Lane Hall hadn’t changed much. As Ali stepped through the front doors of the building that had housed the history department since FDR’s first administration, it was like being transported back in time. Not all the way back to the Great Depression but back to her freshman year of college.
The walls were the same fading shade of mint green. Legend had it the paint was government-issued surplus from a testing site in New Mexico. In actuality, it was probably the unfortunate result of an eager-to-seem-hip administrator back in the 1950s. That wasn’t as much fun as imagining the paint coming from a lab that conducted top-secret alien research or tested nuclear weapons. She wondered if freshman students were still warned not to touch the walls to avoid radiation poisoning.
The little alcove to the right held equally ancient vending machines. If she hadn’t watched the goods be changed out on more than one occasion, it would be easy to believe that the snacks were every bit as old as everything else.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she still hadn’t eaten the cup of Greek yogurt Sidney had shoved at her on the way out the door that morning. She’d dig in to it just as soon as she settled into the professor’s office to work.
The elevator groaned and whirled as it slowly climbed up to the history department offices. She wondered if the elevator still got stuck at least once a week. She whispered a silent prayer that if it did it would wait until she wasn’t a passenger.
If the old decor hurt new student enrollment, there didn’t seem to be any signs of it. This fresh crop of students looked bigger than her own class more than a decade ago. They even had the same glazed and dazed look in their eyes. The one that always appeared a month into the term and didn’t ease up until after Spring Break.
Funny how she hadn’t noticed any of this when she’d arrived to ambush Professor Mitchell. She’d probably been too focused on the task at hand. It hadn’t been her first ambush, but usually she was trying to pin down an unsuspecting interview source. Still, she’d spent the better part of the weekend fighting off the guilt. The professor had looked truly gobsmacked when she’d been waiting in his office.
Maybe she shouldn’t have shared a ride home with him that first evening. At least not without telling him who she was. It had probably been even less appropriate to chat up the app developer at the bar. And to ask him if there was any way to override the ride-share app to guarantee she could share a ride with the professor.
In the end, it hadn’t been necessary to get technology involved. The professor had been so tipsy he’d readily believed there’d been a glitch.
She hadn’t been able to help herself.
The longer she’d sat there at the bar watching him talk—or rather listen—to his friend, and the more Sidney warned her she’d have a fight, well, it had only made her want to crack through his aloof demeanor. And fast. So she’d secretly befriended him in the car and taken his phone number for future use. Then she’d surprised him at his office mere hours later while he was still duking it out with a hangover.
Given the chance to do it over . . . she’d probably go about it the exact same way. Those few minutes in the car had given her crucial insight into the man she was tasked with bringing around. The biggest revelation: he was proud of his work. While he might be giving her mother and his publisher fits with his failure to finish his next book project, she could see that the desire to share his research burned bright.
Now, she just had to figure out where the hang-up was, and they could push past it. If she had to guess, he was probably dealing with acute performance anxiety. The same thing had happened to her father after his first Oscar nomination. And his second, and third. Not to mention every time he added an Emmy to his office shelf. For some, the better their work—the greater the accolades—the more terrifying the prospect of following up became.
Professor Mitchell had written a history book that topped the best-seller charts for months. Not only that, but he did it with his first book. It was no small wonder he was struggling to follow that up.
They could get past that. She’d helped her father work through it. She could certainly deal with an aloof, yet charming, history professor.
Muttering another prayer of thanks when the elevator doors opened on the fifteenth floor, Ali gave a friendly wave to the office assistant at the front desk and rounded the corner down the hallway to Professor James Mitchell’s office.
The door was closed, which wasn’t a surprise. Her mother had warned her that the professor was notoriously tardy—and even absent—lately. But, unless he was napping during office hours, he left it unlocked. She was instructed to go in and make herself comfortable while she waited for him to show up.
She froze at the door. It was covered in a collage of scribbled notes. Post-its scrawled with glittery gel ink. Loose half-sheets of paper ripped from notebooks, edges still frayed, and stuck to the door with what appeared to be gum.
