Geek God (Forever Geek Trilogy #1)

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Thursday. 9:30ish in the morning.

Thursday. Noon. Or thereabouts.

Saturday morning.

Monday.

Tuesday.

Thursday.

Friday morning.

Sunday afternoon.

Two weeks later.

Sunday.

Later that night.

A lazy Saturday, a while later.

About three months in.

The next day.

A couple of months or so later.

Some more months later.

Two days later.

SPECIAL PREVIEW: HEART’S EASE SERIES

ALSO BY VICTORIA BARBOUR

About the Author

I
wouldn’t say I’ve slept with a lot of guys in my life. Not because it’s not accurate, but who would willingly admit such a thing about themselves. You’d either think I was bragging, or a skank. Besides, “a lot” isn’t really a quantifiable number. Compared to some girls, I bet my number is quite low. Maybe even respectable.

I’m not even sure why I’m bringing this up. Hell, you don’t even know me yet. Let’s just say, if one of my girlfriends—most likely Ingrid—happens to imply such a thing, you should know that for the past year, I haven’t even had a date, let alone an orgasm. Well, an orgasm of any significance that included another person. Argh. Let me start over.

My name is Jillian Carew. I’m a professor of Classics at the university here in my home province of Newfoundland. If you need to ask which one, then you don’t know Newfoundland. There’s just Memorial. MUN, we call it.

The stars aligned and I managed to land a teaching gig here last August. Is it wrong of me to be a wee bit thankful that two old men who refused to retire and let some young blood into the department had the cruel hand of fate intervene and take them to the great beyond? Regardless, I’d already set myself on the straight and narrow. No more ill-advised affairs with post-docs or angst-ridden quasi relationships with grad students. The last thing I’d want is for people to think I’m easy. I’m not.

Easy. So many people think I’ve had it easy.

Oh, lucky Jillian. Grew up in one of the fancy houses on Circular Road. Comes from old money. Blah blah blah.

People have always judged me by my last name. No one more so than my mother. Because if there’s anything worse than being the great-great-great granddaughter of one of the people responsible for shaping Newfoundland’s political history, it’s being the great-great-great-great granddaughter of one of the most famous merchants to set up shop in Newfoundland.

You wouldn’t think old money and history would mean much in twenty-first century St. John’s. You’d think wrong. Sure, most people you’d meet walking down Water Street these days don’t know a whit about the Carews and the Sheas, but in my parents’ world, my grandparents’ world, it still matters.

They’ll tell you I have a history of rebellion. But let me set the record straight. I have a history of trying to figure out how to just be a version of myself I can live with.

Imagine my surprise when I was in grad school to find out that I’m normal. That this whole idea of “creating your own identity” is normal. What’s abnormal is allowing yourself to be told who to be. I’m a post-modern woman. I’ll construct my own self, thank you very much.

And who I am now is Professor Carew. A tweed-wearing, hard-ass grading, I’ve-told-all-the-lies-to-extend-a-deadline-so-you-can’t-fool-me member of the Classics department.

To my surprise, I’m way more productive than I’ve ever given myself credit for. Three articles published this year in select journals. A full-time teaching schedule. And I’ve successfully bought my own little piece of heaven in downtown St. John’s.

On my own.

Without dipping into the family coffers.

Yup. So let’s just say I’m pretty content with my life right now.

“Dr. Carew.”

Crap. Is my mother here? What is she doing on campus?

“Dr. Carew.”

No sign of her. But there’s that kid in my intro to Latin course. Terrible student. But he gets an E for effort.

“Dr. Carew, you forgot your muffin.”

Right. That’s me. When am I going to remember that I’m a doctor as well? Maybe around the time my father stops reminding me that I was supposed to be a doctor of medicine, not a doctor of letters.

The erstwhile young thing is holding a brown paper bag before me.

“I didn’t order a muffin.”

“Yea, but it’s the coffee and muffin special. You paid for it. You should take it.”

“I didn’t pay for it.”

“You did. When you pay for the coffee, you pay for the muffin.”

This conversation is ridiculous. I’ll just take the damn carb-fiend and go.

Hello. What’s this now?

I don’t often pay attention to the gaggle of students congregating around the base of the clock tower. When the university decided to plant it firmly underground in one of the tunnels that link the buildings together, they’d envisioned creating a small museum. What they created was a nerd haven. I suppose I could find out what happens there if I had the desire to really care. There’s little doubt that as soon as the muffin-bearer stops talking, he’ll join them. Whatever it is they get up to, it’s nerdy to the extreme.

These kids aren’t the stylish new brand of geek-chic, that pseudo-intellectual social group that’s basically this century’s version of prep. The kind of people I hang around with, truth be told. These kids are Nerds. Emphasis on the uppercase N. Absolutely nothing ironic about their fashion choices, nothing designer about their glasses or sneakers. They’re not geeking out over
Doctor Who
. They’re likely doing astrophysics for fun.

