He steps back and smiles warmly. “Then I’ll make toast while you tell me about the class.”
I hop onto the counter as he moves around my kitchen, looking for a loaf of bread. His large frame takes up most of the space and dwarfs my appliances. The ridiculous scene, blessedly, keeps me from looking at his sweatpants.
“It’s called Creative Writing?—”
“Very creative name.”
I stick my tongue out. “Anyway, the course is taught by a retired English professor.”
“How’d you choose this one?” he asks over his shoulder. “Over the million tabs you had open?”
There’s no way in hell I’m telling him that I drunkenly signed up for the class at Sophie and Kennedy’s urging at three a.m. on New Year’s Day. And that I chose it after Sophie said the professor had “kind eyes.” Whatever the hell that means.
Regardless, it’d probably have been in my top three if I had decided while sober rather than five tequila shots deep.
“Good reviews. Their website described it as ‘a creative space with tutorial-style teaching,’ which I’m almost positive means it’s interactive. I assume I’ll learn about things like plot development and point-of-view, and then put pen to paper in a workshop.”
“Will you let me read the stuff you write?”
My heart lurches. “Um, you play hockey, but you don’t see me asking to put on your skates and go out there and play a game, do you?” I stammer.
“No, but that’s because you’d probably get concussed.” He leans against the opposite counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “And that also doesn’t answer my question.”
Nerves skitter through me at the thought. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? Just maybe?”
I take a sip of my coffee. “You’re lucky you didn’t get a flat-out no.”
“Hmm. I’ll just have to turn that maybe into a yes.” He shifts, the move making his biceps ripple against the sleeves of his shirt. “And I can be very persuasive.”
Throwing him a sweet smile—and fighting to keep my focus off his arms or his crotch—I point to the toaster. “Breakfast’s ready.”
The rest of the morning passes by in a blur of domesticity. Though I’m hesitant to admit it, even to myself, it’s the best Sunday morning I’ve had in a while. Being as independent as I am, I’m often alone with my books. I never realized how lonely that could be until now. Until I’m laughing as Cole lounges at my kitchen table, slyly feeding Goose a piece of turkey bacon under the table.
“Honey, we’re here!” Kennedy calls as I open the passenger door. “Did you pack your lunch? Do you want me to walk you to the door?”
I level her with a glare. “You’re seriously making me regret not paying for an Uber.”
“I’m just trying to lighten the mood.” She lifts one shoulder and lets it fall, unbothered. “Because whether you admit it or not, you’re nervous.”
She’s right about that. I’m so nervous that I considered emailing the instructor to explain that I had a concussion and couldn’t make it. But then I recalled the expression on Cole’s face when he told me he was proud of me for taking the leap, and it unlocked some praise kink I didn’t know I have, so here I am.
I open the door and step out of the car before I chicken out. “I’ll text you after. Thanks for the ride.”
“You’re going to do great,” Kennedy reassures me with a smile. “Knock ’em dead, tiger.”
Blowing out a breath, I take in the scene before me. The snow-covered lawn is crisscrossed with sidewalks and surrounded by tall buildings and decorative archways. Overlooking it all is a large clock tower, giving the quad a dark academia vibe.
The cold air encourages me to hasten my pace along the uneven pathway to the building’s entrance. Inside, it’s eerily quiet, since there’re no regular classes on Sunday. Following the directions from the welcome email I received when I signed up, I make a left and then two rights. When I find auditorium 111, I silently open one of the double doors, not wanting to draw attention to myself, and slip in like a ninja. There are already a few people scattered throughout the tiered seating, so there are plenty of available spots to choose from. Not wanting to be too close or too far, I find a seat in the middle row and make myself comfortable.
At four p.m. on the dot, our professor waltzes into the room. Their midnight-colored hair is cropped close to their head, and their glasses have lenses the size of a drink coaster. I honestly can’t tell if they’re closer to thirty or fifty.
“Good evening, fellow writers! I’m Jaden and welcome to your creative writing safe space.” They sit on the edge of the oak desk at the front of the class, gripping the edge on either side of their legs. “Now, you’re all here for one reason. Because you’ve read the first chapter of a book and found it nearly impossible to put down. Andyouwant to craft a story like that.” They scan the group slowly, expression open. “To evoke emotion so strongly that a reader would rather remain in the world you’ve created than return to real life. And the good news? Soon, it’ll be a reality for you. I’m here to teach you the methods and principles that all the great writers use to create your own masterpiece.”
For the next two hours, I listen with rapt attention as Jaden outlines the course guidelines and schedules and then dives into our first topic: storytelling with a theme. As I scribble down notes like I’m Moses receiving the Ten Commandments, a strange feeling ofrightnessfloods through me.
This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
