Chapter 5
FIVE
Rhys
And that I am now going to be her employee counsellor, tasked with making sure she gets the most out of her three months at Adelaide University, and setting her up for whatever comes after.
My traitorous thumb clicked "Accept" so fast I'm not entirely sure how I didn't sprain something.
Then I spent the entire morning trying to pretend I wasn't nervous for a meeting I've conducted literally over a hundred times.
Deciding to have a protein shake in my office for lunch, in case she comes early, I spend the hour pacing, tidying up, though there isn't much to tidy.
I push the visitor's chair a little further back from my desk, as if those extra ten centimetres are going to make a difference.
If different states wasn't enough distance, three metres is going to be nothing short of torture.
Turns out, I didn't need to worry about her coming early.
I hear her before she arrives. After four years in this office, I can tell from the footsteps down the hallway whether it's a colleague, a student, a cleaner, or a lost person approaching my door for directions.
I'd picked this office — the one furthest from the department's admin office — to give my visitors the utmost privacy.
It's also an added bonus that it gives me a semblance of peace from the foot traffic and the tendency for nearby staff to "pop in for a chat.
" No popping. No chats. And it hasn't escaped my notice, or my colleagues', that I'm in charge of making the university's employees feel comfortable and cared for.
Hardly the most obvious job for me, but fuck it, I'm still good at it.
Her footsteps come and go, past my door and back again, once, twice. On the third pass, she stops, right outside. Better than average, there are people who've been here ten times and still miss it.
I step closer to the door, hand on the handle, waiting for her knock. Nothing but silence.
I'm about to open the door anyway when I hear a muffled thud.
That's a sound I haven't heard before. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pull the door open.
In the space of two seconds, she stumbles forward, phone flying one way, portfolio flinging another, eyes widening as she falls to the floor, yelling, "Ooooff, earthquake!"
I blink.
I wish I could say I'm used to such an entrance, but I'd be lying. If nothing else, her lying face down on my carpet gives me a second to adjust to being in her presence.
I'm about to kneel to check she's okay when she flips onto her back.
In my periphery I can see her skirt has ridden indecently high up her thighs, her silk shirt untucked, the tiniest sliver of skin of her midriff revealed.
So I have no choice but to lock my eyes on hers instead.
Round, gorgeous, crystal green eyes — sea glass — that cut all the way to my fucking soul.
"You're late," I say, and force myself to turn away and close the door.
I take longer than I need to, hearing her move behind me.
As much as I want to spin around and tell her not to move a muscle, that I like looking at her, clothes askew, sprawled on my office floor, that I'll have that image burned into my brain for the rest of my life, the sliver of morality I have left tells me to give her time to get up and compose herself.
Helping her collect her things, I hold her phone out to her. She blinks, looks down at my hand, then back up at me before she takes it, her palm brushing mine as she murmurs a soft thanks.
Gesturing to the chair, I round my desk and settle into it, hands busying with the paperwork I've printed for her.
She just stands, fidgeting with her phone.
I stare at her when I realise she's not sitting.
She stares back at me.
I settle back, fold my arms, and fill the silence with nothing but more silence.
Finally she sighs. "Is there anyone else I could have this meeting with?"
"No."
"Like literally any other person?"
"No."
"There's not a single other person in this entire organisation who can tell me the things you're going to talk to me about?"
I give her a look. I'm not going to say it three times.
She lets out a frustrated exhale and drops into the chair, hands in her lap, jaw tight.
"So, how was your first morning?" I ask.
A flicker crosses her forehead, surprise. "Fine."
I wait. There's nothing so effective as waiting if you want someone to elaborate.
She squares her jaw, then folds her arms. "Orientation was fine. Professor Pollack was nice. A little strange, but I think I'll be able to work with him." She looks like she wants to say something else, then decides against it.
"Good." I open her file. "So, I'm going to ask you some questions about your research programme and placement goals. Standard intake ques—"
"What is this office, exactly?" she interrupts. "I mean, your nameplate says 'Employee Counsellor.' What does that mean here? Like, what do you do?"
"I provide occupational support for academic staff.
Placement onboarding, for one. Once they're settled, I work with them on short and long term goals, both here and beyond.
With the PhD candidates and associates, we talk about where they are, where they want to go, what the organisation can offer to help them get there. "
She nods. "And this goes back to the department?"
"No," I say, shaking my head. "It's all confidential. I'm not reporting back to anyone about what you want. This is a service the university provides to you."
She looks sceptical. "Really? You won't tell Professor Pollack if I plan to apply elsewhere once I've completed my doctorate?"
"Nothing leaves here without your consent. Not a word. I take this role very seriously. You have to—" I stop for a moment. "Everyone who comes to me has to be able to trust me."
She flinches, visibly, and it takes me a moment to recover from the way that twists something in my chest.
"Okay, well, let's get on with it. I'm sure you're very busy," she says.
I nod and go through my usual intake list. "How is your PhD thesis going?"
"Is that relevant?"
"Not directly, but it might help me identify any resources you might need to—"
She shrugs. "It's going fine."
I ask about her research focus. She answers, barely.
I ask about her publication timeline.
