four hours south?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I think you’ve got the Cliff Notes version already.”
“Maybe. But I haven’t heard it from you.”
“Not really your business.”
He taps his pen once against his desk, then spins it between his fingers like he's weighing something heavier than office gossip. “Color me curious.”
I cross my arms. “Look. We’re not friends. We’re barely coworkers. You can be friends with Dexter, Alis, and Skye, and still mind your own business.”
Leo doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, like he’s waiting for me to realize something he already knows.
“I have enough shit going on in my life,” I say, voice clipped. “I don’t need you, or anyone for that matter, trying to figure me out like I’m a riddle to be solved between lectures.”
He smirks. “You’re assuming I’m trying.”
“Oh, please. You’re practically vibrating with it.”
“That might be the caffeine.”
“Sure. Let’s blame the double espresso and not your fragile male curiosity.”
He tips his head, amused. “So you do have a sense of humor.”
“It’s buried under layers of trauma and a spreadsheet fetish, but yes. Occasionally it comes out.” Did I just make a sex joke in front of a Tinder whore man child? Jesus, take the wheel.
Leo grins and leans forward. “Good to know. I’ll add that to the file.”
“You have a file?”
Smirking, he taps his pen to his temple. “Mental one. For departmental productivity.”
“Right. And how am I scoring?”
He pretends to think. “Somewhere between ‘knows her shit’ and ‘has bite.’ Jury’s still out.”
I give him a look. “Well, if you want a more comprehensive and accurate report, maybe update your attitude and stop yelling across the pod like I’m your grad student.”
He smiles wider. “You’d make a terrible grad student.”
“Damn right I would.” I start to turn away, but something in his expression changes—subtly, just enough to stop me.
“So, that’s it?” he asks, voice softer now. “You’re just, what? Done with that whole life?”
I look at him. Really look. His tone isn’t smug. It’s not even mocking. It’s earnest. Curious. A little too curious.
“Like I said,” I say, arms folding before I can stop them, “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. We have mutual friends, but that doesn’t mean we have to be pals.”
His eyebrows rise, but I don’t give him a chance to respond.