Again, she wondered how she’d missed such an intriguing detail days before. Of course her mother had been lecturing her about how much another book from James Mitchell would raise the profile—and funds—for the department. She’d probably been too distracted to notice.
Then again, it was kind of hard to miss.
“The janitor clears the door every Friday morning,” the office assistant said. She grinned and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “It fills up again over the weekend.”
“What are they?”
Ali leaned forward, squinting to read what appeared to be a phone number from someone named Taylor.
“Love notes from his adoring fans. Your mother has asked them to stop. She’s sent out emails and posted flyers. They even tried painting the door. Nothing works.” The office assistant giggled. “They’re determined to get his attention. But then, who can blame them?”
“Who, indeed?” she muttered.
Not all of the notes were phone numbers. Most had email addresses. A few had questions about assignments or readings. But most did in fact look like love notes from groupies vying for a rock star’s attention.
Not only was it unsafe for these young co-eds to post their contact information so publicly, but it was more than a little over-the-top and reeked of desperation. No wonder it drove her mother nuts.
Maybe the professor liked the attention. She hoped that wasn’t the case. She didn’t relish the notion of working with a conceited man who chased after students. After working in Hollywood off and on over the years, she’d seen more than her fair share of men using their authority to land some action. It had turned her stomach then, and she wouldn’t condone or support it now.
Seemingly reading her thoughts, the office assistant sighed. “No one seems to care that Professor Mitchell never responds.”
That or they didn’t want to acknowledge it. If they did, it would mean they didn’t have a chance. And if they knew that, they didn’t have any hope.
Ali sighed. “I should probably get to work.”
With a parting grin, the assistant turned and headed back to her desk. Too late Ali realized she didn’t know the young woman’s name. She’d make sure to ask the next time they ran into each other. Having worked her share of assistant jobs, she knew what it was like to work for people who didn’t even bother to learn your name.
At least that wouldn’t be the case this time around. There was no question Professor Mitchell knew her name.
Ali turned the handle and pushed the door. Nothing happened. She twisted the handle again, this time as far as it would go, and pushed. It wouldn’t budge. She tried it three more times before conceding what should have been obvious from the start.
Professor Mitchell had started locking his door.
Sidney was right. He wasn’t going to make this easy. Though Ali was sure she could call her mother, or even ask the name-still-unknown office assistant, to bust in, she didn’t want to stage another ambush so soon. Especially not when there was a very real possibility it would become necessary to orchestrate a major one in the near future.
Instead, she took a seat near the reception desk where she’d be sure to see the professor when he arrived. While she waited, she ate her yogurt and learned the assistant was named Jessa. She also skimmed through his first book again, marking pages and passages that seemed important to note. Every five minutes or so she checked the time. If he didn’t show up soon, she wouldn’t have time to do more than say “hi” before he had to teach class.
It was fortunate her mother was tied up in a meeting with the university’s administrators and wasn’t around to witness this sad state of affairs. It couldn’t be called a failure yet. But it didn’t bode well that she’d spent her first two hours on the job talking to a college student about yogurt, probiotics, and the best website for buying and returning shoes. She’d also dodged a couple of text messages from her father, who was having troubles with a transition in the second episode of his new series.
With only ten minutes to go until Professor Mitchell’s first class of the week, Ali said her good-byes and once again took her chances on the elevator. Five minutes before class was scheduled to begin, she filed into the lecture hall along with nearly a hundred students. Glancing around the room, it was hard to ignore that, like the authors of the Post-its, most of the students were of the female variety.
Maybe it was sexist of her, but she was surprised to see so many young women interested in medieval battles. Girl power.
A couple of women in their early twenties dropped into the seats in front of her.
“God, Professor James was looking good on Friday.”
“He looks good every day. That hair.”
“And that accent.”
“Plus, he can wear the hell out of a pair of jeans and a leather jacket.”
So much for the next wave of feminism. Ali fought the very real urge to lean forward and tell the young women that there was more to college than scoping out hot professors.
Not that she could fault their taste. There was something appealing about a man like James Mitchell. And if she was in their shoes, she probably would have enjoyed getting to listen to a man like “Professor James” give a lecture three days a week. Maybe it was his looks and accent that brought the young women into the classroom, but they must have left with some sort of education.