"Why do you need to know that?" she shoots back.
"To understand where you are in your output cycle relative to—"
"I'm on track," she clips. "Next."
I scribble a note.
"What did you write?" she asks, leaning forward.
"Something pertinent. To help me when I write up my notes later."
Her eyes narrow at me.
I move on. "What's your target outcome after the placement?"
She looks back at me. "What does that mean?"
"Where do you want to be? What position, what institution? Do you have any specific goals?"
Her nose scrunches up in a way that's so infuriatingly adorable, I'm almost glad she's being difficult. "Yes."
"Okay, care to—"
She cuts me off, tilting her head. "How long have you worked here?"
I blink. I'm not used to being the one who gets asked questions. Not about myself, anyway. "Four years."
She looks around my office, as if picturing me here that long. "And before that?"
"Melbourne. For a year. But I didn't like it."
Her eyebrows lift. "I'm surprised you went at all."
"Why?"
"Well, I didn't think you'd ever leave Adelaide. You told me that once. That you never saw anywhere but Adelaide being your home."
I don't ask her when I'd said that. I remember exactly when.
"Well, I guess I knew myself pretty well then.
Because I hated it. I missed Adelaide. Missed the guys.
Your brother." I surprise myself with all the information I've offered without being asked.
And for some reason, I can't stop. "So, as soon as I got this position, I was back here the next weekend. "
She nods slowly and leans back in her chair. "I didn't know you worked here. At the university. I thought you should know that."
I frown. That can't be true. She must've known. And yet she'd looked genuinely surprised when she'd seen me park next to her this morning. "Leon didn't tell you I work here?"
"No." A beat. Then her cheeks tinge pink. "Or maybe he did." She bites her lip and locks her eyes with mine. Cold and hard. But still beautiful. "I don't really listen when he talks about you."
Ouch.
Like, really bloody ouch.
But I guess I deserve that. No — not guess. I definitely deserve it.
Doesn't make it hurt any less. That she'd try to avoid anything to do with me. That she's been doing it for all these years.
I look at my notepad and make a nonsensical note to have something to do with my hands.
"So, these are some of the things this office can support you with," I say, trying to steer us back.
"Application strategy, networking access, interview preparation, timeline management.
If you already have a position or opportunity in mind, we can build a plan around it.
" I tap my pen on the desk, put it down, and steeple my fingers.
"But, to be honest, this would be a lot easier if you—"
"If I what?" There's that cold, hard look again. "If I just talked to you? Really, Rhys?"
This time I'm the one who flinches. The way she says my name, I never want to hear it sound like that again.
"Alexi. I'm—"
She lifts her hand and cuts me off.
And it's only then that I realise what I've said. The name slipped out like it had a thousand times. Like the last time I said it, it hadn't been paired with a promise. One I broke in spectacular fashion.
She pushes to her feet.
"Is this mandatory?" she says.
"What?"
"I'm asking if this" — she waves her hand at me and my office — "is mandatory. Do I have to sit here and answer all your questions?"
"I'm just doing my job. I'm only trying to help."
"I'm going to ask one last time. Do. I. Have. To. Be. Here. Talking. To. You? Yes or no?"
I take a deep breath. "No. You don't have to talk to me."
She nods once, slings her bag over her shoulder, and makes for the door.
I should let her go. I should shut my mouth, let her walk out that door, find somewhere else to sleep for the next week. And then let my life go back to what it's been for the last six years.
But for some inexplicable reason, I can't.
"But before you walk out," I call out, pushing to my feet.
She stops, hand on the door handle. But she doesn't turn around.
"Think about what you want. What you're doing all of this for.
What you've been working towards for the last seven years.
I know you've worked hard. You might not have listened when your brother talked about me, but I listened when he talked about you.
I know you've practically killed yourself to get where you are.
Don't tell me you don't have dreams of where you want to go next.
I know you do, Alexia. So think about how you'll feel in three months if you don't get where you want to be, whether you'll regret not enduring a little discomfort in exchange for the help I could've given you.
Because I can help you. I'm very good at my job.
" I pause. "So think about it. You know where my office is — if you decide you're not going to let what happened between us six years ago dictate what's waiting ahead of you. "
She stands there for a moment, frozen.
Then she pulls the door open and walks out, the door clicking shut behind her.
And I slump into my chair, chest heaving.
Well, that went well.
I'm still staring at the chair she vacated five minutes later when I hear a sound beyond my door.
"Come in," I call. But no one enters.
I get up and open the door.
And there she is.
Chin up, eyes bright, cheeks still pink.
A fucking vision.
"There's a position at Sydney University," she says.
"It's a research fellowship. It's new, they've just created it and are about to start taking applications.
There'll be both a research and teaching component.
Sponsored by the Hargreaves Foundation." She stops.
Swallows once. "It's what I want. It's exactly what I want. "
I nod, and step aside to let her in.
She hesitates.
"I'll get you there, Alexia. Whatever you think about me, I promise you, I'm very good at my job. But you're going to have to work with me. Are you ready to do that?"
A pause. Then she nods and steps back into my office.
I close the door and move back to my chair. "Oh, and next time? Don't be late."