Spiral of Bliss: The Complete Boxed Set

by Nina Lane

  Half-expecting it to be his phone number, I opened the paper. There was a library call number written in scrawled, masculine handwriting: PR9199.3 R5115 Y68.

  I looked at Dean in confusion.

  “Memorial Library,” was all he said before taking his coffee and going to his usual table by the window.

  I tucked the paper safely into my pocket. As soon as my shift ended, I hurried down State Street to the massive campus library. I took the stairs to the second floor and checked the numbers on the ends of the stacks that stood like sentries throughout the floor.

  PR9199.3 R5115 Y68. I ran my finger along the rows of dusty, old books before I came to the correct volume. My heart thumped as I pulled it off the shelf and looked at the title.

  Your Mouth Is Lovely.

  I smiled.

  When Dean walked into Jitter Beans the next day, I pulled the book from beneath the counter and handed it to him. I’d stuck a Post-It on the front with another call number: Aston 552.

  “Cooperative Children’s Book Center,” I said. “What can I get for you, sir?”

  “Medium coffee, please.” He put the book under his arm. “No room for cream.”

  He returned two days later and held up a children’s picture book titled A Rock Is Lively. I grinned.

  His eyes twinkled. “Lots of stuff buried beneath the surface of a rock, the book says. Very turbulent. Molten, even.”

  “The book is right.”

  Our gazes met. A bolt of energy arced between us, one that made my heart hum with warmth and excitement.

  “Medium coffee, no cream?” I asked, turning to the dispenser.

  I pushed his cup across the counter at the same moment that he reached for it. Our fingers met, and a shiver of awareness jolted clear up my arm.

  I jerked my hand back, my breath shortening. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” His eyebrows drew together, faintly puzzled by my reaction.

  My face grew hot. Now he must think you’re a freak.

  I wiped my damp palms on my apron and tried to regain my equilibrium. “We… uh, we have some fresh scones in.”

  “No, thanks.” He continued looking at me, one hand curved around the cup, a frown tugging at his mouth.

  Yeah. You should probably stay away from me, Professor West.

  “Olivia, I’m giving a lecture at the Chazen Museum on Friday night,” he said. “I’d like it if you’d come. We can go somewhere afterward.”

  I blinked. “Are you asking me out?”

  The bluntness of the question made him smile. “I am.”

  “Oh.” Oh!

  He waited. I flushed. Panic fluttered in my chest.

  “I don’t… I don’t really date,” I stammered. “In fact, I don’t date at all.”

  “Okay.” He scratched his chin. “Well, we don’t have to think of it as a date, if you don’t want to. We can just go out.”

  The tight knot of dismay inside me loosened a little. I badly wanted to spend time alone with him, this medieval history professor who was luring me with library call numbers.

  “Isn’t us going out against university policy?” I asked. “Since you’re a professor?”

  A shadow eclipsed his expression for an instant, as if I’d reminded him of inviolable rules. Then I got worried he would retract the invitation.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  “It’s not against policy if you’re not a student of mine,” he said. “But if you’d rather not—”

  “No, that’s not it,” I interrupted. “I just… I was just making sure.”

  “Do you plan to take any medieval history classes?” he asked.

  “Actually, I plan to stay far away from the medieval history department,” I admitted.

  “Good idea.” He paused. “So what do you think?”

  I took a breath. For God’s sake, Liv. It’s a lecture and maybe coffee afterward. That’s it.

  “Okay,” I finally said. “Friday night.”

  “Good. The lecture starts at seven.”

  “What’s it about?” I asked.

  “Monastic architecture and sarcophagi.” He lifted his cup in a salute and winked at me. “Prepare to be dazzled.”

  I already am, I thought as I watched him walk away.

  I arrived at the Chazen Museum an hour before the lecture and spent the extra time looking at the exhibits. I was still a little nervous about the evening, but in a good way. After two days of wrestling with the whole issue, I’d firmly told myself that I liked Professor Dean West and I was looking forward to seeing him outside of Jitter Beans. It was exactly the kind of nice, normal evening that I wanted.

  A large crowd filled the lecture hall of the museum, the buzz of conversation fading as a woman came out to announce the other museum events and introduce Professor West. I was sitting in the fifth row, and my heart gave a little leap when he approached the podium and began speaking.

  Warm and rich, Dean’s voice flowed over the audience and seemed to settle in the core of my being. I welcomed the opportunity to stare at him without reservation, drinking in the sight of him in a crisp, navy suit and striped tie, his hair burnished by the lights.

  I remember him talking about a medieval church in France, the structure of a town, Roman sculptures, but more than the subject matter I was enraptured by the sound of his deep voice, the authoritative way he spoke and discussed the images on the screen behind him. I loved the gracious way he answered questions and listened to people’s comments. I loved that he knew so much.

  There was a reception after the lecture was over, and people kept vying for the distinguished professor’s attention. I drank a glass of cherry-flavored mineral water and ate about twenty grapes before I finally found a chance, and worked up my courage, to approach him.

