Copyright © 2018 by Phoebe Alexander
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Mountains Wanted Publishing
P.O. Box 1014
Georgetown, DE 19947
www.MountainsWanted.com
Cover Design by Teresa Conner of Wolfsparrow Publishing
To Brian:
I have so many fond memories of our time together.
No idea where you are these days, but there’s so much of you in Garrett. May you, like Garrett, find the one who can heal your heart.
Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Phoebe Alexander
Prologue
From Sarah Lynde’s first encounter with Garrett Stone in Mountains Climbed:
Garrett, on the other hand, was an enigma. First, she couldn’t quite figure out how old he was. Like her confusion when she originally met James, it was hard to discern if he just had a youthful appearance for someone in his early thirties or if he was an old soul exuding a commanding presence not usually seen in someone in his mid- to late twenties. He was dynamic, passionate, magnetic, and she still couldn’t figure out why people called him “Nav.” She loved to watch the way his tall, lithe body moved through his blocking and choreography, his limbs fluid and controlled as if he had an internal energy that would send him careening off the stage at any moment if not held in check.
The day after Thursday’s music practice, Sarah found herself humming “Some Enchanted Evening” as she hiked down the hill to the library to return some books. She glanced inside the cafe to the right as she entered the building and immediately caught sight of his trademark shock of red hair crowning a bent head, his soulful eyes absorbed in his laptop screen. He wore ear buds, and she could see his foot tapping presumably in time with the music he was listening to. He was dressed in dark jeans and heavy black boots even in the thick August heat, sleeves rolled up on a flannel shirt his only concession to the steamy weather.
Impulse took over Sarah’s planned route to the circulation desk. I’m going to talk to him, she decided. She had not felt comfortable approaching him on “his” turf at the theatre, but the library on her campus, where she was faculty, seemed like “her” turf.
God, I hope he’s not a student, she thought a moment too late, her arms still full of the books she planned to return. She had already reached him. Before she had time to reconsider, he glanced up, a smile of recognition spreading across his lips. He tugged the ear buds out and let them dangle around his neck as he peered at Sarah expectantly.
“Mind if I sit down?” Sarah asked, feeling bold.
He grinned and pulled the chair adjacent to the small sofa where he sat away from his boot-clad feet. Sarah laid her books on the table and extended her hand to introduce herself. “I’m Sarah Lynde. We’re in South Pacific together.”
Garrett chuckled. “I know. Nice to see you. You a student here?”
After being momentarily flattered, a dread consumed her: he’s probably a student since he assumed I was. If he’s an undergraduate, I’m going to be nauseated. It was getting more difficult to distinguish undergraduate and graduate students given the increasing numbers of non-traditional aged students. And possibly because I’m getting old, she self-deprecated. She felt her stomach churning as she explained, “No, actually, I’m faculty in the Sociology department.”
His eyes widened. “Wow, how cool is that?” He looked impressed. And pleased.
She stared, waiting for him to reciprocate and reveal his own role. Wow, it would be awesome if he was faculty too, she considered, noticing how green his eyes were for the first time. Or even a TA, as long as it’s not in my department.
“I’m a PhD student,” he said finally. “At Hopkins, though, not here. I come here to do research sometimes. Great library you have here!”
Whew, Sarah thought with happy relief. Doctoral student at Johns Hopkins. Now she was the one impressed. “What are you studying?”
“Political science. Heading into my second year and really liking it so far,” he replied. “How long have you taught here?”
“I’m starting my third year,” Sarah replied. “I really love it too, even though I’m very far from home.”
“Oh, yeah? As am I. Where are you from?” His legs were spread, and she noticed how long they were, how high off the floor his knees extended when he’d shifted his feet to accommodate her. She observed thick reddish-blonde hair on his forearms tufting out of the rolled flannel sleeves.
She’d studied him from afar for two weeks, and suddenly his features were in focus. Details she had not noticed from a distance were emerging: his prominent Adam’s apple, the stubble along his jawline, a mole on his neck under his left ear, the hint of a tattoo peeking out from his chest. But she felt the same things she felt when he was on stage: a draw, a gravitational pull toward him, as if he had harnessed the energy of the sun and condensed it into a solid core within his body.
“I’m originally from Colorado,” Sarah finally managed, realizing she had taken too long drinking him in.
He laughed as if he was amused by how distracted she was looking at him. “I’m from the West as well. Washington state, specifically,” he shared, his eyes locked onto her now. “Still trying to get used to the heat and humidity out here.”
“Yeah, I bet; it took me a while too,” Sarah agreed. “My brother lives in Seattle.” She shifted in her chair for a moment, waiting for inspiration to direct the conversation beyond the small talky stuff. Then her eyes lit up. “Oh, hey, I have to ask you, why do they call you ‘Nav’?”
