"You’re Avery Emili." It isn't a question, and the tone makes me a little defensive. I shift a little, waiting. "You need to quit," he says, abruptly.
I bark a laugh. "Excuse me?"
"He's not as together as he looks. And I don't care how old you are or who you fuck, but it can't be him. Atticus has lost too much this year. He can't throw his career away on a piece of ass."
I stare at him, shocked, and then furious. "You know what, Dane? Screw you."
His eyes narrow, and he catches my arm as I stride past him. It's the hand holding coffee and it throws my balance off. I shriek as the hot liquid splashes on my shorts and Nerd Girl t-shirt.
Dane lets go of me like I've contracted the plague.
Where is Atticus? What the hell is this ambush? Because I shut him down last night? Seriously, he can't even come out and fight his own battles?
I throw the coffee and bagels on the ground and stalk back to my car. I can feel Dane's eyes following me, and for a moment, I think he'll try to stop me—call me back.
But he doesn't and I drive away covered in my coffee and my tattered dignity.
Chapter 6
Atticus
She's late. She's never late. It's the kiss—it has to be the reason she's late. What the hell else could it be?
I need coffee.
I scribble a note to her and stick it at her workspace—she always works in the chair two away from me. Then I grab my keys and head out for coffee.
I stop in the driveway—something spilled there, and it smells faintly like coffee. What the hell? I grab my cell and text her:
Me: Worried. Where are you?
Then I call Dane. He answers on the first ring.
"Dude. How hung over are you?"
"Did you hear from Avery this morning?"
He's quiet, and it's the kind of quiet I know—the kind he only uses when he doesn't want to incriminate himself. I let out a deep breath, worry easing. And then, fear. "What the hell did you do, Dane?"
"It’s for the best, Atticus."
Fuck.
“Dane, what did you do?”
“It’s for the best.” He says again, reasonably. I want to shove his reasonable down his throat, but it’s not the time—right now I have to figure out how the hell to find Avery.
UB. She’s a student.
I have her file. I bolt for my room, grabbing it from where it’s been sitting for the past three weeks.
Her address is on the first page—her registration page. I glance at my phone—still no messages from her—so I punch the address in and head for my car.
I pull up to the loft apartments across the street from UB and spot her car. Between the summer months and the work day, the lot is empty. I park next to her and jog to apartment 513. It takes several minutes—agonizing minutes in which I plot Dane’s slow and painful death—before she answers the door.
She’s wearing paint stained jean shorts and a thin spaghetti strap top—her skin is red and angry looking, and I look at her, questioning.
“Sorry, was spilling coffee all over me not what you asked for?”
Rage, cold and oddly satisfying, settles over me and I step closer. She holds her ground, her back stiff with anger. “Get out of my house.”
“Not until you tell me what the hell happened this morning.”
I can piece it together, but I still want to hear it—I want to know what she thinks I did.
I want to know why she thinks I would do something like this.
“Big dude in a suit told me to fuck off. Pretty sure he’s your roommate. Look, Professor, if you’re that upset I won’t sleep with you, you’re right—I should leave. But the whole spilling coffee all over me? That’s a little overboard.”
I close my eyes and count to ten. It doesn’t help—probably because I’m picture punching Dane the whole time I’m counting.
“I didn’t—Avery, I didn’t ask him to do that. I wouldn’t.”
“So your roommate is that interested in your personal life?” she asks, hands on her hips. “Is he straight?”
I strangle my laughter—she wouldn't find it amusing right now. "Dane worries," I say.
"Obviously," she deadpans.
She's still furious. I can see it in the rigid set of her shoulders as she stalks into the kitchen. I take a second to glance around—two beds are caddy corner, a worn couch and abused coffee table dominating the room. The kitchen is briskly efficient, with soaring cabinets and a step stool in one corner.
She's glaring at her fridge, and I walk up. I want to touch her, to draw her into my arms and kiss her. But I don't. I peer over her shoulder and ask, "What's wrong?"