The end, she supposed, would justify the means.
Promptly at 12:30, a hushed murmur settled over the room. Arching her neck, she followed their gazes to the front door as “Professor James” sauntered into the room with a young man in a white shirt and thin black tie trailing after him.
Just like when they met, he wore a leather jacket and jeans. It wasn’t a look suited for most instructors hoping to land a tenured faculty position. Then again, based on everything she’d heard about him so far, she supposed he didn’t particularly care what people thought about him.
With his leather jacket and devil-may-care persona, he was like a modern-day James Dean. A modern-day James Dean who taught medieval history.
“Right, let’s get to it,” he said into the microphone, paying no attention to the feedback. “I believe, when we last met, the crusaders and King Guy of Jerusalem were preparing to battle Saladin and his thirty thousand men . . .”
Willing to sacrifice another fifty minutes, Ali settled in for the lecture. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t the most productive use of her time. She could be doing more background research on James Mitchell. She should also spend a couple of hours working on some freelance pieces she’d taken over the weekend to give herself a cash cushion until payday.
Then again, she might be able to suss out more on the professor and his work by listening to the lecture. It would undoubtedly offer some sort of insight, and the pre-lecture chatter from the students had been illuminating.
She could catch him after class. In the meantime, Ali listened to him weave a tale about the Battle of Hattin. As he spoke about Saladin’s army decimating the crusading forces, his words transported her back to 1187. He painted pictures with his words. The minutes flew by, and before she realized it, most of the class had passed.
If he saw her, he didn’t let on. In a room of more than a hundred students, she probably blended into the sea.
Then, with five minutes left in the hour, he stared straight at her. A jolt of nerves flashed through her like the time her mom had caught her writing a friend’s paper for fifty bucks. But the feeling passed, and she flashed a grin.
Cocking an eyebrow, he closed his binder. “That’s it for today. I’ll leave Mr. Young to distribute your grades. I’ll be off.”
Wait. Was he seriously leaving with time on the clock?
While the TA handed out papers covered in blue ink, she slid out of her seat to chase after him. Her progress was slowed by the rows of students around her and the backpacks and jackets they’d left discarded all around. By the time she reached the door, he was long gone. She glanced down both legs of the hallway but couldn’t tell which direction he’d taken.
That’s when her phone buzzed.
Tell your mother I do not require any assistance.
P.S. Please delete this number.
Not likely.
Using her social media stalking skills, Ali tracked the professor to a coffee shop near campus. Her time at The G Spot hadn’t been a total waste, it seemed. And he, apparently, didn’t know that a man on the run shouldn’t post a photo of his latte on Instagram.
Standing just inside the entrance, she was once again transported to her college days. The coffee shop had been one of her favorite spots to study. As the professor had discovered, they made the best lattes in town.
Maybe she could grab one before she dragged James back to his office.
A sudden movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. With his messenger bag slung over his shoulder, James was crouched to the ground behind an oversized ficus.
It was a good thing he was handsome, because Professor Mitchell didn’t seem to know much about strategy. That was particularly shocking for someone who was supposedly an expert in medieval battles.
Folding her arms, Ali arched an eyebrow and waited for the professor to give up his act. Slowly rising to his full height, he gripped his to-go cup and crossed the room.
She held up her phone to show the picture he’d posted. His gaze darkened.
“I believe I told you your services weren’t required.” His voice was awfully posh for a man who’d been hiding behind a plastic plant only moments before.
“That’s not for you or me to decide.” She shifted from one foot to the other, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “You don’t have to fight me on this. I’m really good at what I do.”
“So am I.” On that note, James stepped around her and slipped out the door. He timed it perfectly so she had to wait a few crucial seconds for a pack of students to meander through the entrance.
Letting out a frustrated grunt, Ali chased after him.
“I don’t judge you for falling behind schedule,” she said once she’d caught up to him halfway down the block. “Sometimes the creative process goes through a few problems.”
