Easy. So many people think I’ve had it easy.
Oh, lucky Jillian. Grew up in one of the fancy houses on Circular Road. Comes from old money. Blah blah blah.
People have always judged me by my last name. No one more so than my mother. Because if there’s anything worse than being the great-great-great granddaughter of one of the people responsible for shaping Newfoundland’s political history, it’s being the great-great-great-great granddaughter of one of the most famous merchants to set up shop in Newfoundland.
You wouldn’t think old money and history would mean much in twenty-first century St. John’s. You’d think wrong. Sure, most people you’d meet walking down Water Street these days don’t know a whit about the Carews and the Sheas, but in my parents’ world, my grandparents’ world, it still matters.
They’ll tell you I have a history of rebellion. But let me set the record straight. I have a history of trying to figure out how to just be a version of myself I can live with.
Imagine my surprise when I was in grad school to find out that I’m normal. That this whole idea of “creating your own identity” is normal. What’s abnormal is allowing yourself to be told who to be. I’m a post-modern woman. I’ll construct my own self, thank you very much.
And who I am now is Professor Carew. A tweed-wearing, hardass grading, I’ve-told-all-the-lies-to-extenda-deadline-so-you-can’t-fool-me member of the Classics department.
To my surprise, I’m way more productive than I’ve ever given myself credit for. Three articles published this year in select journals. A fulltime teaching schedule. And I’ve successfully bought my own little piece of heaven in downtown St. John’s.
On my own.
Without dipping into the family coffers.
Yup. So let’s just say I’m pretty content with my life right now.
“Dr. Carew.”
Crap. Is my mother here? What is she doing on campus?
“Dr. Carew.”
No sign of her. But there’s that kid in my intro to Latin course. Terrible student. But he gets an E for effort.
“Dr. Carew, you forgot your muffin.”
Right. That’s me. When am I going to remember that I’m a doctor as well? Maybe around the time my father stops reminding me that I was supposed to be a doctor of medicine, not a doctor of letters.
The erstwhile young thing is holding a brown paper bag before me.
“I didn’t order a muffin.”
“Yea, but it’s the coffee and muffin special. You paid for it. You should take it.”
“I didn’t pay for it.”
“You did. When you pay for the coffee, you pay for the muffin.”
This conversation is ridiculous. I’ll just take the damn carb-fiend and go.
Hello. What’s this now?
I don’t often pay attention to the gaggle of students congregating around the base of the clock tower. When the university decided to plant it firmly underground in one of the tunnels that link the buildings together, they’d envisioned creating a small museum. What they created was a nerd haven. I suppose I could find out what happens there if I had the desire to really care. There’s little doubt that as soon as the muffin-bearer stops talking, he’ll join them. Whatever it is they get up to, it’s nerdy to the extreme.
These kids aren’t the stylish new brand of geek-chic, that pseudo-intellectual social group that’s basically this century’s version of prep. The kind of people I hang around with, truth be told. These kids are Nerds. Emphasis on the uppercase N. Absolutely nothing ironic about their fashion choices, nothing designer about their glasses or sneakers. They’re not geeking out over Doctor Who. They’re likely doing astrophysics for fun.
So what the hell is a man like that doing sitting on the floor playing cards with them?
Do songs or lines from movies ever pop into your head? Because right now, I have that old Sesame Street song planting a little ear worm. You know the one about things not being alike.
Nope. For starters, he is hot. Maybe the hottest guy I’ve seen on campus all year. And it has nothing to do with his clothes, although the jeans and grey knit sweater do hug his body to perfection.
God. Look at that face. Hard and chiselled. Square jawed. And that body. He’s a big man. Broad shoulders. You know what he reminds me of? A Roman soldier. Mmmm. Roman soldiers.
Sweet God. I think I’m sweating. I know I’m this close to blushing. And I have no clue what this kid with the muffin is saying. Something about oatmeal or bananas or gluten.