"I'm hungry," she grumbles.
This is a problem I can solve. "Get your stuff."
"Why?"
"I'm taking you to get breakfast."
The parking lot of Cracked is empty. Stacy grins when she sees me, but her expression fades a little when Avery steps in behind me. I lead Avery to my usual booth and wait as she slides in.
"I'm sorry. Dane was out of line."
She doesn't respond, her lips thinning a little. Whatever he said, the brush off had her furious.
"Hi, Atti," Stacy says, waltzing up to our table. "You want coffee?"
I nod, look at Avery.
"Coke, please."
Stacy grins and hurries away.
"The omelets are amazing here," I tell Avery.
Her eyes meet mine, and I hold the gaze, trying to tell her how sorry I am without saying anything—she obviously needs time.
Something flickers in her gaze, so briefly I'm not even sure it's there. And then she looks away, searching the menu.
Avery
He waits until we've ordered. I don't know what to say to him. I want to be angry, but if the whole thing was Dane's idea, is it fair to be angry with Atticus?
"Will you tell me why you’re so upset?"
Why was I? Because he'd been an ass? Or because the assumption had been made in the first place? Something Dane said tickled my memory.
"What happened this year?"
Atticus blinks, stirring his coffee. "Excuse me?"
"Dane said you'd lost a lot. What?"
His eyes narrow. "Dane talks too much."
I snort, and his lips twitch. Then he sobers, "Nik. He's talking about Nik."
"Your research assistant?"
He huffs out a breath. "Nik didn't start out my RA. We were together, and she wanted to spend more time with me. Helping became a way for her to be close to me."
I sip my coffee. "So what happened?"
"Things didn't work out," he says. There's more to it than that. But Stacy returns with our breakfast and I let it drop.
The food is surprisingly good.
"Did you work on grad school applications last night?"
I make a face and shake my head. "My boss kept distracting me."
He grins and leans in, his Denver omelet forgotten. "You enjoyed it," he murmurs. I flush and he laughs, sitting back. I want to reach over and smack him.
"Well, let's do this—go back to your apartment and work on applications. I'll fill them out and you can work on the essays. We should get through at least one today."
"You don't have to do that, Atticus," I protest, softly. His eyes flash a little.
"I don't have to do anything, Avery. I want to do this. Let me."
And knowing it's a bad idea, knowing I'll probably regret it, I nod. And he grins, a boyish smile that hits me straight in my heart.
Chapter 7
Atticus
It's a good day. Seeing Avery in her own environment is enlightening in a way I don't expect. She's soft here, relaxed and funny. She spends the day sprawled on her bed, foot bobbing to the rhythm of the music she turned on as soon as we walked in the front door.
I don't want to leave. I enjoy watching her nibble on her pen, her brow furrowed in thought before she scribbles a quick sentence. I like her bouncing over to me, eyes anxious as I read
the essays. I love seeing the way her expression brightens when I point out something she hasn't thought of, like a wall of glee cascading over her pixie-like features.
It's late—later than is appropriate—when my phone buzzes. Avery glances at me as I read the text, a question clear in her eyes.
"It's Dane," I tell her. Anger cools her gaze, and she turns back to frozen lasagna she’s making for us. I touch her hand, and she pauses, watching my fingers on her. "I have to go. Deal with the shit that went down this morning."
She shrugs.
Frustration makes me short tempered, and I stand, grabbing my keys. "Whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow."
Avery sighs, following me to the door. "Sorry. I know it wasn't your fault. I'm just—I don't want to deal with it."
I put a finger under her chin, pulling her head up until her gaze collides with mine. "That's why I need to. You shouldn't. I’m going to make sure it doesn't happen again."
She doesn't answer, and her gaze skids away. "What?" I demand, sharper than I intend.
"There shouldn't have been a reason for him to even think that," she says, her gaze hot and accusing.
