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Stepping toward the sink, I grab a few paper towels and hand them to her. She grabs them quickly and her fingers brush mine. Those honey eyes meet mine for a split second and she inhales a sharp breath before turning away from me quickly and wiping up the mess.

I take in her formal dress and heels, and it strikes me how out of place she looks here in the kitchen. Surely there’s someone else who can prep lunch? Shouldn’t Noel be upstairs with the other girls taking photos and fussing over their eyeliner, or whatever the hell women do. “Why didn’t you order food from town?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

I stay silent, waiting for an answer.

“The nearest town didn’t have anything that was gluten and dairy free. So, I stayed up late making this. Mel didn’t want me to fuss over her, and she doesn’t know this isn’t from a restaurant. And she won’t find out.” She stares me down to get her point across.

My entire face softens at her words. One more thing to admire about Noel: she puts others first and takes care of those she loves. Add this to her intelligence and gracefulness and it’s almost unbearable how perfect she is.

She sinks down on her haunches and rummages through a lower cabinet before popping back up with a takeout container she must’ve stashed at some point. It still has a sticker on it from the café she got it from, but it’s obviously been washed. Noel dumps the salad she made into the container and pops the lid on.

She then heads toward the stairs but turns back to look at me, motioning with her hand like she’s zipping her mouth shut, then points at me. A plea to keep her secret.

I nod and make a cross over my heart.

I would keep all of her secrets, if she’d let me.

CHAPTER 2

NOEL

PRESENT DAY

“And that was the downfall of the Roman empire,” I finish my lecture with a bang, as usual. Have to keep the students' interests piqued. Although half of them appear to be bored out of their minds. Two of the students here on hockey scholarship are asleep in the back row.

I’ll never understand people who aren’t enthralled by history. Everything in our modern world was inspired or affected by history.

Even the lecture hall my class takes place in is a reminder of the Roman Colosseum. I’m down at the bottom, and the seats for the students rise above me. Thankfully, I’m simply giving and lecture, and showing slides on the screen, instead of wielding giant swords like the guy in The Gladiator.

When class ends, the students filter out of the room. Some stop and smile, others ignore me completely, and a few linger to flirt with me, thinking they’re being charming. The boys here on hockey scholarship are awake now and ask me to extend the deadline for their mid-term papers. They claim the deadline I made is impossible with their hockey schedule. They even go so far as to brace their hands in their armpits, as if trying to make their biceps appear bigger. Like that’s going to convince me to help them out.

If only they worked as hard in history class as they do in the gym.

I give them a tight, professional smile. “The deadline is nonnegotiable, boys. But there is a study group that meets in the library if you need some extra help.” I turn and grab a flier from my desk that has the information for the study group on it, and hand it to the dark-haired one. “Have a good weekend.” They leave with a groan, not bothering to tell me to have a good weekend too.

All athletes are the same: egotistical, unfaithful, narcissistic, and will break your heart… guaranteed. Which is one of the reasons why I swore off athletes a decade ago.

My best friend’s husband, Weston Kershaw, is the exception. But West and my bestie, Mel, have known each other since childhood, and he didn’t let fame and money get to his head.

The alarm goes off on my phone and I grab my satchel from behind the large desk. Tapping the screen to turn off the alarm, I pack up my things for my meeting with the dean of the history department.

Quickly, I make my way across the sprawling campus to the main building that houses the dean’s offices. It’s a gorgeous late-September day here in Arlington, Virginia. Warm enough not to need a coat, but cool enough for long sleeves. I enjoy watching the colorful leaves falling from the ancient trees around campus, the fall colors made all the more vibrant by the lovely brick buildings surrounding me. A cool breeze rushes past me, making my bare neck prickle. I shiver slightly and wrap my arms around myself. Only when it’s chilly outside do I ever consider growing my hair longer. But these curls are a mess, and I know it would drive me nuts if it was longer.

I enter Arlington University’s main building, my heels clacking against the antique tiles as I walk. When I reach the office that belongs to the dean of the history department, I knock lightly on the lacquered, oak door.

“Come in,” her voice rings from the other side of the door.

With a smile, I let myself into the familiar space. Dean Morris is typing something on her computer but glances up as I close the door behind me. Her lips tug upward, and she removes her silver glasses. Dean Morris has black hair, freckled with grey, pulled into a sleek chignon at the back of her head. Her kind brown eyes always twinkle in a way that makes you wonder if she knows something everyone else doesn’t. Perhaps, that’s why she wears a permanent smirk. She’s intimidating when she needs to be, but normally, she’s the sweetest person.

“Dr. Woodcock, you look lovely as always.”

My eyes flick down to my brown tweed trousers, leather suspenders, and white button-down shirt. One of my favorite outfits. I know my old-world style isn’t for everyone, but I love mixing historical pieces with modern ones. And my black pointed-toe pumps give the ensemble the modern touch it needs.

“Thank you.” I smile and take a seat in one of the hunter-green wingback chairs across from her polished-oak desk. “So, what did you need to see me about?” I get straight to the point, knowing I have another class in an hour and a half and still need to grab lunch.

She gives me her full attention, steepling her hands on her desk. “You know the D.C. Children’s Hospital’s charity gala Saturday?”