We shook hands, and then he ushered me into his office, a standard dean-type setup housed in one of the oldest campus buildings, complete with wood paneling and brick. A wide fireplace dominated one wall, though instead of a fire, it was filled with bookshelves. In fact, every available nook seemed to hold books and files. Certificates lined the walls in neat frames, alongside photographs of faculty and smiling student groups. A broad desk stood at the center, flanked by two sofas that had seen plenty of use.
Dean Halvorsen crossed to a small table in the corner where a coffee machine burbled softly. “Coffee? We take our caffeine seriously here,” he said with a smile.
I declined quickly—the last thing I needed was to be jittery as fuck before I even started. Not that I had anything to lose. I wasn’t sure I wanted to teach here, right?
“What do you think of the campus?” he asked as he sipped his drink.
“It’s beautiful, friendly, open,” I summarized.
“It’s a good place,” he said with pride and a fond smile. “Happy.”
I didn’t doubt he thought that, but colleges camewith hidden issues like politics, the battle for advancement, the gossip, stress?—
“Professor Whitaker spoke very highly of you. He said he’d spent some time diving into your research and was disappointed when tenure was handed, in his words, to a less worthy candidate. But Ashcroft College’s loss is our gain. He suggested we reach out to you, and so, here you are.”
And that was the start of the weirdest interview of my life.
Chapter 7
Wesley
I’mnotwaitingfor Hunter to get back from his interview
That was a lie I would tell myself for now and one I’d use on anyone who asked me.
In reality, I’d factored in his interview, the drive, and traffic, added on plenty of time, and as soon as I shut up shop at seven, I found myself loitering with intent in the parking area. Decidedly not waiting. Absolutely not. Just… conveniently there. I could have stayed and watched from the window, but the most recent letter from the bank was more than enough to send me outside into the cold air. Come January, I was done. Not even me—someone who looked at everything with such a positive slant—could fool myself into thinking I had a solution to all of this. A year away from my trust fund, a family who’d shut me out, Hunter having interviews, and now it seemed I might have to give up The Story Lantern, my beautiful, messy bookstore, the one thing that was mine.
I blew out a breath. “Okay, Wesley, deep breath. You’ve gotten through worse. You’ve built something beautiful here, even if the bank thinks otherwise. You’ve made friends, you’ve carved out a life, and you’re not giving that up without a fight.” I squared my shoulders. “Hunter leaving or not, family bullshit or not, I’m still here. And I’m not done yet.” The words puffed out in the frosty air like smoke signals. And, surprisingly, they worked. My chest loosened, and by the time I turned back toward the store, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t felt all day—hope.
Brooke and I had spent all afternoon discussing the new Adrian Trevelyan book we’d been allowed to read early. In code of course, given anyone could be overhearing what we said. The book was awesome, with a cliffhanger that was going to drive me mad. Was book eight going to end up with Xander and Yvaine getting together, what with Yvaine being in a faerie prison and Xander just about to storm into a battle?
The next installment couldn’t come fast enough, and I was weighing up the possible outcomes while I very muchwasn’twaiting for Hunter.
Jeez, who was I kidding. Of course I was waiting for Hunter.
I was excited to hear how the interview went.
I think.
No, actually, nerves tangled in my stomach. What if he got the job and sold the store. Probably to some weirdo. Maybe a taxidermist who wanted to close the café and fill it with stuffed moose and raccoons. Or worse, someone who kept the café but who’d turn it into a scented candle emporium, filling the air with vanilla haze until no one could taste the coffee. Or—my blood chilled—what if it became another bookstore? I was already skating on thin ice with the bank; another shop like mine would sink me. A blow like that would be unbearable. My brain kept spiraling—what if some eccentric millionaire bought it and turned it into a guinea pig café? Or a Viking axe-throwing bar? Or a shop that only sold artisanal buttons, one at a time, in solemn silence? I could hear the madness of it all in my head, and it was ridiculous, but none of these imagined horrors came close to the one thing worse than any of them—Hunter not being next door. That thought knocked the breath out of me, harder than the idea of any weirdo or rival bookstore ever could.
My cell buzzed, and for one hopeful, ridiculous moment, I imagined it was him calling me. Why he would, I had no idea—but my heart still jumped. Then my darker side imagined him crashing on some icy road. My imagination skittered between extremesbecause apparently calm, rational thought had left the building.
I scrambled for my phone and answered the call without checking the screen. ”Hunter?”
“Mr. Wesley Fairfax-Fitzalan.” The voice was icy, clipped, and I checked the screen where the display showed the number of the family lawyer, which hit colder than any winter wind.
My heart sank. I’d been so careful about ignoring any and all calls related to the family who didn’t give a shit about me.
“Wesley Darkwood,” I corrected. I’d changed it years ago—took it from a place in one of my favorite paranormal fantasy books. I didn’t want anyone knowing I was connected to the Fairfax-Fitzalan family.
“Quite correct,” the lawyer murmured after a pause.
Fuck off. Just fuck right off.
He cleared his throat “This is a formal communication from Cartwright & Lowe, legal representatives of the Fairfax-Fitzalan family. Trust fund documentation requiring your signature will be delivered to you by courier. Given the sensitive and timely nature of this matter, you are instructed to review, sign, and return the documents with the same courier without delay.”
“I’m doing what now? Why are you calling?” I asked, thrown. I’ll be signing off on trust fund investments until I was thirty, so why was the lawyer calling me this year?