  He gave me an easy smile, one that made my heart flutter. I had such a crush on him.

  “Hello, Olivia,” he said. “I’m glad you came.”

  “So am I. It was a really interesting lecture.”

  “Thanks.” He curled his hand beneath my elbow in a gesture that seemed utterly natural. I felt the warmth of his palm through my sleeve, and this time I didn’t pull away. I didn’t want to.

  “I need to go and thank the curators,” Dean said, his voice a low rumble over my skin. “Then if you’re free, we can go somewhere. Will you wait for me?”

  I nodded. I thought he might be the only man I would ever wait for.

  After ten minutes, he returned and we went to get our coats from the coatroom. Dean held out my coat while I slipped into it.

  I reached back to tug my hair from the collar, but he got there first. His fingers brushed the back of my neck as he eased my ponytail free of the coat. A waterfall of shivers ran down my spine, and my breath caught in my throat.

  “Thanks.” I quickly stepped away from him, ducking my head as I fastened the buttons.

  “Sure.” A slight tension ran through his voice.

  Shit. I turned back to him and forced a smile. “So where should we go?”

  “There’s a place over by the Capitol where we can get a drink or something to eat,” he suggested, hitching up the collar of his coat. “We can walk, if you don’t mind that it’s a little cold.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  He seemed to make a conscious effort not to touch me as we left the museum. I felt like I should apologize, knowing I was sending him mixed signals, but I didn’t know how to without getting into treacherous waters.

  We walked the length of State Street to a restaurant called The White Rose situated in a corner of the square. He held open the door of the restaurant for me, then spoke to the hostess. She smiled at him and led us past a crowd of waiting customers to a secluded, linen-covered table in the corner.
/>   “How’d you manage that?” I asked as Dean pulled my chair out for me.

  “Magic.”

  I didn’t doubt it. One look from him probably turned the hostess into a puddle of goo.

  “Actually…” He flashed me a grin. “Reservation.”

  Nice that he’d planned in advance where we would go. Made me feel like he’d been thinking about me.

  The waiter handed us leather-covered menus. Shadows and candlelight cascaded over the intimate tables, voices rose in a low hum, silver clinked against china plates.

  I studied Dean as he looked at his menu. The flame of the candle cast warm, dancing light over his face, illuminated the flecks of gold in his chocolate-brown eyes. The perfect, smooth knot of his tie nestled at the hollow of his throat. A swath of hair tumbled over his forehead. I curled my fingers into my palm against the urge to brush it back, to feel the sweep of the thick strands beneath my hand.

  Was he the one?

  I had no illusions of great love and romance. I never had. My mother’s relationships with men were restless and sometimes violent. I’d learned early on that it was easier not to count on anyone.

  But during the past few years, I’d come to certain conclusions about myself and relationships. I wanted to learn how to trust a man. I wanted to know what true, physical pleasure felt like. I wanted to find the courage to be vulnerable on my own terms, as my own choice.

  No, I hadn’t expected to find that man anytime soon, but I had an unnerving feeling he might be sitting across from me now.

  Dean looked up and caught me staring. His gaze held mine. Electricity crackled in the air between us, sparking red and blue. Heat flooded my cheeks.

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  Confusion creased his forehead. “For what?”

  “For being… weird.”

  His smile flashed. “I happen to like weird.”

  “Well, then, you hit the jackpot with me,” I muttered.

  “I know.”

  I glanced at him, arrested by the warmth of his gaze, my blush deepening. A streamer of pleasure mixed with trepidation wound through me.

  He nodded toward the menu. “Are you hungry?”

  “Very. The grapes I ate at the reception weren’t exactly filling.”

  We both ordered spice-crusted salmon with wild rice, and the waiter sent over a sommelier to discuss the wine choices. Dean seemed to know what he was talking about, and they eventually decided that some certain vintage of pinot noir would go well with our meals.

  “Where are you from?” I asked when our food arrived.

  “Originally California. San Jose area. My parents and sister still live out there.”

  “You have one sister?”

  “And a brother.” He speared a slice of fish with his fork, his mouth tightening. “I don’t know where he is.” He shook his head as if to dismiss the thought. “You?”

  “No brothers or sisters.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  I hated that question. I reached for my wineglass in an attempt to stall my answer. “Oh, all over,” I finally said. “We traveled a lot.”

  “Was your dad in the military?”

  “No. My parents split up when I was seven.” I concentrated on forking up a portion of rice, not wanting to know if he was looking at me with pity.

  “And what brought you to Madison?” he asked, almost as if he sensed I didn’t want to go down the path of my childhood.

  “I’d been wanting to attend the university,” I explained, “but couldn’t afford the full tuition. My aunt lives up in Pepin County, so I moved to a nearby town and went to a community college while saving my money. Then I got a part-scholarship so I could go to the UW. If everything goes as planned, I should graduate in two years.”

  He looked at me, something indefinable passing across his expression. “That’s very admirable.”

