Chapter 6
Chapter Six
EMMA
“What are you doing here?” he asks, and my heart skips a beat at the sight of the familiar yet unfamiliar face. He looks the same but oh-so different with the black-framed glasses around his eyes and the fresh shave along his cheeks and jaw. His arms cross over his chest. “Emma?”
I can’t help the small smile that slips. “You figured it out?”
He keeps his gaze fixed on mine and stiffens. “You’re a student here?”
“Um.” I shake my head at the seriousness in his voice and face. He looks even less like the man I met that one night with his stern expression. “Yeah, I go here.” Letting out a laugh, I open my mouth to lighten the mood when he interrupts.
“As I said, I only have twenty minutes, which are now seventeen.” He gestures to the chair across the mahogany desk.
My smile fades as it hits me that he might’ve figured out my name, but is acclimating to our current situation. I feel like slapping myself across the face for not being as collected as he is right now.
Giving him a quick nod, I move to the chair, feeling more self-conscious about how I look. Of course, he looks amazing—his hair perfectly combed and his tie perfectly straight. Meanwhile, I’m a sweaty, frizzy mess.
Sitting down, I place my bag on the ground and keep the folder on my lap, afraid to meet his eyes.
This is your job. Your one chance. Don’t let a man ruin it.
Gathering all my remaining strength and self-confidence, I lift my head and smile. I ignore the feeling in the pit of my stomach that’s making my late lunch want to come back up my throat at his cold stare.
His eyes observe me for a moment before he leans forward and clasps his hands on the desk. “Sixteen minutes.”
I almost roll my eyes on instinct. Almost.
Looking away, I open the folder of questions, take my pen from my pocket, and pull out my cell phone. “Are you okay with me recording this?”
“Yes.” His word is firm.
“Good.” I press record and try to quiet my racing thoughts. “September thirteenth, six p.m. interview with Professor Grayson Hayes.” I gently place the phone on the desk and read the first question, pretending I’m interviewing someone I’ve never met or kissed or…
Clearing my throat and mind once more, I adopt one of the many voices I use for work. “Professor Hayes, according to my research, this is your first time teaching. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And how has your experience been so far?”
I’m forced to look back up at him since “yes” doesn’t take a very long time to write down.
His lips thin, looking unimpressed, but I don’t let it faze me on the outside. “The students and faculty have been professional and kind. It’s a respectable program and environment.”
I jot down his answers in short notes because, oh my God, boring.
Samantha knew how much time she had for this interview, and these were the kinds of questions she planned to ask?
Skimming through the first of six pages full of questions, I see that ninety percent are mundane and would give Amelia nothing interesting.
I barely had time to review the questions while I was running in heels.
Heels may be my best friend most days, but even as a girl from Manhattan who’s used to them, I usually don’t run in this kind of heat.
Once I flip to page three, there’s something a little more interesting that makes my lips twitch.
“Do you have another question?” Grayson asks, and I clench my pen tighter at his tone.
Patience, I remind myself. Act professionally.
“How old were you when you opened your first restaurant?”
His jaw tics, and I know it’s because he told me all about it that night. Back when he was open and nice with me, unlike now.
“Twenty-six.”
I don’t write down the answer; it’s unnecessary because I remember everything he told me in July. Instead, I look for the next question and word it aloud without much thought. “Why did you pick Driscoll to teach and open your soup kitchen?” My eyes widen for a moment before they go back to normal.
A soup kitchen?
This time, I notice a hint of a smirk on his lips, and it causes my gaze to drop to his mouth. Memories of those lips on mine— “I was looking for something new to do. Driscoll offered me the job, it’s a great university, and it’s near my alma mater.”
Something new. Something different. “I want to do something different. I need to do something different. I’ve had the craving for a while,” is what he’d told me that night, and yeah, this is definitely different.
“You studied at the Culinary Institute, if I remember correctly.”