He chuckled again, his focus shifting to a point in the distance and then back onto her. “I got that nickname when I was in college,” he admitted. “It’s short for ‘The Navigator.’”
Sarah’s eyebrow rose as her mind explored the ways in which one might acquire such a moniker. He seemed to be relishing her confusion as he watched her brain try to unravel the mystery. He placed a hand on hers on the armrest of the green fabric-covered chair. She felt his body heat sear into her flesh like a red-hot iron.
It’s been almost two months since I felt the touch of a man, she thought, trying to hide her surprise and swoony feeling with an awkward laugh. “So are you going to tell me how you got that nickname?” she asked, feigning a bit of impatience.
“My initials,” he said at last, moving his hand back onto his thigh. “GPS. Garrett Patrick Stone.”
Sarah laughed genuinely this time, a silvery laugh that sparkled around his ears. “That’s very creative.”
He leaned in very close to her and said in a deadpan whisper: “Well, I’m a very creative person, Dr. Lynde.”
One
Six inches. That’s how close he was to jumping off the proverbial ledge.
> But only the proverbial one, for now. It had been three days since he’d gotten an email from the chair of the Political Science department inviting him to a meeting in her office at 3:30 PM on Friday afternoon. Garrett knew from the tone that it was more of a mandatory summons than an invitation, not to mention the common knowledge that nothing good—absolutely nothing good—could come from a meeting that late in the day on a Friday.
Now the time had finally come. Garrett closed his laptop with a sense of resolution. In the three days since he received the email, which neglected to divulge the purpose of the meeting, he had stewed about the possible agenda. It could be something good, he kept telling himself. Maybe a new grant or assistantship. Maybe I’m wanted to co-author a research study. Or teach a new class.
But deep in his twisted guts, he knew better. He knew it had to come down to her, the girl who had turned his world upside down that summer. Tucking that fear deep inside, he pressed his size fourteen shoes into the worn carpeting in the hallway of the Political Science department and made his way down to Dr. Tiffany’s office.
Without hesitation, he firmly knocked on the door, which was already ajar. When he heard her grant permission to enter, he pushed it open, plastering a pleasant smile to his face. She did not return it.
Mallory Tiffany was young for an academic department chair. She wasn’t much older than Garrett at forty-ish, and she tried to make up for her youth by projecting mirthless authority onto her pinched-up face. She had bleak gray eyes and dishwater blonde hair that hung limply around her shoulders, and her limbs were long and wiry. Garrett suspected she had never been properly laid, but he certainly had no desire to correct the matter.
“Mr. Stone,” she said formally. She was the only person in the department who insisted on using surnames. Everyone else called her Mallory behind her back, even the administrative assistant, who was the quintessential butt-kisser.
Garrett responded with a nod as he settled himself in one of the leather chairs across from her. He imagined many a student had sat in that very chair having heart palpitations about what would come next. She continued to glare at him until he looked up at her and forced a confident smile, then managed to hold it, even while running his long fingers through his unkempt fiery red hair. His trademark fiery red hair.
“Mr. Stone, two others will be joining us, so we’ll actually be meeting there.” She pointed to the round wooden table and chairs on the other side of her spacious office. The windows overlooked a courtyard where delicate dogwoods blew in the breeze, and one giant magnolia tree loomed, its waxy green leaves falling golden-brown on the lawn to mark the start of fall.
Summer classes ended a few weeks ago, and the fall semester was underway. Garrett was teaching two sections of Poli Sci 101. It was his least favorite course to teach, but as a graduate student, he didn’t get much of a choice. He was near the very bottom rung of the ladder, a rank just above the family of mice that lived in the lower cabinets of the faculty lounge. At least the mice were fed every once in a while.
Two other people? his mind kept repeating. He resituated himself at the table while Dr. Tiffany shuffled through papers in a manila file folder on her desk. She pressed a button on her phone but said nothing, and in a few seconds, two men in suits walked through the door.
The younger man in a gray suit appeared to be Latino and had dark hair and a well-groomed goatee. The other man was older and white, bald with gray around the edges, and wore a navy suit and silver glasses that obscured beady pale green eyes. Garrett knew the older man was Dr. Wilson, the Vice President for Academic Affairs, but he didn’t know the younger man. His palms began to sweat as they took chairs alongside Dr. Tiffany around the table. Though the table was a circle, they somehow managed to make him feel like he was on one side, and they were on the other, facing him with scowls twisting their features.
The suspense had gone on long enough. He could now feel his heartbeat in his throat, even though he made an effort to stay motionless with that same stupid, placid smile painted across his face. He felt like a clown at a circus where everyone hated clowns. Dr. Tiffany looked toward the younger man as if she needed his blessing to continue.
“Garrett,” she finally spoke, now using his first name, “I think you know Dr. Wilson, and this is special counsel for the university, Diego Hernandez.”
Garrett nodded at them but remained silent.
