Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Coffee and Muffins - Grace
Istroll across campus, headed toward Smythe Hall, the beautiful building that houses my Greek and Roman History class. It’s another white stucco building, framed by palm trees and arched doorways, with rows of purple flowers lining the walkway that I can’t identify.
I step inside, the building bustling with students heading toward classes.
The inside was renovated a few years ago, with lots of open spaces with seating areas and natural light.
Hm. This might be a nice place to sit and study.
I’ll consider this when Professor Hillenbrand gives us another massive reading assignment.
I turn down a corridor and touch my initial necklace, something I do when I’m anxious or thinking. As my fingertips trace over the G, I wonder what will happen in class today. Not if I’ll do well on the quiz—I’m more than prepared for that—but if Wyatt will sit next to me again.
I twist my lips. Probably not. He’s probably already forgotten the conversation we had on Monday.
Even if I haven’t.
I frown as I walk down the tiled hallway, my short, pleated skirt swishing. I wonder why I keep thinking about Wyatt. Besides the fact that he’s freaking hot. We shared a little conversation about muffins, and that was all.
Probably because he was not only hot, but showed a playful, clever side that I haven’t seen before in all the interactions I’ve had with guys here at OCU.
Or anywhere, for that matter.
Mentally, I shrug it off. Odds are good that not only will Wyatt not sit anywhere near me, but he will have forgotten me all together. He’s probably one of those guys who taps open his Snapchat and snaps all the women up in it until he gets a girl to respond for a late-night hookup.
I grin. That’s definitely not me.
I mean, great for all the women who want to hook up. I just know in my heart that I need something more when it comes to sexual encounters. I want a connection. I want dating first, then building toward intimacy.
And that’s probably why I’m still a virgin.
I push open the door to the lecture hall and glance at the big clock on the wall. I still have ten minutes before class starts, which is my ideal time to arrive. Plenty of time to claim my preferred seat an—
I stop mid-thought. I actually stop dead in my tracks, causing some guy to run right into the back of me.
Because up at the back of the hall, in the same row I sat on Monday, is Wyatt.
Students move around me as I remain rooted in place, staring at him in surprise. He’s wearing another backward baseball cap and a heather-gray T-shirt. Wyatt has his laptop out, and he’s typing something. I blink just to make sure he’s not some kind of a mirage.
Of course, seeing a mirage would require me to be delirious, dehydrated, and walking through a desert rather than strolling into an OCU classroom on a Wednesday morning, but still.
He’s definitely not a mirage.
I make my way up the steps and cut down the aisle. Wyatt looks up, and those warm brown eyes meet mine. Then he smiles, and I notice he has a dimple in his left cheek.
“Morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” I say, smiling back at him.
I move past him, noticing there’s a bakery box in the seat next to him.
“Your backpack can have the seat back, but the box is for you,” Wyatt says, stretching back in his seat, his T-shirt pulling tight across his chest, hugging the wall of muscle that lies underneath it.
My throat grows dry as I watch him. Wyatt is definitely hot.
I put my stuff down and take a seat, reaching over for the box. As soon as I lift it, the sweet smell of sugar and vanilla wafts toward me. “You really brought me something?” I ask, placing the box in front of me.
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s payback for saving me from getting tossed out of the lecture on Monday,” Wyatt says.
“No payback was needed. But I don’t know whether to thank you or be mad at you,” I tease.
Wyatt’s dark brows knit together. “Mad?”
I flash him a smile. “I’m in training right now. Bakery items should be a solid no, unless I’m having a treat.”
“Well, to be fair, you did tell me you would like a muffin.”
I laugh at myself. “You’re right. Thank you.”
"What are you training for?” Wyatt asks, rubbing his hand along his stubble-flecked jaw.
“Artistic swimming. You might know it as synchronized swimming,” I clarify. “I’m on the team here at OCU.”
Appreciation shines in his eyes. “I get it. I’m in training, too. Hockey.”
Ooh, he’s a hockey player. The wall of muscle I noticed a few seconds ago makes sense now.
“But I still live to eat,” Wyatt continues. “And going into that bakery this morning reminded me of why I love donuts. I wanted like five of them when I walked in.”
I chuckle as I lift open the lid. Then I stop. Inside are four perfect muffins, all with streusel toppings and a drizzle of white icing over the top.
“I tried to find chocolate-espresso muffins, but came up empty on that,” Wyatt explains as I stare down at the muffins. “So you’ve got cherry almond and lemon blueberry. Hope that’s okay.”
