We walk to the exit, and he holds the door for me like a perfect gentleman. I’m so close to him that I feel his body heat as I slip past.
I’m grateful for the contrast of the cool air outdoors. Light rain is falling, little more than heavy mist that kisses my cheeks.
“Sorry, I don’t have an umbrella,” Rand apologizes.
I tip my head back and welcome more of the cooling rain to fall on my face. “I don’t mind. It feels good.”
“Let’s get you home,” he prompts. “You’ll catch a chill if you stay out here in the rain.”
I sigh. “I’ve decided you’re not an asshole, but you’re still controlling.”
“I’ll take that as a win,” he says blandly. “Practically a ringing endorsement.”
He falls into step beside me as we begin to walk towards my place.
“Don’t let it go to your head, Professor.”
“Too late.”
A minute of silence passes, so I decide to ease some of the awkwardness with friendly conversation. I want him to keep talking to me, even though it’s not healthy to like the sound of his voice so much.
“Where are you from originally?” I ask. “I can’t place your accent.”
He keeps his gaze directed forward rather than looking at me. “My family home is in Yorkshire, about a half hour drive outside of town.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from Yorkshire,” I press.
His eyes flick to me and away again, as though he’s more interested in the ancient architecture than he is in me.
Or maybe he just doesn’t like sharing personal information with one of his students.
“I studied in the States,” he explains. “I think the years at Notre Dame softened my accent.”
I nod. “I thought you sounded weirdly American sometimes.”
He doesn’t offer any follow up.
“Does your family still live around here?” I ask, twirling the end of my ponytail in a slightly anxious gesture.
I don’t like this distance between us.
“No. My parents died years ago. I don’t have extended family.”
My heart tugs toward his as though we’re tethered by an invisible cord.
“My parents died when I was young, too,” I confess. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He shrugs. “Like I said, my dad wasn’t a good man. It’s hardly a loss.”
I purse my lips to hold in questions about his mom. He clearly isn’t keen to share.
“But I’m sorry for what you went through,” he adds, more gently. “That must’ve been difficult. How old were you when they passed?”
“Twelve.”
I never talk about this to anyone. Telling the truth about my old life before I was Lena Williams is risky. I have to prevent myself from revealing more.
“You miss them,” he remarks instead of asking about the circumstances of their deaths.
