“Do not be disappointed, Phoebe. Go to work and treat yourself to a peek at the letter on your break.”
Peek. Ha. I will scour every loop of cursive for clues. But only after I do my real job first. Good thing I love it too.
I’ve barely logged in and read my first email when the sound of someone running down the hall is followed by Jay almost skidding into the library.
“Did you read it?” he demands. He sounds slightly short of breath.
“Did you run over here?” He’s in plaid pajama bottoms and a white tank undershirt, no shoes. Wet grass clings to his feet, and he’s rocking some serious bedhead.
“Didn’t want to miss it. Did you read it?”
“I decided to deal with it when I’m not on the museum’s dime,” I said. “By which I mean I was saving it to read as a treat on my break.”
“Can trustees grant extra breaks to the museum director? Break granted. Can we read it?” His eyes are still sleep-puffed, but they’re bright with curiosity.
“You are not in charge of my breaks.”
“Okay, but?—”
“Sorry, can you hold that thought until we read this message?” I’m anxious to read it too, but more than that, I need Jay out of here. He looks more adorable than any male should have the right to. At least, his sleep-mussed hair does. Adorable is the wrong word for the way that undershirt shows off his shoulders. He’s lean but solid, like a guy who spent a whole lot of time building his upper body in the batting cages during college.
I need him gone ASAP if I’m going to focus on my presentation.
On any dang thing, honestly.
He gives a soft “Yessss” and vaults himself into his usual chair. It’s a good move. I might practice it when he’s not around.
I pick up the envelope and turn it toward him. “Same handwriting and addresses, but no stamp or postmark.”
He rubs his hands together.
I tilt it so the letter slides out, catching it before it hits the desk. “Same stationery, same ink.” I check the last page. “Yours, Dear Heart.”
His eyebrows go up. “Ooh, ‘yours’ is an upgrade from ‘ardently.’ Let’s gooooo.”
“You have never sounded more like a frat boy.”
“Kappa Sigma and proud of it. Will you read? Want me to read? I’ll read it.”
I pull the letter toward my chest, away from his reaching hand. “Settle down, Dr. Martin. That is behavior unbecoming a historian.”
“I’m dying here, Phoebe.”
I smirk at him before I clear my throat and begin to read. “November 3, 1965.”
“A couple of months after the last one.”
“Here we go.”
Dear Smitten Kitten,
I won’t stop calling you that until I have conclusive proof that you are not smitten. And your last letter didn’t do the job, I’m sorry to report. Nor did the several before that. In fact, there are at least a few moments in each of them when I think to myself, “I believe Kitten actually cares.”
No one is so polite that she’ll write back to a fellow she doesn’t like every week, much less share her small-town adventures and ask about his schooling. But I’ll drop it before I tease you so much that you quit writing just to make a point.
School gets tougher every week. I’m still not sure how I fooled the university into accepting me. I’m waiting for them to tell me they’ve made a mistake and rescind it despite somehow clawing my way to my senior year. I’m more surprised than anyone that I manage to keep up. I am not a falsely modest man. I know my strengths and my limits, and as much as every exam and project has me in a terror until I see a passing grade, I will also confess that despite the classes only growing harder, they also grow more interesting.
I can hardly believe Thanksgiving is almost here. In some ways, I know school will speed by too quickly, and I will feel as if I never caught up, never studied enough. But in other ways, time will crawl so slowly until Thanksgiving week, when I’ll get to see you.