Is he a prof? A grad student? Campus security?
Nah. He’s too brawny for any of that. He looks like a man who could take on a Cyclops single-handedly and deliver a mortal blow.
I’d be concerned for the safety of those nerds with him around if he wasn’t sitting so calmly among them. This is the kind of setting an anthropologist would have a field day with.
“Thanks for the muffin. Don’t be late for class.” What else can I say? If I stay here one second longer it’s going to be obvious that I’m not listening. Indifference I can pull off. Ignorance, not so much.
I’m sure he’s saying something else but I have to go before my staring becomes too blatant.
When was the last time I spotted someone in a crowd who instantly gave me butterflies in my stomach?
The second I round the corner and head down the tunnels towards my office in the Arts building I text Ingrid.
- I just saw the perfect specimen of man candy. -
The service in the tunnels sucks. But at least I know she’ll get the message at some point. And I feel better sharing.
By the time I get to my office, I’m over it. He’s probably not that good-looking. It’s like seeing a dandelion in patch of weeds. By comparison, it looks like a flower, but it’s still just a weed. Put it in a nice bed of tulips and it would be lost.
Before you groan at that metaphor, you should know that the new house I bought came with a raggy backyard lawn and one small bed of tulips. It’s a mess. Before coming to work this morning, I was tearing out the dandelions. At least it’s a sign of summer.
I have about twenty minutes before my next class. Just enough time to brush my hair, drink my coffee, and skim a recap of one of my favourite shows.
This is something else you should know about me. I love TV shows, but I don’t have time to watch. Instead, I’ve managed to mainline written summaries of several seasons of programs that I’ve only ever seen snippets of on YouTube. Yup. Reading TV. It’s a sign of the times, I suppose. For some reason, I just need to keep up to date on pop culture. It’s kind of a thing for me. I like being in the know. Maybe it’s because no one in my social circle really cares to talk about the politics of gender in a Roman bath house. But they sure do love to talk about celebrities and music and movies and cable shows.
Anyway, I’ve gotta go teach. I’ll spare you that.
Thursday. Noon. Or thereabouts.
His name is Evan. He’s the muffin-bringer’s uncle. I know this because the muffin-bringer, Eddie, told half the class that his Uncle Evan thought I was hot.
Actually, the exact phrase Eddie used was “hot for teacher.”
Now, put yourself in my shoes. You’re standing in front of a class of impressionable young students, the majority of whom are taking your class because they need a language to complete their arts degree and someone once told them Latin is easier than French or German or Russian. Anyway, for six weeks, they are mine every day at 10 am. Here I am trying to project an image of stern intellectualism, and they’re in the midst of a discussion wherein the object of my earlier attraction has called me hot.
What I wanted to say was “Did he say hot? Or is this your paraphrasing the conversation? What did he think was hot? Tell me, Eddie. Tell me now, you little muffin-bringing bugger and I’ll give you a B in this class. Don’t tell me and you’re lucky to get out with a D.”
But what I said was “Pop quiz.”
Now, I’m not really supposed to give a pop
quiz. At least not one that counts for any portion of their grade. But I can do it as an exercise. And the verb they have to conjugate is garrio. To chatter.
There were a few snickers until they realized it was more difficult than they thought.
Anyway, back to the present. Evan. Not a bad name.
Doesn’t get stuck in my throat the way this lunch is doing. That’s what I get for having lunch in the University Centre. I rarely eat on campus, and when I do, it’s usually in my office. But it seems that today I’m playing the role of stalker girl. Yup. The only reason I’m eating rubber mac and cheese for lunch is because I thought maybe I’d see Evan still hanging out under the clock tower. That’s sad on many, many levels.
Sadder still is my disappointment that he isn’t there doing God knows what with the nerds.