  I smiled wryly. “It’s why I’m an old undergrad. I didn’t enroll in community college until I was twenty-one, then I took classes part-time for a few years because I had to work.”

  “You’re not old.”

  “You probably had a master’s degree by the time you were twenty-four.” I reached for my wine again. “Took me a while to get here.”

  “But you did.”

  “I did.”

  We ate in silence for a few minutes, casting occasional glances at each other, the air sparking with heat whenever our eyes met. I liked the way he ate, his movements sharp and precise. I watched the muscles of his throat as he swallowed, the way his hand curled around his fork. The sight of his mouth closing around the rim of his glass sent a rush of arousal through me.

  I’d never felt this way before. About anyone.

  “So what exactly is it you teach, Professor West?” I asked.

  “Mostly medieval archeology and architecture, though that ties into other things. Town planning, political structures, religion. I’m going to France over winter break to do some work on the architecture of Sainte-Chapelle.”

  I should have been intimidated by the illustriousness of his work, but he was so matter-of-fact about it that any potential breach between us—a renowned professor and a girl struggling to get a bachelor’s degree—faded into insignificance. And I loved listening to him talk, his smooth baritone voice thudding right up against the walls of my heart.

  After dinner, we had coffee and shared a sinfully rich chocolate torte. He took a couple of bites, then sat back and watched me. Warm tension tightened my belly. I swiped a dollop of chocolate from my lower lip.

  “You, ah… you look at me a lot,” I remarked.

  “You’re very pretty.”

  I didn’t know about that, but the compliment poured through me like honey. “I like the way you look too.”

  That was an understatement. One glance at him and I went all hot and fluttery inside.

  He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. Curiosity and heat simmered in his expression.

  “What is it about you, Olivia?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you so sweet and determined and guarded all at once?”

  “I didn’t know I was all those things.”

  “You are. Why?”

  I shrugged and sank my fork into the torte again. If I was eating, I couldn’t talk much.

  I ate another bite and spoke around the mouthful. “This is really good.”

  Dean’s mouth twitched with a smile, but his eyes were still curious as he sat back again. He continued watching me as I polished off the torte and scraped the plate clean.

  By the time he paid the bill and retrieved our coats, I’d realized the danger of Professor Dean West. If I let him, he would slide right past all my defenses. No one had ever done that before.

  We went outside into the cold. He didn’t touch me. This time, though, I wanted him to. I nudged his elbow. He looked at me, then extended his arm and waited. I moved closer, falling into step beside him as we walked back to State Street.

  It felt exactly the way I’d imagined it would, pressed to his side with his body heat flowing into me and his arm strong and tight around my shoulders. I fit against him like a puzzle piece locking into place.

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  “Off Dayton Street, not far from the Kohl Center. I walked.”

  “Next time I’ll pick you up.”

  My pulse leapt at the idea that there would be a next time.

  “And this time,” Dean said, “I’ll drive you home. I’m parked by the museum.”

  When we reached the parking lot, he unlocked the door of a black sedan and ushered me inside before getting into the driver’s seat. I told him my address, and we fell silent on the short ride home. The buildings o
f downtown passed by in a blur of light and shadows.

  When he pulled up in front of my apartment, my damned nerves got tense again. I fumbled around collecting my bag and buttoning my coat.

  “So, thank you,” I said. “That was really nice.”

  “Yes, it was. Thank you too.”

  I took hold of the door handle. “I’ll just…”

  “Olivia.”

  I turned to face him. His eyes glittered in the light of the streetlamps. He reached out slowly, as if he were trying not to startle a kitten, and curled his hand around my wrist.

  His touch spiraled heat into my blood, igniting flashes of unbearably intimate thoughts—me in his arms, his lips sliding over my throat, his hands on my bare breasts. The air grew hot, compressed.

  “I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean said.

  My heart crashed against my chest, and a hard tremble swept through me. I parted my lips to draw in a breath.

  “I… okay.”

  He leaned across the console and lifted his hands to cup my face. His touch was gentle, still cautious, but the heat brewing in his eyes left me in no doubt as to his desire. We were closer than we’d ever been before, so close that I could see the darker ring of brown surrounding his irises.

  For a moment, we just stared at each other. Then his hands tightened on me as he lowered his mouth to mine. And the world fell away the instant our lips touched.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  August 22

  SIX DAYS HAVE PASSED SINCE I mentioned the idea of having a baby. A million thoughts are flying and twisting through my mind, but they don’t have anywhere to go. I’ve never been one for discussing personal details with my few girlfriends, and my mother would dispense lousy advice, even if I did know where she was. Not that I’d ever tell her anything either.

  What sucks is that the one person I really want to have a conversation with—the man I’ve always been able to talk to about anything—is unapproachable right now. When he’s even home. He’s not outwardly cold or forbidding, but I sense his reluctance to discuss it further. And truth be told, I’m not all that eager to have a repeat of our previous conversation anyway.