I step away, my hand dropping. I want to respond—want to snap at her. But she's right, and I'm the older one, the one who should be past making stupid mistakes.
Something in me rebels at the idea that this—whatever the hell it is—is a mistake.
"I'll deal with Dane. And I'll see you tomorrow—at ten."
I wait until she nods, and then I walk to my car, the quiet swish of her door echoing unnaturally loud in the empty hallway.
The house is brightly lit. So brightly that I wonder for a heartbeat if Dane is having a party. But no—it's just his Viper in the driveway, and I can see the empty house through the large picture windows. No party. Just a worried, pissed roommate.
Fair enough—I'm pretty pissed myself.
He looks up when I stalk in, expressionless. No accusations, no apologies, no explanations. Typical Dane. I go into the kitchen, grab a beer and my mail, and head to my room. I pause in the doorway of the dining room, staring at him. "I don't care if you are trying to protect me, Dane. It's not your job, and I don't appreciate it. She's off limits, do you understand? Today was out line—she didn't deserve that. It won’t happen again."
Dane's eyes narrow, a little, but he doesn't argue with me. He nods shortly and returns to his work.
Avery
I don't know what to do with myself in the silence when Atticus is gone. I want to text him and tell him to let it go—don't push Dane on the issue of today.
But I remember the dark glint in his eyes, and something tells me it'd be a waste of time.
The TV drones quietly, providing background noise as I clean the kitchen. My cell phone ringing startles me, and I peek at it.
A number from home, but not one I recognize. Amelia said she was getting a new phone, and it's past time for her daily phone call.
I answer it.
"Avery."
The voice, shaping my name, sends a wave of goose bumps down my arm. Muscle memory makes me tremble. I drop the pot I'm washing and grip the phone, fighting the insane urge to throw it against the wall.
"What do you want, Josh?" I croak out.
“Just to talk,” he says. When I don’t respond, he sighs. "I know you don't want to come back to Grovetown. And I get it—you’re still mad. But I really think you should come back for the summer. You’re missing out on Amelia’s planning, and I know you want to be here for that."
A laugh burns in the back of my throat. He's still doing it—four years later, and he's still offering his unwanted opinion and writing off my actions as a girlish fit of anger. I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Amelia wants her maid of honor helping her," he says.
"Does Amelia tell you everything?" I demand, and he's quiet. But I know Josh, better than I'm actually comfortable with. I can read his amusement in the absence of his response. "I'm not coming home. I told Amie, I told Daddy, I'm telling you."
"Quit being stubborn. Your life is here," he says, his voice tired and somehow pleading. I've heard that tone so many times.
This time, it makes me angry. "There is nothing—no one—for me in Grovetown. There hasn't been in years."
That silences him, and I speak quickly, before he can start an argument I don't want to deal with. "I'll talk to Amie. Sorry she involved you. Thanks for your concern."
I hang up before he can respond.
I'm shaking, my hands trembling like leaves, and I have a sudden urge to cry. I glance at my them, forcing them to steady. My empty hands—no rings. Sometimes, seeing my ring-less fingers still stuns the hell outta me.
A text catches my attention.
The Professor: Dane won't bother you.
I grab the phone, desperate to talk to someone who will distract me. I dial before I can tell myself what a bad idea it is.
"Hey." He sounds slightly distracted, but pleased. "Miss me already?"
Atticus is teasing, flirting, his tone deliberately light. "Yes," I whisper, hating the tears burning the backs of my eyelids.
He goes quiet, and I hear a door shut. "Avery? What's wrong?"
I sniffle. "Nothing, just wedding stuff. I don't even know why I called. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. You aren't interrupting anything. Just talk to me." He waits, and I want to—I want to tell him about Josh, about all the reasons I can't go home. But I can't. He sighs. "Fine. Turn on your TV—the History channel."
I do what he says and grin. It's a segment on Pompeii. I slump back on the couch and listen as the narrator begins the tragic tale. I know it—of course I know it. But I hear the thud of shoes on the other end of the phone, hear the slight creak of the bed, and he laughs at the overly dramatic tone of the narrator.
