Hunter seemed torn, his expression tight in the cold glow of the streetlights. After a pause, he shook his head. “Not tonight. I need to get my head around it all.”
I fought off the instant disappointment that he wasn’t at the point where he could talk to me when he turned toward his door, hand on the handle, butstopped at the last second. His gaze pinned me, and I forced a smile. “Why were you standing outside?”
Panic set in. “Oh, uh, I thought I heard kittens,” I blurted. “In the snow. Like, tiny mews. So, I came out to check, but… nope, no kittens. Totally fine. All good.” The words tumbled out in a convoluted mess, and I flailed my arms in a helpless shrug. “False alarm. My imagination, probably.”
“Hmmm,” was all he said, and then the door shut on him, and I was standing like an idiot at the back of my store.
I hadn’t learned much—just that he was confused.
I sighed and leaned against the door when I was inside.
“Join the club.”
Chapter 8
Hunter
Sittingat my desk and staring at my screen, I wished I had someone to talk to, but the truth was, I didn’t. My family was thin on the ground—Mom gone years ago, Dad a few weeks before my great-uncle passed—and I’d torched whatever was left of friendship groups when I’d walked away from Ashcroft College. I hadn’tjustleft a job. I’d left a life. Every connection I’d built there was tied up in the department or in my ex and his family, and when both my career and my love life had gone up in smoke, so did any sense of belonging. All bar one stalwart in the shape of Lydia, and even she only called with gossip. Colleagues stopped calling once the politics had turned sour, friends chose sides, and mine wasn’t the winning one. I’d poured everything into tenure, into being the reliable one, the published one, the partner who was supposed to have itall figured out. And when it collapsed, I walked. No safety net, no alumni circle, no late-night calls from the people I once thought were friends. Silence.
I could call Lydia, but it was late, and I could already imagine her sighing down the line—telling me I was worth more than this, that I was a rock star, blah, blah, and then rerouting the chat to tell me about the latest shit thing my ex had done.
I’d been emailing the dean at North Hollow with follow-up questions, and he hadn’t given me a specific decision date, but had thrown out “by Christmas” as a suggestion. The job was mine if I wanted it. On paper, it should have felt like a lifeline. But staring at the empty spaces where friends and family should’ve been, I couldn’t help wondering what I was supposed to be building this time—and who, if anyone, would still be there when it all inevitably cracked.
Maybe I needed a pros and cons list?
I opened the top drawer for paper and a pen, my pile of notes counting down the days right there in their neat pile. I realized I hadn’t written yesterday’s number. First time in two years. I told myself it didn’t matter, but the omission itched.
I shut the drawer and headed for my bedroom, away from emails, but sat cross-legged in the middle of my bed, prospectus for North Hollow University spread open on the comforter. Not tenure… not yet. But they’d dangled things in front of me I hadn’t even realized I’d been starving for: small classes, a say in shaping the curriculum, a research grant earmarked for anyone focusing on migration studies, and an archival project tied to the American Civil War, plus the promise of mentoring graduate students.
They couldn’t offer tenure yet because the position was newly created, funding had been approved only after the last retirement, and the department wanted to see the role established before tying it to a permanent line. I understood the politics—it wasn’t a slight against me, more the caution of a small college balancing budgets and commitments.
Could I handle that?
Seattle and LA weren’t banging on my door with offers, and this might not have been my first choice, but it was something real and a step back into the world I’d thought I’d lost.
And I loved the place. The buzz of it. The stability and solidness of an institution that had seen a lot and survived.
But what would people think?
Would they say I was stepping down instead of moving up?
Did I care about the sneering from my ex, or my former colleagues?
A sharp banging rattled the door downstairs, dragging me from my spiraling thoughts. When I opened it, there was Wesley—cheeks flushed from the cold, arms full of chaos. A bag of cookies dangled from one wrist, two steaming cups of cocoa balanced precariously in his hands, and under one arm he had crammed two books and what looked like an entire sack full of pencils.
“I come bearing survival supplies,” he announced as he breezed past me, already talking a mile a minute. “When I’m confused, I color. Works every time. Clears the head. Here—have a book, some pencils, cocoa, and obviously cookies, because cookies fix everything.” He wrinkled his nose. “We can’t do this in here, come on!” He marched toward the front of the store but took a left before he got there and headed upstairs to my apartment.
“Wes, wait! What the hell…”
“Come on!” He reached the top, and I followed him, because what else was I going to do?
I jogged up after him, barreling into the room as he was spreading his treasures across my small dining table, which was more of a desk than somewhere to eat. He’d changed out of his cloak and was now in soft jeans and a plain sweater, but still no coat. I swear the man was going to freeze to death one day. He plunked the cocoa in front of the second seat, shoved a coloringbook into my hands, and beamed as if he’d just solved all my problems.
“I don’t?—”
“Shh, less talking, more coloring.”
He took the other seat, opening his book to a new page. It was old, thick with color, some of the pages bent and dog-eared, well-used. Mine, on the other hand, was pristine—a castle coloring book. Castles! Who even thought to turn medieval strongholds into a kids’ coloring project? I was bemused, but I took the seat I was told to, flipping it open with a wary kind of curiosity, imagining squares with pointy parapets but instead seeing an accurate representation of Windsor Castle in penciled outline.
