In Too Hard (Freshman Roommates Trilogy, Book 3) (16 page)

Billy,

As you can see, all the materials that were in the office have been completed. The last of it is on the drive on your desk. This might be a good time for me to break away from the project. You’ve paid me for January and February, already, so we could call it even.

If you’d like to have someone else finish up the job, I’ll completely understand.

If I don’t hear from you by Monday at four, I won’t plan on coming in and will consider our professional relationship fulfilled.

I didn’t apologize for going after him about the whole rape/violation tantrum. And I added in “professional” when describing our relationship, though it probably wasn’t necessary.

Professional was the only type of relationship we had.

I half hoped when he came in on Monday morning that he’d text me right away and tell me to plan on working, that he’d brought a couple of boxes from his apartment and I could begin with phase II. My other half, my less masochistic side, wanted to receive no such text. To be done with the torture of being so close to him, and yet so, so far away.

Before I could grab the note and tear it up, I quickly left the office.

Chapter Eighteen

I
grabbed some lunch by myself at the caf and decided to get in a few hours at the library before I needed to get back to my room and start getting ready for the night out with Jane.

Around three, I got a text. Because I had my phone on silent, it was just sheer luck that I saw the light go on out of the corner of my eye. Probably Jane, wondering when we should be ready to go out.

I started to pack my bag as I swiped my phone. It was like my hand holding my laptop hovered in the air and froze when I realized that it was Montrose, not Jane, who had texted.

First text in over a month from him. It had all been short notes on his desk since that Sunday night before classes started.

Are you on campus?

I set my laptop down, and took a deep breath before answering yes, and that I was in the library.

Can you come back to the office for a little while?

I didn’t hesitate.
Yes. I’ll be there in about ten minutes. Are you there now?

Yes. See you soon.

I threw my stuff in my bag and made my way quickly through the stacks and out of the library.

He hadn’t mentioned why he wanted me to come, nor for how long he thought we’d be there. But, he’d obviously seen my note. So, either he wanted to fire me face-to-face, or he was going to tell me that I was still on the job.

But why not say that with a simple text or email?

It would be the classy thing to do to let me go in person. Realizing that was probably the reason for the summons, my footsteps slowed. Crap. The last thing I’d want to do after being dumped (again!) by Montrose was to go out and party with Jane in our slutty red dresses.

I could just see myself getting drunk and being the girl who spends the night crying into her beer, telling her sad tale of woe to anybody who would listen.

Which of course I could never be. My tale of woe with Montrose could not be made public.

I texted Jane and told her I was sorry, but I had to work tonight, and to go without me. She responded quickly that it was no big deal, and she was cool with staying in.

Again I wondered about the ponytail guy from Betsy Stratton’s wedding, and if he was the reason Jane seemed to be a bit mellower this semester.

And had no plans for Valentine’s Day.

I debated quickly running back to Creyts to change my clothes or at least put on some makeup. Knowing there wouldn’t be a chance of running into Montrose during my “visitation” hours of the office, I’d just thrown on some Lulus, a knit top and sweater this morning. I’d twisted my hair up in a messy bun and left, figuring I’d shower later, before getting ready for the party.

But if there was a slight chance of Montrose getting tired of waiting for me and leaving, then I would risk showing up as I was.

Dusk was falling now, and as I approached Snyder Hall I could see the lights on from Montrose’s window, though the blinds were closed.

I knocked on his office door instead of using my key. To hear his voice tell me to come in sent a chill through me. I had missed that deep, husky voice.

“Hey,” he said as I entered and closed the door behind me. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. Especially since you’ve already been here today. Take off your coat, have a seat.”

I nodded as I moved into the office, noticing several new boxes on the credenza, which had been empty when I’d left a few hours ago. I took my coat and hat off and hung them on the hook next to his long coat. “No problem,” I said. I motioned to the new boxes. “Are these the ones from your apartment?”

He nodded, not rising from his seat. “Some of them. There are still a few left, but…you can get to those last.”

I raised a brow at his use of me in the future tense, at least as it pertained to the job.

“I don’t want you to leave the job, Syd. You’ve done a great job so far.” He looked down at the top of his desk, then back up at me, the dim light from his desk lamp reflected off his grey eyes. “Unless, you’d
rather
leave?” He tried to keep his voice level and indifferent, but I heard it. That tiny tone of questioning, of…insecurity.

“I’d like to stay on. I’m really enjoying the work.”

He visibly relaxed, sitting back in his chair. I felt a huge sense of relief myself, and sat down in the guest chair in front of his desk. Normally, I wouldn’t like the dynamic of the seating, like I was being interviewed or a student of his or something. But the truth was, that’s all I was, his employee, waiting for further direction.

Yes, this was the seat for me. Not on the couch with him by my side. Not sitting on the edge of his desk in front of him. And certainly not sitting on his lap.

Still, it felt oddly…formal.

I looked across the desk at him. He was wearing a Brown University hoodie and jeans. His hair looked like he’d been running his hands through it, his regular stubble had at least another day on it, and I suspected that I wasn’t the only one who had skipped the shower this morning.

But God, to see him again, when I’d been just basically staring at his picture for the last month. To me, he was perfection.

“Good, I’m glad,” he said about my wanting to stay on the job.

“Besides,” I said, “now that we have this system worked out, it’s been going really smoothly.” I tried to keep my voice light, like it wasn’t a huge blowup and the demise of whatever personal interaction we’d begun that caused us to come to this new working arrangement.