"He sort of makes you want to slit your wrists, doesn't he?"
"There wasn't a lot that was happy about Pompeii," I answer, and his laughter chases the ghosts of my past from my tiny loft.
It's wrong. It's stupid for too many reasons to count. But as we watch and Atti adds his quiet humor and I struggle to not laugh, it's hard to remember any of those reasons. It's hard to do anything but be. Right here, in this moment that is like nothing I have ever experienced before.
I fall asleep sometime during the stupid documentary, the phone pressed to my face, his warm voice in my ear, his accent thicker as sleep tugs at him.
A text is waiting, when I wake up.
The Professor: Coffee. 9:30. Thanks for the movie night—next time I'm picking a comedy.
A stupid smile on my face, I climb out of bed and get dressed for the day.
Chapter 8—June
Atticus
I push into Hill of Beans. I'm on coffee duty, mostly because it's on my way to the new place. Partly because the look on her face when I hand her coffee is damn near orgasmic, and I can't deny myself that simple pleasure.
Jeffery is behind the counter, a bright smile on his face—a smile that cools when he sees me. I grin. The coffee shop owner doesn't like me—he's been very clear, in a subtle way, about that.
That’s fine—I’m not crazy about him, or the way he acts around Avery. Not that I have the right to complain—I don’t.
I still don’t have to like it.
I smile. "Our usual," I say, and his eyes narrow.
“Where is she this morning?" he asks. I glance at the counter, see the picture of a little girl with stunning blue eyes taped there. He wears a ring and has a daughter, and he thinks he has any right to Avery?
"It's moving day. If you don't mind, I'd like to catch up with her before my roommate decides to take a piece out of her."
Anger flickers in his eyes, and I wonder if she told him, if she confided the details of that morning to him. It's been over a week ago, and she still won't tell me.
The girl loves her secrets.
Jeff holds out a bag and the little to-go carrier with our coffees, and I flash him a smile
and stride back to my truck. The bed is packed with furniture Dane and I picked up from Nik. Not that she was happy about it—after she found out.
I sure as shit didn't go when she was home.
When I pull up to the apartment complex, I'm a little disturbed to find Avery and Dane both waiting. Her car is packed with my boxes of files, and she's carrying some up the stairs. Dane is leaning against his car, arguing with his paralegal on the phone. He straightens as I climb out of the truck and hurriedly finishes the conversation.
"Seriously? You couldn't help her with those?" I ask, annoyed. Dane gives me his blank look, and I bite back a sigh of aggravation. "Start carrying boxes," I snap, and grab two of the file boxes.
"Avery!"
Her head pokes over the staircase, blonde ponytail swinging behind her. She didn't bother with makeup today, and her fresh scrubbed face makes her appear even younger than I know she is.
I catch up with her easily and we climb the stairs in silence. It's easy to be silent around Avery. Fuck that, it's easy to be around her period.
In my new office, she bends over, and I choke back a groan at the sight of her ass. She must feel my gaze because she twists and gives me dirty look. I grin, blatantly unrepentant, and she snorts.
"Did you bring me coffee?"
"Would I dare not?" I tease, and she wrinkles her nose before swaying past me.
Last time we were in this apartment, I kissed her.
I haven’t touched her since, not during the days we work at her house or Dane's, not during the trips to the store for things for the apartment, not during the late dinners when we debated pirates and ancient Rome. Sometimes, after a late-night movie, listening to her soft and sleepy voice, I would jack off. Once I did it when she was on the phone during a horror that she hadn't wanted to watch. Hearing her tiny whimpers and little gasps, it had been impossible to not.
I felt dirty and guilty, afterward.
"Dude!" Dane shouts, jerking me from my thoughts. He’s wrestling my recliner from the bed of the truck and I heave a sigh—two flights. It’s going to be a long-ass day.
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