Time to get my head out of the clouds and back to work. My new house would appreciate it. It’s not quite a fixer-upper. On the surface, it’s got all the charm and character I desire. But the guts of the house need a bit of work. And if I don’t want to spend a small fortune in heating once the winter comes, the first thing I must do is get rid of that oil furnace. The head of the department recommended the contractor he used on his renos who does energy-efficient retrofitting. I need to email him about setting up an appointment.
I love email. I love being able to talk to people without having to get into all the awkward conversation bits. It’s far more efficient being able to just say “This is what I need, this is when I need it, can it be done?” than the pointless pleasantries of “How are you? Some weather we’re having, etc. etc.” Not that I don’t like conversation, but I prefer to have it with people I want to hang out with. Not every human I need to connect with for a quick question.
Oh God. There he is. How did I not see him earlier? He’s sitting about ten tables away. Too far to be able to hear anything. He’s with Eddie. Just the two of them. He’s having a burger and fries. And they’re engrossed in something in binders. He must be a grad student. Or maybe he’s a late bloomer. Maybe he’s just gone back to school. Regardless, he is beautiful. It wasn’t just a trick of the imagination. This isn’t the dimly lit cavern under the clock tower. This is one of the most well lit spots on campus, with windows lining both sides of the long food court.
His hair is somewhere between brown and blond, depending on how the light hits it. Little curls dance just above his collar. It’s thick. Looks soft. I’m willing to bet no product goes on his hair other than good old shampoo and conditioner.
Evan. It suits him. Google tells me its Celtic meaning is Young Warrior. Yum. I can deal with that.
So now is the time when I need to make a decision. I’m not a wallflower by nature. If there’s a man I like, I have no qualms making the first move. If I were still in grad school, I know I’d be walking over there right now. No questions asked. But he’s the uncle of a student. And most likely a student himself, although I’m fairly certain he’s not studying classics. My male cohort tends to have a far more studious and academic look. Or they look like hipsters. They don’t look like Roman soldiers ready to march into battle and tear the Gauls limb from limb.
But maybe there’s a first for everything. Fate is a recurring theme in Roman history, and I know what happens to those who tempt it. It would be just my luck if he showed up in one of my classes. And therefore, I can’t do it.
Mark this down in the history books. I, Jillian Carew, am going to do nothing.
It’s not that I’m afraid of rejection. I’ve been rejected plenty in my life. But I once had a friend who wasn’t that good-looking who always had amazingly beautiful girlfriends. I asked him how he did it. His advice was life-changing for me. He said: “I flirt with anyone who interests me. I play the law of averages. At some point, one of them is bound to want to flirt back. And the law of averages tends to be in my favour more often than not.”
He was a stats major, of course. So clearly he knew what he was talking about.
Yup. I’ve had plenty of rejections in my life, but there have been an almost equal number of expressions of interest. But alas, Evan. We shall never know.
Tossing my laptop in my bag, I grab my cup of coffee and make a split second decision to not walk past Eddie and his hot uncle. Now that I’ve made up my mind, it’s best to just not tempt the gods. So long, handsome. You don’t even know how close we were to having an amazing affair.
Saturday morning.
I love living in the same neighborhood as a bakery. My Saturday routine has become one of the best parts of the weekend. I get up, boil the kettle, and haul on comfy weekend clothes. Put some tea bags in the ceramic pot that once belonged to my great-grandmother and let the tea steep. In less than two minutes, I’m at the bakery around the corner where I grab a dozen bagels that are still warm (don’t judge). By the time I get home the tea is ready, and I get to sit in front of the big window overlooking the street.
It’s an eclectic neighbourhood. Minimum wage workers mix with university students. Homeowners and renters. Retirees live next door to young professionals. You never know who, or what, you’ll see on a Saturday morning. When I was growing up, this was a part of downtown my parents frowned on me going to. Now, my mother is invading my space far too often with things to help decorate. She’s also taken an interest in my paltry garden. God help me.