“Do you have any idea why you’ve been called here today?” Dr. Tiffany asked.
He straightened his spine and cleared his throat before answering, “No, ma’am,” as confidently as possible. Why did it feel like he was approaching a firing squad wearing a blindfold?
Mr. Hernandez pulled a thick, stapled stack of papers from a folder in front of him. “You might want to take a look at this.”
With sweaty palms, Garrett took the document and began to run his eyes over the small black font. The first words to strike him were “dismissal” and “sexual harassment.” Then he saw the “victim’s” name as though it appeared in bold: Mara Atkins. But it was in the same weight font as every other word.
The lump in his throat closed off his larynx as he struggled for a response. The color drained away from his face, and he felt like he’d fallen overboard and was struggling back to the surface for his next breath, for salvation. Voices were murky, colors muted; actions faded into the fluid realm of his trance-like, drowning state.
Thirty minutes later, he was escorted from the building with the contents of his tiny, closet-like office crammed into a cardboard box. Later, he didn’t even remember driving home.
Sunlight was already creeping past the blinds when Garrett awoke the next morning. The empty bottle of vodka lying on its side at the foot of the bed was the only clue he needed to know what had transpired the night before. His head was stuffed with cotton balls, yet still managed to pound against his temples like a rat desperate to escape from a cage. Beyond the relentless pounding were faint echoes of the last words he’d heard, which were of the university’s allegations against him, along with his dismissal from his position and a lifetime ban from the campus.
Mara Atkins.
Thoughts of her without an accompanying image were impossible. She had long honey-brown hair with golden highlights and the warmest, most expressive eyes he’d ever seen. Her skin was that naturally bronze type, the kind that stays tan even in the winter. Everything about her was like warming up by the fireplace after the first hard frost of the season. She was toasted marshmallows and pumpkin spice lattes, sleeping in on a Sunday morning, and walking through autumn forests where leaves rain down in amber flurries.
She was a crisp fall day in the blazing heat of summer, and when she first breezed into his classroom in June, he’d felt the whirlwind of change she brought with her.
She was twenty, staying on campus for the summer for the first time ever. She had a maturity about her, though intermingled with a naïve enthusiasm for her recently granted freedom. It was clear on her freshly scrubbed face. Only the seasoned understood summer stretched like an endless highway before the solstice. But after Independence Day, it never felt quite as free again. Ah, the irony.
She had stayed after class to talk to Professor Stone, as she’d called him with a gleam in her eye. She had a conflict for the following Friday’s class, and she wanted to beg for an excused absence. The sincerity in her eyes gripped ahold of Garrett. He’d heard plenty of sketchy sob stories from students in his years of teaching, but this one seemed legitimate.
“My grandmother is having a surprise 75th birthday party on Saturday,” she’d told him. She wasn’t afraid to pierce into his eyes with her own. “She’s like my very favorite person in the whole wide world, so I really want to be there. But to do that, I’d need to leave early Friday morning to drive home.”
If a student was making stuff up, it was invariably a sick or dead grandparent, never one in good health. “Where are you from?” he’d asked her, not really caring, but something about
the vibe she projected made him want to keep the conversation going.
“Michigan.” She flipped her long hair behind her shoulder and gave him a smile that revealed a tiny glimpse of pearly white teeth. Then, as he mulled her request over in his mind, her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip before her top row of teeth sank into it anxiously.
“You know summer classes are quite rigorous due to the condensed schedule, and we have an exam the following Monday, yes? Friday is the review day, and you would be missing it.”
Her eyes floated up from the floor to his again as her smile widened, spreading her cheeks as they flushed with a peachy-pink hue. “I do understand that, Professor Stone. I guess that is a risk I will have to take. But my family is very important to me, and my grandmother would be devastated if I weren’t there.”
Garrett’s face softened. Hearing the title “professor” come off her lips made him hard. Or maybe it was the smattering of freckles on her nose or the shiny rose gold hoops hanging from her petite ears. She wore a tiny pair of cut-off shorts from which thick, shapely thighs unapologetically curved toward her knees. It was the whole package, he realized as she bounced from one foot to the other, eagerly awaiting his blessing. He could tell by the glint in her eyes that she knew she’d won him over.
“What time are you leaving on Friday?” he asked, still not wanting the interaction to end.
“Uh, early, probably...it’s a twelve-hour drive.”
“Would you be available for a review session on Thursday night?”
“Oh!” she gasped. “You don’t have to move the review session on my account.” Though she tried to appear taken aback, Garrett saw something else too. She actually moved closer to him, leaned forward, far enough he could see her pert breasts pushing against her salmon-colored, lace-trimmed cami.
“I wouldn’t move it for the whole class; it would be a session just for you,” he explained, trying to make his voice sound neutral, non-committal. He knew he’d failed when her eyes lit up.
The Navigator (Mountains Series Book 5) Page 1
