“All the more time to spend counting your blessings.”
I’m flabbergasted. I haven’t been at this firm that long, but the blatant disrespect is unsettling. Even if I did make some major flubs today. I stand, stupefied, and begin to exit. Under my breath, I mumble, “Scrooge,” but it doesn’t make me feel better.
The door slams shut behind me.
Earlier, that wasn’t a walk of shame. But this? Carrying a cardboard box full of my supplies out of the office with Jason by my side and an angry-looking security guard on our tail? Nowthisis a walk of shame.
3MEET-CUTE IN A SANTA SUITPATRICK
A MEMORY
I never imagined, the weekend before Reading Period of the fall semester in my fourth year, I’d be doing a walk of shame across the Penderton University campus at six-thirtyA.M.in a borrowed Santa suit, reeking of alcohol and bad decisions.
The crunch of my black leather dress shoes in the early morning frost sounds like cannonballs.
I trudge past the architecture building, where I spend most of my waking hours. And some of my sleeping ones, too. With my current workload, I’m stressed beyond belief.
So, maybe I should’ve imagined this exact scenario. Getting super drunk at the Supper Club Winter Wonderland Celebration. Being convinced to don the ratty old Santa suit that’s been with the club for ages. Letting people take pictures while sitting on my lap. Going home with a long-haired freshman whose name I can’t remember. Even though I left him less than twenty minutes ago. And his name was tacked onto the door I shut behind me.
Instead of heading back to my residence hall, I hook a left onto Prospect Avenue, or as we in the Supper Clubs like to call it, “the Street.” I’m retracing my steps in search of my phone. It was nowhere to be found in what’s-his-name’s messy dorm room.
As I approach Olive & Ivy, the sixth house on the left, I notice another student standing outside. He’s staring up at the austere, redbrick house with the gold, shiny61on the front door. He’s atall guy with a head of curly, chestnut hair. In profile, his chin juts out strong, and his right ear is large and pink at the top.
“Looking for something?” I ask when I’m close enough.
The guy startles. His prominent chin has a deep dimple in it. Immediately, I want to run the pad of my thumb across it. Memorize the adorable groove. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
The guy’s brown doe eyes double in size. “Oh, no. I must look like a creep. Sorry. I like to take early morning walks before the entire campus wakes up. I’m in the Teacher Prep program here, so it’s good practice for when I’ll have to set those four-thirtyA.M.alarms to make it to my public-school job.”
“A future educator, nice,” I say. I stake my place on the sidewalk near him. I could’ve breezed right by and gone inside to scout for my phone. But his handsomeness and his musical voice are holding me here.
“I often walk down Prospect since I’m hoping to bicker next semester,” he says. Bickering is the formal vetting process that consists of icebreakers and such that sophomores go through to become an official member of a Supper Club. “Also, all the clubhouses are so historical and pretty. I like this one the best. It looks like it’s wearing a checkered belt.”
I tilt my head and look up at this clubhouse with new eyes. He’s right. Between the first and second stories, there is a stripe of diamond cutouts that resembles a checkerboard. “I’ve never heard it described quite like that. It was built in 1908,” I say. Nerd-mode activated. “It’s designed in the Norman Gothic style, which you can tell by the semicircular arches.” His eyes follow my finger as it traces the outline of the windows.
“Are you a member?” he asks.
“I am.”
A glimmer appears in his eyes. Maybe he sees me as an “in.” Which is fine by me. I’d never say no to more cute, inquisitive guys in our club.
He asks, “They made you memorize all that?”
I laugh. “No, I’m studying to become an architect.”
“An architect? I thought that was the kind of job men only had in movies.”
A second, louder laugh spews out of me. “You sound like my parents.” As soon as my own voice circles back to me, I stop laughing. I’ve revealed too much to a stranger.
“They don’t approve?” he asks kindly. Inquisitive again.So inquisitive.
My gaze slips down to avoid eye contact. It’s then that I remember I’m still wearing the Santa suit. This is already the worst first impression ever. I guess that’s what allows the truth to tumble out. “They don’t approve of anything that’s not law, a topic I could not care less about.” After a loaded silence, I add, “I’m Patrick, by the way.”
“Quinn.”
“Nice to meet you, Quinn.” I shake his hand. That single touch somehow shocks me out of my hangover. My headache is less of a pounding sledgehammer and more like a rubber mallet. “Would you like a tour inside?”
His boyish features lift. “Really?”