I have a busy day planned. I’m meeting with the contractor shortly, and then I’m going to play a computer game. I know, I know. The first nice day of summer and I want to waste it indoors, playing a game. I’ve been searching for a download that will work on my Mac for ages and finally found out how to get it to work yesterday. I think I should get some credit for not cancelling my dinner plans with Ingrid last night. Which I should have done since she spent a good portion of the evening totally ruining the meal with telling me what a fool I was for not making a move on the hottie. As if she’s ever made a move on anyone. Gotta love friends who are quick to dole out advice they would never follow in a million years.
There’s the contractor’s truck pulling up. I suppose I should go make sure there are no poppy seeds stuck in my teeth before I answer the door.
A quick look in the hall mirror, and on cue, the knocker reverberates off the old wooden door.
I don’t know who I was expecting to see when I opened the door, but you could knock me over with a feather in this moment, so shocked am I.
It’s him. Eddie’s uncle. Evan.
“Lovely morning,” he says as I stand there, the door half-open where it halted in my shock. “Let’s see if we can get this done quickly so you can get out and enjoy the sun.”
I’m frozen. Unprepared for this.
“This is the right house, yea? You wanted an energy audit and quote on retrofitting?”
I nod and pull the door open. “Of course. Come in.”
He extends his hand. “I’m Evan Sharp.”
“Jillian Carew.”
“Nice house. I’d guess it was built in the 1920s?”
“Good guess. The deed says 1921.”
“That might not be good news for you. Could be a lot of work to upgrade. Can we start in the basement?”
Crap. The basement is a proper state.
“There’s a lot of clutter down there. I haven’t unpacked everything yet.” And likely never will.
“You haven’t seen my basement.” His laugh is deep. Deeper than his voice, which has a slight accent that places him from around the bay somewhere. I don’t have a lot of friends who aren’t from St. John’s, so I can’t even guess where on the island his particular twang comes from.
For the next hour he pokes and prods his way around the house, gabbing the entire time. There’s nothing shy about him, that’s for sure. And he seems to know what he’s talking about. He’s a smart guy. Knows a lot about houses and energy and the environment. By the time we get back to the kitchen, he already has a plan. He just needs to figure out what it will cost me.
As I pour up two glasses of wa
ter, he looks at my raggy yard.
“What a great garden.”
“Yea, for the weeds.”
“No way. You could have some fantastic raised beds out there and have a nice kitchen garden. Herbs, greens, some veg that doesn’t need a lot of depth.”
Is he nuts? He wants me to turn my backyard into a farm? He must be a hippie. Mom’s vision for this garden involves new sod, lots of easy to care for flowering shrubs-because she knows I’m not capable of growing anything-and some tidy beds of annuals. My vision for the backyard is something I can look out at without wanting to shudder.
“I’m not a gardener. Anything I plant out there will die from neglect.”
A shoulder shrug is all I get in return. “Self-reliance isn’t for everyone.”
Woah. Judgey much?
“It’s not that. I just prefer to get my veg from the farmers’ market than from my own hard work.”
Any minute now he’s going to tell me he’s a farmer too and has a booth set up at the market. A full-on environmental granola type who would balk at my misuse of power by playing games on a 50-inch television.
“So, Professor Carew, I’ll work the numbers and get back to you by Monday with some options.”
“How do you know I’m a professor?”
God, his smile is to die for. “I recognized you. You’re my nephew’s teacher. I saw you at MUN earlier this week.”
Eddie’s words came back to me. “My uncle thinks you’re hot.”
Oh shit. This could get messy. Play it cool, Carew. Play it cool.
“Oh, who’s your nephew?”
“Eddie Sharp. He’s in your Latin class. We all find it hilarious that he’s taking Latin. But when I saw you this week, I called my brother and told him I now understood why.”
Stomach, stop clenching. Heart, quit racing. Mouth, say something not totally stupid.
Passionate Kisses 2 Boxed Set: Love in Bloom Page 137