He nods. “As for the soup kitchen, it was something I decided to start when I moved from London in July.” He looks away briefly. “I wanted to make a difference in the world, no matter how small, and I hope that by doing this, I can inspire nearby towns to follow my lead.”
He might be dry and a little rude right now, but just like I thought that night, he has a good heart…which only makes him all the more attractive.
Looking down, I read the next question. “You opened the soup kitchen in honor of your deceased parents.” My neck warms at the new information, but I continue as any other professional would.
“Is their passing away when you were so young one of the reasons you decided to switch career paths?” I tilt my head at the unclear, odd question and look up to see his reaction, but all I find is his body tensing even more.
“A lot of the things I do are for my parents, but I would rather not speak about them.” His voice and expression are so impassive, I can’t decipher what he’s feeling at all.
I wish we could talk like we did that day.
“Of course, I understand.” My heart clenches, and I move on, feeling guilty for the handsome man across from me.
I continue asking some mundane questions about his career.
Most of them are yeses or nos, until I get too comfortable and distracted, and I blurt out the next one.
“Is it true that you are in the process of getting a divorce?”
My jaw drops, but I shut it as quickly as I can. Still, it’s out there, and my eyes flick up to his with so many questions.
When?
How long has he been separated?
Please tell me I wasn’t the other woman, even if it was only for one night.
He rubs his hand against his jaw, and I sit on the edge of my seat waiting for his response.
“No comment.”
I try to keep my composure, I really do, but I can’t hide the visible wince. The two words feel like a slap in the face.
Looking down, I try to focus on what question to ask next, but I can feel my hands trembling.
“Are you— Do you— You know what?” I reach for my phone and hit pause on the app so it’s no longer recording us.
I’m finally able to show the frustration I’m feeling, but I keep my voice low.
I’m not going to yell, still I need to know.
“I’m going to ask you again off the record.
Are you in the process of getting a divorce? ”
Grayson looks away and removes his glasses, tucking them into his shirt pocket. His pause is much too long for my liking.
“Professor Hayes,” I say sternly.
His light brown hair bounces smoothly as his head turns. “My divorce was finalized three months ago.”
I sag in relief and put my face between my hands for a moment, pulling myself back together. “Thank God,” I whisper and straighten.
He manages to give me a curt nod.
“Are we really going to pretend that we don’t know each other?” I twist my pen, nervous for his response.
His jaw relaxes. “I’m afraid I’m ten minutes late for my meeting.”
Huh? That’s his answer?
I check my phone to see the hour, and he’s right. We must have lost track of time. Or maybe he was kind enough to let me ask him more questions for the article. Although with the information I have, it won’t do much for a feature. It’ll be a simple profile.
Ace—I mean Professor Hayes, stands, and I follow suit.
“I hope you got everything you needed for your article.”
Shrugging and slipping my purse onto my shoulder, I mumble, “Not unless I can write about your fingers inside of me.”
“What was that?”
“Yes, it’ll be out in the paper next Saturday morning.” I smile, glad that I’m a good mumbler.
He nods and grabs his shoulder bag. We stand there, looking at each other, and I make one last attempt to get him to talk to me like a normal person.
“Grayson—”
He walks past me and reaches for the doorknob to his office. “I’m in a hurry, Ms.…” He trails off, clearly not knowing my last name.
“Haywood,” I finish his sentence.
“Ms. Haywood.”
And now we aren’t on a first-name basis. Great.
He turns the knob, and I step toward the door. I’m back in the hallway, but don’t make a move for the elevator.
It’s all too formal. I never expected to see this man again, and if I did, it wouldn’t be under these circumstances or with this kind of attitude from him. Not that I’ve thought about it much…okay, maybe a little…who am I kidding? It’s been too many times to count.
He locks his office door and makes eye contact with me. The tension between us still lingers, and I know he can feel it too.
Maybe he’ll ask me out for coffee to clear the air, but instead he says, “It was nice to officially meet you.”
And just like that, he walks away, and I’m left standing here with more questions than I had the first time I left him.
But the one thing he made clear? That night was a one-time thing.