Late at night, Miki and Kane’s bedroom
Kane: Mick, you’re a good judge of character. Do you think there’s something wrong with Quinn?
Miki, turning over under the covers to face Kane: I think there’s something wrong with you for even asking that. When are you going to let go of the Quinn you’ve got in your head and see the one that’s in your heart?
K: Way to kick a man in the balls there, love.
M: Hey, if ever you develop that kind of kink. You just let me know. There are times I really want to kick you in the balls.
“PROFESSOR MORGAN!” A shout across the campus parking structure brought Quinn to a stuttering halt. “Excuse me! Professor!”
Despite the college’s nest up against the hills, the cold wind coming up off the Bay snarled and bit at his face, playing with the soft black scarf he’d wrapped around his neck, and Quinn shivered, zipping his bomber jacket up to his chest. Next to him, Graham Merris, one of his older colleagues at the school’s history department, flared his nostrils, a sneer working up from his tight lips to his narrowed black eyes.
“It is Doctor Morgan,” Graham sniffed when a ponytailed young woman caught up with them. “He has earned the right to that title—”
“It’s okay, Graham,” Quinn murmured, shoving his hands back into his jacket’s warm pockets. Smiling at the young woman, he tried to remember where he’d seen her before. “Quinn’s fine too. Can I help you?”
She exhaled, straining her thin T-shirt with the press of her large breasts and steaming up the air in front of her flushed face. Goose bumps carpeted her bare arms, undulating waves of prickled skin and raised hair. A slight dip in her skin, some remnant of a childhood injury, changed the flow of the wind, fluttering the hair along its ridge. She shifted, and the process began again, a full ripple of flowing hair, then a skittering, defiant broken line cutting the dynamics of the chilled wind.
A silence settled over the space, and in the pregnant nothingness, Quinn suddenly realized she’d been speaking to him.
“I’m sorry. Distracted.” It was a common apology, one he rattled off without even thinking about it. It was such a familiar phrase. His family’d grown used to repeating things twice, sometimes even when he’d been paying attention. He had no idea what she’d said or who she even was. “Can you say that again?”
“I was asking about our final papers. If I could have a couple of days extension? I was sick and—”
That was where he’d seen her. She was in one of his classes. A back-of-the-room sitter who spent a lot of time slipping in and out of the last row of seats instead of taking notes. He couldn’t remember her name or even her grades, but from the warning tickle in his brain, they weren’t very good. He blinked, catching the tail end of her reasoning for the extension—something about a cat throwing up everywhere.
Since he had a cat, he understood the severe consequences of too much rich tuna and a sip of milk. He just wasn’t sure what cat hork had to do with needing more time on a paper.
“The paper isn’t due until a week from now.” Quinn counted off the days in his head, making sure he had the right timeline. “It’s only five thousand words—”
“Yeah, I kind of lost my research notes. That’s what I was telling you.” More wiggling, and she pressed in closer, leeching some of his warmth. Her nipples were poking up tiny points in her T-shirt, and if he looked hard enough, he could make out thin blue lines of chapped skin around the edges of her gloss-covered lips.
“Do you have a jacket? I don’t know if I have something in the car.” His Audi was new, too new for him to have anything other than a spare tire and an emergency kit in the trunk. “Graham, do you keep anything in your car? A throw or towel? Oh, I might have one of those fleece throws. My mother’s always—”
“Doctor Morgan, I just need more time.” His student rubbed her arms briskly. “I don’t need a jacket. I’ve got one with my stuff. About the paper? Can I have another week?”
“Then why aren’t you wearing—?” Quinn caught Graham’s eye roll. “Um, I can probably give you another week, but that’ll dock your grade down a half step. You’ll have to write a really good paper on….” Hell, he didn’t even know what topic she’d chosen. “You’re ‘Industrial Revolution’?”
“And its Artistic Influences.” Her teeth chattered through her smile. “A week’s great. Thanks. And oh, I love your accent.”
She was gone before he could catch her name, and Quinn sighed, resigned to writing himself a text to remind him about the conversation. He’d tapped in a few letters on his tablet when Graham cleared his throat. Looking up, he was surprised to find the older man’s curled lip directed at him.