“Phoebe.” He chokes out my name. “No, I’m good,” he assures me, but he doesn’t even look down to see if any wayward coffee droplets landed on his pristine white tee. I do, though. And not because I’m taking a solid minute to ogle his body, or check out the way the cotton molds to his skin. Nope. I’m merely checking to be sure I haven’t accidentally soiled his shirt.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s giving me a once-over, too. But that makes no sense. He couldn’t stand me.
“Yea, I’m fine. I was afraid I spilled coffee all over you.”
He shakes his head. “I’m good. How were your classes?”
“Oh, fine. Um, how were yours?”
“Great, actually,” he smiles. “I mean, except for all those books I have to read and papers I need to write…”
“Wait...was that a joke? Are you feeling okay? Because we don’t know each other well, but this joviality seems wildly out of character for you,” I tease.
“Yea, about Saturday--”
“Ty! Wait up.” A tall, athletic blond guy comes jogging up the sidewalk. His hair is short on the sides and long on the top, his grey-blue eyes are sparkling. I’m betting this is one of the other hot roommates, based on his good looks and his BU hockey tee. Or maybe Ty just surrounds himself with beautiful people. The newcomer smiles brightly at me, and offers a wave. “Hey, I’m Booker Zabek.”
“Hi, Phoebe James.”
His smile falters for a fraction of a second, and I wonder if maybe Ty mentioned me to his other roommates? Ugh. He probably whined about having to give me a tour of campus.
“Hi, Phoebe. It’s nice to meet you. I hate to steal this guy away, but Whit called a family meeting, so we need to haul ass back up the hill.”
“But--” Ty does not look pleased.
“No time for coffee, dude. I think it’s all good, but he got a call from home and now he’s doing that pacing thing.”
“Damn it. Alright, let’s go.” He nods, as though shit just got serious.
And without another word or glance, he turns and leaves.
I cut across the grass and make my way to the Art building, unable to shake my reaction to Ty. I feel...unsettled. Like I know he’s bad news, but I can’t stop myself from being intrigued.
Chapter 3
Phoebe
“Jane Austen?”
“Yes,” Dr. Zemaitis nods, “I can get you into Contemporary Thoughts on Classic Literature: Jane Austen on Tuesdays and Thursdays at ten, just after your civics class. Or, you can take The Bible as Literature on Mondays from 6-9. I’m sorry, I’m afraid those are the only options that fit into your schedule.”
“I work from 3-6 all week, so I think Jane’s my girl,” I say with far more confidence than I feel.
“Great. We’ll get that added in. Class meets tomorrow. You should have time to hit up the bookstore, or you can check out the titles from the library, if there are any left. You wouldn’t thinkSense and Sensibilitywould be flying off the shelves, but sometimes those titles are hard to find when they run this class.”
An email pops up on my phone, and I look to see my newly revised schedule. “Um...it looks like this is a 400-level class? Isn’t that for seniors? Or, you know, English majors?”
Dr. Zemaitis’s laugh is gentle. “Typically, but looking at your transcripts, I think you’ll do just fine. And it really is your only option, unless you want to see what we can change around for next semester?”
Ugh. I really don’t want to do that. I’m already two years behind, age wise. I feel like I’m playing a losing game of catch up at this point. Best to stick with the plan. And how hard can a senior-level lit class be for someone who’d rather draw than read? Oof.
“No, I think I can handle it. Thanks for all your help. I should head over to the bookstore to stock up on,” I squint at my phone to read the description, “the very best in Georgian literature?”
“Good luck,” he replies jovially, and though he’s laughing, I think I’ll need it.
***
Ty
