Amelia.
The name is from a book series, Bianca said.
Minimizing the presentation, he searches Amelia Peabody, and a whole list of books pops up on his screen, twenty of them like she said. Once he defends this thing, maybe he’ll pick themup and power through them before he leaves. She said they’re her favorites and that he reminds her of one of the characters. Maybe if he gets through them he’ll be able to figure out which one.
“Listen, I was thinking . . .” Her voice draws him back to the present and he slams the laptop shut like she walked in on him watching porn. Amelia takes off like a shot at the sudden motion, yowling in protest as she flies by Bianca’s legs into her bedroom. Bianca’s bare feet, toenails painted light pink, give him pause. He hadn’t thought of her as a girl who’d wear light pink toenail polish. She crosses one foot over the other as she leans against the doorframe, wrapped in that robe from the other day, wet hair down and loose.
Xavier clears his throat and blinks at her, trying to focus. “What about?”
“That was a good kiss,” she says, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. Understatement of the fucking century, but he’ll roll with it.
“Yeah, it was,” he says, ready to spring up from the couch cushions as fast as Amelia had and repeat the experience if she wants, despite every misgiving he has.
“I think maybe,” she says, hesitating, “we shouldn’t . . . do that again.”
“Kiss?” he manages to choke out because now that he’s kissed her, he never, ever wants to stop. He will, obviously, if that’s what she wants, but . . . shit, he thought he’d have at least two months to revel in the ability to kiss her whenever she wanted and now . . .
“Kisslike that,” she clarifies, “you know, with that level of . . .”
“Heat?” he asks, clearing his throat. And okay, that’s . . . okay. Actually, maybe it’s better, because kissing like that wouldprobably lead to other things, things that they wouldn’t be able to take back.
“Heat,” she says, like she’s testing the word on her tongue.
“Excellent euphemism, no?” he asks, his voice finally regulating to a normal tone.
“Mediocre, actually,” she teases. “You should read more romance novels.” He snorts and she smiles at him, small and unsure, but still, it’s a smile. “But yeah, that level of heat, I think that’s my line.”
A sudden dread twists in his gut. “Did I do something that made you uncomfortable?” he asks, half terrified by his own question.
“No, no,” she reassures him quickly. “That’s not it. Definitely not it. That’s the opposite of it.”
“Oh . . .” He starts and then it hits him. “Oh.”
“Yeah.Oh.”
It isn’t that she was uncomfortable, it’s that she’s uncomfortable with how it made her feel, because that’s what he’d done, he’d made her feel. And despite the disappointment, knowing that he’s not going to be able to repeat the experience, there’s something about the knowledge that he’d affected her to that extent that’s nearly as good. Not actually, but . . . close.
“Okay,” he agrees, “that’s the line, then. A little casual, affectionate touching and keeping things PG. I can do that.”
“Yeah?” she asks.
“Of course. Like I said, you’re the boss.”
Chapter 8
Tapping her fingers against the hardwood of the circulation desk, Bianca lets out a heavy sigh. Xavier’s defense is happening . . . right now. They drove in together today in heavy silence, his fingers gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white the closer and closer they inched to campus.
Then, with a terse nod, he went off toward the Information Science department with his shoulders set and his stride long but confident. He’s one of those infuriating people who look more confident the more nervous they get. But right now she’s glad. He’s going to walk in that room and kill it, despite the nerves, and his panel will be none the wiser.
Xavier’s prepared and his research is rock solid, but his nerves have bled over to her and she can’t quite shake them. She’s not nearly as good at hiding it as he is, her foot now bouncing in time with her tapping fingers.
After he left, she made her way to the main library for one of her last shifts covering the circulation desk. It’s reading period, the week before finals, so the library is packed out with students, mostly undergrads, in full cram mode. The only sounds in the large, high-ceilinged room are the occasional heavy sighs, the much more common frustrated groans, and the constant clacking of fingers against laptop keyboards.
It wasn’t so long ago that she was one of them, barely a week, in fact, but that part of her life is over now. Probably for good. Three degrees is enough. More than enough, actually. Now it’s time to head out into that fabledreal worldpeople have been insisting she should join for years. So she’s scrolling through job boards, past all the openings she’s already applied for – which is all of them – hoping she’ll stumble upon something new.
She hasn’t heard anything about her interview yet, not even after she sent emails thanking everyone who’d been on the call. They hadn’t given her a time frame for an answer, but she knows the job starts on the first of August. That’s two months away, too long for her to have any idea what the hiring schedule should look like. For all she knows, she won’t hear from them until just before the new semester begins. And she hates waiting, hates not having control over the situation.
Though maybe her nerves don’t really have anything to do with the job or with Xavier’s defense, so much as what happened the other night. Before they spent hours combing through his presentation for even the slightest weakness before she peppered him with question after question.