So what the hell is a man like that doing sitting on the floor playing cards with them?

Do songs or lines from movies ever pop into your head? Because right now, I have that old
Sesame Street
song planting a little ear worm. You know the one about things not being alike.

Nope. For starters, he is hot. Maybe the hottest guy I’ve seen on campus all year. And it has nothing to do with his clothes, although the jeans and grey knit sweater do hug his body to perfection.

God. Look at that face. Hard and chiselled. Square jawed. And that body. He’s a big man. Broad shoulders. You know what he reminds me of? A Roman soldier. Mmmm. Roman soldiers.

Sweet God. I think I’m sweating. I know I’m this close to blushing. And I have no clue what this kid with the muffin is saying. Something about oatmeal or bananas or gluten.

Is he a prof? A grad student? Campus security?

Nah. He’s too brawny for any of that. He looks like a man who could take on a Cyclops single-handedly and deliver a mortal blow.

I’d be concerned for the safety of those nerds with him around if he wasn’t sitting so calmly among them. This is the kind of setting an anthropologist would have a field day with.

“Thanks for the muffin. Don’t be late for class.” What else can I say? If I stay here one second longer it’s going to be obvious that I’m not listening. Indifference I can pull off. Ignorance, not so much.

I’m sure he’s saying something else but I have to go before my staring becomes too blatant.

When was the last time I spotted someone in a crowd who instantly gave me butterflies in my stomach?

The second I round the corner and head down the tunnels towards my office in the Arts building I text Ingrid.

- I just saw the perfect specimen of man candy. -

The service in the tunnels sucks. But at least I know she’ll get the message at some point. And I feel better sharing.

By the time I get to my office, I’m over it. He’s probably not that good-looking. It’s like seeing a dandelion in patch of weeds. By comparison, it looks like a flower, but it’s still just a weed. Put it in a nice bed of tulips and it would be lost.

Before you groan at that metaphor, you should know that the new house I bought came with a raggy backyard lawn and one small bed of tulips. It’s a mess. Before coming to work this morning, I was tearing out the dandelions. At least it’s a sign of summer.

I have about twenty minutes before my next class. Just enough time to brush my hair, drink my coffee, and skim a recap of one of my favourite shows.

This is something else you should know about me. I love TV shows, but I don’t have time to watch. Instead, I’ve managed to mainline written summaries of several seasons of programs that I’ve only ever seen snippets of on YouTube. Yup. Reading TV. It’s a sign of the times, I suppose. For some reason, I just need to keep up to date on pop culture. It’s kind of a thing for me. I like being in the know. Maybe it’s because no one in my social circle really cares to talk about the politics of gender in a Roman bath house. But they sure do love to talk about celebrities and music and movies and cable shows.

Anyway, I’ve gotta go teach. I’ll spare you that.

H
is name is Evan. He’s the muffin-bringer’s uncle. I know this because the muffin-bringer, Eddie, told half the class that his Uncle Evan thought I was hot.

Actually, the exact phrase Eddie used was “hot for teacher.”

Now, put yourself in my shoes. You’re standing in front of a class of impressionable young students, the majority of whom are taking your class because they need a language to complete their arts degree and someone once told them Latin is easier than French or German or Russian. Anyway, for six weeks, they are mine every day at 10 am. Here I am trying to project an image of stern intellectualism, and they’re in the midst of a discussion wherein the object of my earlier attraction has called me hot.

What I wanted to say was “Did he say hot? Or is this your paraphrasing the conversation? What did he think was hot? Tell me, Eddie. Tell me now, you little muffin-bringing bugger and I’ll give you a B in this class. Don’t tell me and you’re lucky to get out with a D.”

But what I said was “Pop quiz.”

Now, I’m not really supposed to give a pop quiz. At least not one that counts for any portion of their grade. But I can do it as an exercise. And the verb they have to conjugate is
garrio
. To chatter.

There were a few snickers until they realized it was more difficult than they thought.

Anyway, back to the present. Evan. Not a bad name.

Doesn’t get stuck in my throat the way this lunch is doing. That’s what I get for having lunch in the University Centre. I rarely eat on campus, and when I do, it’s usually in my office. But it seems that today I’m playing the role of stalker girl. Yup. The only reason I’m eating rubber mac and cheese for lunch is because I thought maybe I’d see Evan still hanging out under the clock tower. That’s sad on many, many levels.

Sadder still is my disappointment that he isn’t there doing God knows what with the nerds.

Time to get my head out of the clouds and back to work. My new house would appreciate it. It’s not quite a fixer-upper. On the surface, it’s got all the charm and character I desire. But the guts of the house need a bit of work. And if I don’t want to spend a small fortune in heating once the winter comes, the first thing I must do is get rid of that oil furnace. The head of the department recommended the contractor he used on his renos who does energy-efficient retrofitting. I need to email him about setting up an appointment.