“Yeah, about that,” he said. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together, like he was a doctor about to deliver terminal test results to his patient. “We need to talk about that night.”

I braced myself. There was no way I was going to apologize for berating him for almost using the term rape. But… “I
am
sorry for what you felt was an intrusion on your privacy by reading your documents. It seemed to make sense to put the transcribed notes in the correct document, but I shouldn’t have read all the chapter one documents.” It was true I shouldn’t have gone into all those documents. It was clear that my files could have been left on their own, or at the very least, put in the “Notes” doc for each book. I didn’t need to read them all. Although, a heads-up from him about not wanting to share those docs would have helped the whole situation.
 

(Yeah, I might have still looked, not sure about that.)

“I could have been more clear about where to put everything on my computer,” he easily conceded. He ran a hand over his chin, then leaned back in the chair and looked to a point just beyond me. A look I knew well from his class.

He let out a deep sigh. “I’ve even been wondering if it wasn’t some kind of Freudian slip on my part? If maybe I purposely didn’t give you more specific instructions?” His gaze came back to me. “If maybe I actually
wanted
you to read my stuff?”

“Maybe,” I said, not immune to fucked-up logic, having had a lifetime of it myself. “But then why the freak out? And to such an intense level?”

“I’m really sorry about that. About using that verbiage.” He sat forward again, as if physically, as well as verbally, pleading his case. “You were right. It’s not a word to be used in any sense except literally. And I don’t mean “literally” as it’s being used today.”

“You mean figuratively?” I said, daring to crack a bit of a smile.

“God, don’t even get me started on that whole thing.” He waved a hand, his smile tentative, matching mine. “The bottom line is, I’m a writer. I, better than most people, know the power of words. And should also know when hyperbole is not only not needed, but downright offensive.”

He searched my eyes, and I could sense he wanted me to pipe in, to tell him why I, personally, found his usage offensive. But I didn’t say anything. Nor would I. Ever.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said.

“Me too,” I said, meaning that the whole damn thing had ever happened.

He nodded, seeming to bring that discussion to a close. Doing what looked like a mental head slap, he rose from his seat and moved to the credenza. “Oh, man, I don’t want to forget this. Again.”

I watched as he reached behind one of the boxes filled with his notes (and my next round of gainful employment!), and pulled out a wide, but fairly flat, gift-wrapped box with a bow on it.

He came around to my side of the desk and leaned against the front, facing me, offering me the box. “This is for you.”

“It is?” I said, looking at the box like it might be a trap of some sort. We’d just come to an alliance about my continued working for him. Then to throw a gift into things? On Valentine’s Day? “What is it?” I asked, still not reaching for it.

He leaned forward and placed the box on my lap. I almost opened my knees and shut them, catching his hand, like it was the
Pretty Woman
pearls. Oh, to have his hand between my legs.

But I was neither quick nor brave enough to pull it off, and he placed the box without touching me at all.

“Open it,” he answered, giving me no clue as to its contents.

“But, why?” I asked, then began unwrapping it, sticking the bow to the arm of my chair.

“I got it for you in Gstaad. I’d intended on giving it to you that first day I got back, I even had it in my bag. But I got…distracted.”

I looked up at him and raised a brow, knowing full well what had distracted him. My mouth. My body. My kisses.

He cleared his throat before continuing, but I did notice his gaze had dropped to my mouth. “Anyway. Instead of a holiday gift, I guess it has become a peace offering of sorts.”

“But…today?”

“Why not today?” he asked.

I looked at him questioningly, but he just shrugged, not knowing what I was getting at. Sighing, I said, “Because it’s Valentine’s Day?”

The look on his face was classic Absent-Minded Professor. His gaze swung to the large wall calendar pinned up above the couch. “Aw, shit,” he said as he acknowledged the date.

I lowered my gaze and continued to slowly unwrap the box, the thrill somewhat tarnished knowing that he hadn’t meant anything romantic by his gift-giving timing. My hands were sure, though my emotions weren’t, as I slid the wrapping paper from the box, which had some French name on the cover embossed in gold.

He sighed, though I didn’t look up. I heard him whisper, “Fuck it,” under his breath, not sure if I was supposed to hear it or not. Suddenly he was on his haunches in front of me, his hands stilling mine, sliding under them, so that our palms met.

I stared at our joined hands, until he laced his fingers with my willing ones, then I looked up into his grey gaze. His eyes weren’t the stormy seas, but that of a crisp, cold winter sky.

“Syd, will you be my Valentine?” he whispered.

I gave one tiny nod, which he noticed and let out a held breath. Good, he was as nervous as I was. And double good, he wanted to get back on track to…wherever we had been headed.

“Of course, it depends,” I added.
 

He looked concerned, but I must have had some kind of teasing tell, because he got a grin on his face, quirked one brow and said, “On what?”

“On what’s in the box,” I said, then smiled at him. A wide, sincere, and oh, so inviting smile.

“Sorry to say, it’s not
that
kind of gift. But you have definitely given me some ideas for next time.”

I didn’t comment that there wouldn’t be a next time. Or at least not a next Valentine’s Day. He would be back in New York next year, his year of teaching—and getting his writing mojo back—over.

Whatever we were venturing into, whatever we were stepping up to, would be over in May when the semester was.

Did anybody, ever, lament the end of school as I did?

“Though it
is
something you can wear,” he added. “Just…above your clothes, not underneath them.