If I could trust myself with anyone, I thought, it might be him.
Before he looked at me again with those penetrating eyes, before I could think of an excuse to stay, I surrendered to my fear and hurried away. I had to force myself not to look back.
I thought I’d never see him again. If I’d been another kind of woman, I could have sought him out, taken one of his courses, dropped by his office.
But I wasn’t the kind of woman who did things like that. I couldn’t be, even if I’d wanted to. I’d worked hard to get into the UW, and I had a very strict schedule of classes I needed to take to graduate.
I had a part-scholarship and a job at a coffeehouse on State Street, a tiny studio apartment, and an unwavering notion that graduation would put me on a path toward something normal.
While I nourished a secret hope of one day finding a man who would help rid me of my inhibitions, I had to focus on other things first. I’d spent years figuring out what I needed to do, and I couldn’t deviate from that course now that I was finally accomplishing something. Seeking out a medieval history professor who made my heart race certainly wasn’t part of my plan.
Two weeks after our encounter on the sidewalk, the semester started. I managed to get my transfer credits approved by appealing to the professors of two courses. I immersed myself in classes on digital communication, international studies, database management, and American literature.
When I wasn’t in class or at the library, I studied or worked. I forgot all about Professor West—or tried to tell myself I had.
Until he walked into Jitter Beans one morning.
I was helping another customer, answering a question about the difference between a cappuccino and a caffe latte.
“So a cappuccino has a stronger coffee flavor?” the guy asked, peering at me intently.
“That’s correct.” I looked over his shoulder to check how many other customers were waiting.
My gaze collided with Professor West’s.
I drew in a sharp breath, my pulse thudding a stream of heat through my blood. How had I not known the instant he stepped inside?
I couldn’t stop staring at him, tracking my gaze over his ruffled, dark brown hair, the angles of his features, the curve of his beautiful mouth. He was all-professor in a tailored suit and a perfectly knotted tie, his briefcase in hand.
A smile crinkled his eyes as he looked at me, then he tilted his head slightly toward the guy I was supposed to be helping.
“Oh.” I swung my attention back to the customer, who looked a little annoyed at having been dismissed. “Sorry, what?” I said.
“I asked if you could make the latte with an extra shot of espresso,” he repeated.
“Sure.” My hands trembled as I rang up the order and conveyed it to the girl who was making the drinks. “It’ll be ready in a sec.”
The guy took ten years to get out his wallet and pay for the latte. By the time Professor West approached the counter, my stomach was taut with nerves.
“Um…” I gripped the edge of the counter. “Hi.”
Amusement flashed in his expression. “Hi.”
“Can I help you?” I tried to muster a professional tone, aware of my coworkers bustling around behind me, the hum of conversation from other customers.
“Medium coffee, please.” He slid a hand into his pocket. “For here.”
I turned to grab a cup and pour the coffee. “Room for cream in your coffee, sir?”
“No, thanks. Did you get everything straightened out with the registrar?”
I looked at him in surprise, wondering why he cared. “Yes, I did what you suggested. A couple of professors filled out the right forms indicating I’d already covered the curriculum.”
“Good.”
“Thanks for the help… Professor West.”
“Dean.”
I put the cup on the counter, painfully aware of the beat of my heart, fast as a hummingbird’s wings. “Dean?”
“My name. Dean West.”
“Oh. I’m—”
“Olivia,” he said.
The sound of my name in his deep voice rolled through me like a breaking cloud.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“I saw your name on the papers at the registrar’s office.” He handed me a couple of dollars. “I remembered it. Olivia R. Winter.”
I rang up the order and counted out his change. “Why did you remember my name?”
“Actually…” He lifted the cup and turned to the tables. “I remembered you.”
I stared after him as he sat at a table beside the window and opened a newspaper. We didn’t speak again that day, but I saw him leave and gave him a little wave of farewell. I had the instinctive sense he would come back. I wanted him to.
And he did. He always ordered a medium coffee, no room for cream, and sometimes a muffin. It was my favorite time of year—early September with crisp, clean air and warm colors and a touch of fall.