I wantedthem, or I didn’t.
My suit wouldn’t sway either decision.
Jamie was in for the day to cover me and caught me as I was about to leave out the back way, talking nineteen to the dozen about grades and how he was torn between studying history or opting for something else that would fit around his hockey scholarship. He was chatting as I tried to extricate myself and head to the car. Still, I managed to get away from Jamie after a supportive nod, and I’d almost made it to the car, coat over my arm, before I was spotted.
“Where are you off to, all dressed up?” Wesley called, leaning against the back door of The Story Lantern with a grin that made my stomach tighten, a pile of cardboard in his hands for recycling. I muttered something about an interview and kept walking, but after I heard the noise of the garbage bin closing, he fell into step with me, heading to the parking lot, where my three-year-old Merc was parked next to his beaten-up ancient Mazda with its magnetic decals in the shape of books.
“Sorry?” he asked.
“Interview,” I repeated, as I managed to unlock my door by reaching around him standing in front of me.
I froze, realizing I hadn’t told him. “I didn’t know it was today,” Wesley said in a soft tone, hurt flickering in his eyes.
“I didn’t tell you,” I admitted, fumbling with my keys.
He studied me for a long beat, then his expression brightened. “Good luck, Hunter. You’ll be brilliant.”
“Thank you.”
“And, you look very handsome,” he said, reaching up to straighten my tie. His dark eyes caught mine, full of something that made my chest tight, his lips parted as if he might say more. A few strands of his hair had slipped loose from where he’d tied it back, falling across his forehead, and all I could think about was brushing them away again, or curling my fingers into the waves. He was only wearing jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt, despite the cold and the flurries of snow, and it struck me again how unfair it was that he could look so cute and sweet and…breathtaking…without trying. Then he went up on tiptoes and pressed a kiss to my cheek, and I stiffened.
The kiss was barely there, but it left a brand, heat spreading all the way down my neck. My heart stuttered, my pulse quickened, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. I hadn’t expected it, hadn’t wanted it—or maybe I had, too much. It shook me, left me raw and restless, as if he’d opened a door I’d kept locked tight. And damn if part of me didn’t want him to do it again.
“Why did you…”
He grinned up at me and patted my arm. ”For luck, Hunter.”
Somehow, I managed to start the car, drive out of Wishing Tree, heading toward Middlebury, all without letting myself think too hard about Wesley’s kiss still burning on my cheek.
Well, kind of.
What if I’d turned my head? What if his lips had touched mine?
“Stop it!” I warned myself. “Concentrate.”
Seventy-five minutes later, I was parked outside, staring up at the old Vermont stone buildings, solid and enduring. A carved sign out front declared the college had been founded in 1821, the letters weathered but proud. The grounds were neatly kept, with paths winding between brick and ivy, as groups of young adults crossed from building to building, books hugged to their chests. Despite the cold, the place looked warm and inviting, the kind of campus that seemed to breathe history and promise.
My research revealed that the history department was understaffed, particularly after twotenured professors, who had spent their entire academic careers at the college, had recently retired. A retirement was a good thing in that it meant there wasn’t much turnover; in fact, the remaining team of five had been there for a minimum of ten years each, which boded well.
I was early, so I checked in with security, received my pass, and then wandered the campus, hands shoved into my coat pockets. Students hurried past, some laughing, some crying, some walking alone with earbuds in, others clustered in noisy groups. Flyers were pinned to boards: an LGBTQ+ alliance meeting, a poetry slam, and tutoring sessions alongside requests for car shares and tabletop gaming. Smaller than the college I’d come from, but still buzzing with energy, it made me smile, although I tried my hardest to keep my expression impassive for fear of getting dragged inside as an insane smiling person. The stone buildings, the benches scattered under trees nearly bare of leaves—it was old, established, kind almost. Inviting in a way I hadn’t expected.
“Professor!” someone called, and a student almost skidded into me. Breathless, they held up a schedule. “Do you know where the lecture on Reconstruction’s been moved to? They keep changing classrooms.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I’m not a professor here.”
The kid’s face fell, disappointment clear. “Oh.Right. Thanks anyway.” They hurried off, muttering about reallocation and late notices.
I stood there for a beat, watching students weave through the quad, and tried to imagine myself among them again, part of this place. Could I belong here? The thought sat heavy, more worrying than hopeful, like an uneasy weight. Was I ready to give up dreams of LA or Seattle for something old and cute? Was it that easy?
Ten minutes before the interview, I headed to the building I’d been told to go to, expecting a secretary, but instead I was met by someone I recognized as the dean of the entire college—Dean Richard Halvorsen. We’d met once before at a fundraiser in Wishing Tree—a winter charity gala held to raise money for Kai Buchanan’s youth hockey program. He’d been there as a parent; his daughter skated at Kai’s rink. We’d only exchanged a few words, but I remembered his handshake, firm and professional, and the way he’d spoken with real pride about his college and how excited he was to debate with me. Now here he was again, in a very different setting.
“Welcome, Professor McCoy.”
“Dean Halvorsen,” I said with respect.
“No, please call me Richard.”
“Dean,” I said, because calling him by his first name was a step toofar, given the whole interview thing. He smiled wryly.
