Chapter 13 #2
The meeting rolls on. Syllabus adjustments.
Departmental budget complaints. Everyone drones their way through the agenda.
Dr. Patel mentions a student caught cheating; Dr. Liu proposes stricter proctoring protocols; Dr. Johnson agrees with a decisive thump of his hand against the table.
His palm catches the side of Dr. Patel’s beloved calculator and I swear it’s about to fly off the table, but before it catapults across the room, Dr. Patel steadies it and carefully sets it on the other side of his laptop, away from Dr. Johnson’s demonstrative affirmations.
I record everything neatly, typing deadlines, dates, and whatever else into my document. My fingers move on autopilot, but my mind keeps tugging on loose threads.
And through it all, I feel it—Leo watching me when he thinks I won’t notice, gaze steady enough to make my skin hum. Dr. Wallace’s lingering looks, pretending to skim my notes when I know he’s glanced at my boobs at least four times since I sat down.
Maybe I should take back my thoughts about him not being creepy. Because staring at my boobs is not cool.
I keep telling myself to focus—this meeting, these minutes, this list of directives—but my head won’t stay put. It drifts into questions I don’t want but can’t shake.
I never thought I’d work anywhere other than that accounting firm in Moraine.
Never thought I’d be single, starting over.
New city. New people. And yet here I am, smack in the middle of a university departmental meeting—hell, not even an accountant anymore—wedged between two mid-thirties, single men.
Both conventionally attractive. Both at least physically attracted to me.
And instead of soaking it in, instead of maybe even enjoying it, I spiral.
What do they see in me that Chase couldn’t?
What was so absent in me that my husband couldn’t be bothered to notice—let alone appreciate—when I dressed up for him, when I made his favorite dinner, when I packed his bag before a business trip?
What variable did I miscalculate? What part of me never balanced out?
The irony twists in my chest—because if anything, sitting here between Leo’s quiet watchfulness and Wallace’s too-obvious stares only proves what I’ve had to repeat to myself over and over since I left: I was not the problem.
I’m not perfect. Every marriage is made of two imperfect people.
But there was one person in ours who refused to treat the infection buried deep in their psyche, and that person was not me.
Finally, Dr. Johnson closes his folder with a sharp snap. “That’s everything for this month.”
Chairs scrape back. Papers shuffle. Conversation splinters into casual chatter. Dr. Patel asks Dr. Liu about his latest research grant. Dr. Johnson mutters something about the dean. Dr. Wallace lingers, deliberately slower than the rest.
He leans toward me, lowering his voice just enough to feel intimate. “You handled that very efficiently, Victoria. I’ve been impressed with your organizational skills.”
Before I can thank him—or sidestep the weirdly loaded compliment—Leo cuts in.
“She’s good at what she does,” he says flatly. “That’s why she’s here.”
The edge in his voice makes the air heavier. Wallace blinks, adjusts his glasses, and mutters something about heading back to his office. He leaves, and the tension leaves with him.
But not Leo.
He’s still leaning back in his chair, watching me with that unreadable expression. I shut my laptop with more force than necessary. “What?” I snap, finally meeting his gaze.
He smirks—slow, infuriating. “Nothing. Just, your GBF duties are safe with me. I’m here to protect you from Dr. Sweatervest’s poorly delivered mansplaining come-ons. Who knew Deondre Wallace had a passive-aggressive degradation kink?”
I groan, pushing to my feet. “At least he doesn’t say stupid shit like ‘you want this dick.’ Or sneak into the women’s bathroom. If I need saving from anyone in this office, it’s you.”
Slapping his palm against his chest, Leo mock-groans. “You wound me, bestie.”
I roll my eyes, done with this conversation. “GBF. You’ll never live that one down.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Tote.”
That makes me pause. I sling my handbag up my arm, hug my laptop to my chest. “Okay, seriously. What’s with that nickname? Tote? It sounds like a purse. Or laundry detergent.”
His grin widens, lazy and smug. “Relax. You know, like Dorothy. Toto—the scrappy little dog. Small, feisty, loud bark, doesn’t back down from anybody. Remind you of anyone?”
My jaw drops. “You did not just compare me to a dog.”
“Survived a tornado, saved her girl a dozen times,” he says, shameless. “Honestly? Solid résumé.”
I glare, fighting the twitch of a smile. “You’re lucky I didn’t shove you harder in that bathroom.”
Leo stands, sliding his hands into his pockets and, thankfully, does not step closer to me. “If you had shoved me any harder we could have ended up in the stall… together. That would’ve been way more fun than this meeting.”
He’s shuffling backwards, already heading for the door, grin carved deep enough to make me want to smack it off. “What can I say? It’d be fun to play tangent to your curves.”
Then he turns and exits the meeting room, leaving me standing there. Speechless.
My pulse hasn’t quite settled since the bathroom… incident? And I can’t decide which unsettles me more: Wallace’s too-probing looks, or the way Leo keeps finding his way under my skin. And did he just make calculus dirty? Of course he did.
If I’m honest, I haven’t had this much fun with a man in… well, ever.
Either way, it’s only 10 a.m., and it’s going to be a long freaking Tuesday.