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I nod.

“I was planning on attending it myself, but Mr. Morris planned a surprise getaway for us this weekend.” Her eyes flit to the picture frame on her desk, one I know holds a photo of her and her husband. Still madly in love after thirty-plus years of marriage. “I hoped you might attend in my place. I know how you love an occasion to dress up.” She winks.

I laugh. “I’d be honored. I’m already planning my outfit.”

“I have two tickets; you should bring a date.” Her eyebrows raise slightly.

I look up at the ceiling, pretending I'm deep in thought. “Oh wow, it’s going to be difficult to choose. Do I ask Brad, Derek, or Chad? I have so many romantic interests in my current repertoire.”

She chuckles. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And I’ll need you to bid on an item, the University has allotted twenty thousand dollars for the charity event. So, win something good for us.”

“Will do.”

“Perfect, I’ll email you the tickets and all the details right away. Thanks for doing this for me.” She grabs her glasses and places them back on her face. “I know you have places to be, and Brads, Chads and Dereks to see. I won’t keep you any longer.”

My head falls back in a laugh. “Alright,” I stand. “You have fun with Mr. Morris this weekend.”

We say our goodbyes, and I walk the short distance to the building next door which has a food court and a cute coffee shop inside.

Opening the door to the campus’s coffee shop, I take a few steps inside and slam into the sweater-vest clad chest of Dexter Hawthorne. My work crush.

Meeting his dark eyes, my face heats. Forget the chill in the air I felt earlier, I’m plenty warm now, and from the warmth of my face, I assume also bright red. Ugh.

Dexter steadies me, reaching for my elbow with one of his long, slim arms. He smiles slightly, always in control of himself and never ruffled. I smile back, unable to think of words with him touching me.

He transferred here from a university in England last fall. He’s handsome, educated, totally dreamy, and he has a British accent. I’ve done my best flirting—which honestly, isn’t great—and he still doesn’t pay attention to me. He’s never even checked me out.

If I was braver, I’d ask him to the charity gala. But I’m not. And I want to be pursued… not the other way around. I’m a strong and independent woman, sure. But I’m also an old soul who loves anything written by the Brontë sisters.

Say what you will about Heathcliff, but Cathy never once doubted his love for her. Heathcliff knew how to pursue a woman. He probably could’ve stopped after Cathy married someone else, though.

“Um, are you okay, Dr. Woodcock?” His English accented voice drips with class.

I blink a few times, realizing I’m still staring. “Oh, yeah! Thank you, Dr. Heathcliff.” My eyes nearly fall out of my head when I realize my mistake. “I mean, Dr. Hawthorne!”

He gives me a confused smile. “Alright, well, I must get to class now. Enjoy some coffee, maybe it will help you wake up.”

“Ha, you too!” I say back as he exits the door, making the little bell ding. I realize he wasn’t even holding coffee, and instantly feel like a moron.

Here I am, an intelligent, conventionally attractive woman, who loses her wits around a man I find handsome. All the historical feminists and women’s rights icons I’ve studied would be rolling over in their graves.

I haven’t dated anyone since the heartbreak I experienced with my college boyfriend. The only guys I meet are usually colleagues who are way older than me, or students, who are much younger.

I’m the personification of that quote from Charlotte Lucas in the 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. Except I’m twenty-nine years old… and I’m financially stable. I’m also probably not a burden to my parents… but I am frightened, and I certainly don’t have any prospects.

“Ma’am… ma’am!”

I blink a few times, registering that the annoyed student behind the coffee counter is waiting for me to order.

“Oh! Sorry! I’ll have a chai latte… with a spot of cream,” I say with confidence. I wish Dexter was here to listen to my order, then he’d know I’m practically British too and we’re a match made in heaven. But, alas, he only ever witnessed me fumbling around like an imbecile and making a fool of myself.

Is there a grad school for learning to be suave? That’s the course I need. Maybe I can double major in flirting, since I’m also horrible at that.

Why can’t guys be impressed by my knowledge of eighteenth-century literature?

CHAPTER 3

COLBY