I lift my gaze to meet his. Wyatt remembered our conversation. And as I realize that, a weird tingling sensation sweeps through my stomach.
“These are perfect,” I say. “I love both those combinations. Thank you.”
“No, thank you,” he says.
I close the box. “Now I just need an iced coffee, and this would be perfect.”
“I should have gambled on coffee,” Wyatt says, pushing back down on his baseball cap.
“No, what if I would have preferred tea? You’d be out at least five bucks,” I joke.
“True.”
I notice a hockey game is playing on his laptop. “Are you going to watch hockey during class? Let an AI app take notes for you?”
Wyatt snorts. “Apparently somebody didn’t read her syllabus.”
I feel warmth pool in my cheeks in embarrassment. I so didn’t read the syllabus for this class.
Talk about failing in expectations, I think. My mom would be mortified if she knew this.
“What did I miss?” I ask.
“Professor Dickhead laid out expectations, and we cannot have phones out during class. He will allow laptops for note taking, but if he finds you online shopping or playing a game or, let’s say, studying a hockey game, you’ll be asked to leave.”
I grin at Wyatt’s name for Professor Hillenbrand. “I like your name for Hillenbrand.”
“I stand by it,” he says, his eyes dancing at me.
I chuckle. “To be fair, I saw more online shopping in my lit classes last year than note taking.”
“Is that your major? Literature?”
“Yeah,” I answer simply.
His brow furrows, and I furrow mine back. “What?” I ask. “Why are you looking at me like that? Do you hate reading?”
“I’m not a big reader, but that’s not what puzzles me. You don’t sound very excited about your major.”
I’m taken aback by his observation. First, because Wyatt noticed something nobody else ever has—something I’ve never dared to admit out loud.
I’m NOT excited about my major.
No. I can’t think that. I’m good at English and writing. My mom is a literature professor, and I love all the works of Jane Austen and Elizabeth Gaskell. Mom always told me I’d be brilliant at writing fiction like they did, novels that explore themes of social classes, love, and independence.
“I’m just tired,” I lie. “I have to get up early for swim practice, and one coffee before coming to lecture doesn’t cut it.”
Wyatt’s eyes continue to study me, golden flecks shining brightly in that sea of espresso-brown, and I can tell he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Which is unnerving. I don’t like being seen in this way.
I shift my attention to setting up my laptop, and I can still feel his gaze on my profile for a second or two longer. Then Wyatt turns his attention to the hockey game playing on his screen.
After I’m situated—laptop open to a blank document for notes, notebook and pen out to the side—I look to the front of the class, where Professor Dickhead promptly walks in one minute before start time.
“I’m glad everyone is on time today,” he says wryly. “Hopefully nobody else will be so rude as to show up late to my lecture again.”
I glance at Wyatt, who has set his jaw. I repress a smile, wondering if he’s grinding his teeth in annoyance at being called out again by Professor Dickhead.
“We’re starting with a quiz,” Professor Dickhead announces, and I hear a slight groan rumble through the hall. “Get out a sheet of paper and a pen, we’re kicking this old school.”
Wyatt reaches over and closes out of the hockey game he’s watching but brings up a blank document on his computer. I watch as he types a message, then angles the screen so I can read it:
Last question before Dickhead begins to speak again. Wanna get a coffee after class? To go with your muffins?
My stomach tingles again. I should say no, I muse. College guys are always disappointing in the end.
But it’s just a coffee, the other side of my brain—the one wearing devil horns, apparently—counters. What harm can come from going to a coffeehouse with him and having an iced latte?
And before I can chicken out, I type one word across the top of my blank document and show it to Wyatt:
Yes.
***
I glance at the clock in the corner of my computer screen. Five minutes are left in the lecture.
And then I’ve committed to grabbing a coffee with Wyatt.
I’ve been a jumble of emotions since I typed back that one-word answer. Excited. A bit nervous. Fearful.
Wondering if I’ve made a massive mistake.
But my devil side has won out, which is something that never ever happens, and I can’t help but wonder why. Taking out the hot factor, there’s something different about Wyatt, something I haven’t run across in any of the guys I’ve met here.
I can’t put my finger on it. He’s a hockey player—and the girls at OCU love hockey players—but he doesn’t come across as arrogant. I keep coming back to the way he remembered things I said, and the unnerving way he detected my feelings about my major.
He pays attention. And that in itself is unusual.