“My creative process is just fine.” He pressed a key fob in his pocket, unlocking the door to a silver Prius.
Oh no. He was not getting away again. Not without giving her a chance. Running behind his car, she stood a few feet away with her arms spread wide.
He poked his head out the window. “You might want to move.”
She shook her head and extended her arms even wider. “Just give me five minutes.”
With one more pointed stare, James disappeared back into the car. The red brake lights flashed on, and the car inched back. Surely, he wasn’t going to—Ali jumped out of the way a few seconds before the bumper came into contact with her knee.
Jaw open, she gaped as he pulled away with a little wave.
“You’re insane,” she shouted after him. Didn’t he realize he could have killed her?
The man was even more trouble than her mother had said. Not to be deterred, she pulled out her phone and punched in a text message.
I will find you.
A moment later, she had her response.
Please stop.
With his classes done for the day, and no office hours scheduled, Ali wasn’t sure where to find him next. There were only two places she could think of to find him. One was Amarillo Sour, but she doubted Ford or Sidney would appreciate it if she brought this drama to the bar. The only other place was his apartment. She’d found his address on his contract with the press.
Pulling up the ride-sharing app, fifteen minutes later, she was dropped off outside a tall apartment building. She caught a glimpse of his Prius and grinned.
Gotcha.
After thanking the driver, she stepped into the lobby and punched in his apartment number. It rang and rang without an answer. So she tried again. And again. She was about to try her luck with one of his neighbors when a security guard stepped out from behind the desk.
“Ma’am, I’ve been asked to escort you off the premises.”
For the second time that afternoon, her jaw fell open. Before she could make her case or explain, her phone buzzed with a new message.
Give it up. It’s not going to happen.
Oh, he was something else. She very nearly told him exactly what she thought, but the security guard cleared his throat.
“Ma’am?”
Still seething, she let the security guard usher her out the door without making a scene. After all, the guy was just doing his job.
Outside again, Ali ordered another car. While she waited, she couldn’t resist looking back at the building. A curtain moved in a window a few floors up. There, looking pleased with himself, stood James Mitchell. Catching her eye, he wiggled his fingers.
“That piece of . . .”
Her phone buzzed with another new message.
Safe travels. You’ll excuse me if I don’t say it’s been a pleasure.
Three strikes and she was out. For that day at least. But she’d meant what she had said earlier. He couldn’t hide forever. And soon, James Mitchell would see that she wasn’t the type of person who gave up easily. He’d understand exactly who he was up against.
Tucking her phone away, Ali raised her own hand. Puckering her lips, she blew him a kiss.
The smirk fell from his face, and she turned her back on him. She’d give him one more night of freedom. After that, he’d find out who was calling the shots now.
Twenty-four hours later, Ali was ready to do something she hadn’t done in a long time. She was going to admit defeat. After taking the evening off to regroup, Ali returned to Lane Hall the following morning.
Ready to confront James, she raised a hand to knock on his office door when a group of college students surrounded her. She stood tall while they scrutinized her.
“Yep.” One of them nodded. “That’s her.”
“She looks just like her picture.”
“She’s taller than I expected.”
“You can’t tell her height from a photo.”
“Professor James said she would be tall.”
“And he said she’d be here.”
It took all of Ali’s concentration to keep straight which woman was saying what. All the while, she couldn’t fight the growing knot of tension in her stomach. She wished she’d picked up the acting bug during her stint in LA. It might make acting her way out of this awkward situation a smidge easier.
“Where is the professor?” she asked lightly.
“Like we’d tell you.”
“His stalker.”
Ali gaped. “Stalker?”
“He told us all about you.”
“About how you’ve been waiting outside his apartment.”
“How you’re showing up to all his classes.”
Ali shook her head. “There’s been a mistake. I’m here to—”
“You’re here to make his life difficult.”
“We’ve seen people like you.”
“Women who think they’re perfect for Professor James.”
“Though they’re usually not as old as you.”
“Which makes your stalking him even more sad.”
“So sad.”
It was growing more and more difficult to keep it all straight. Their voices blurred together, swirling around her.
Ali held up her hands. “I don’t want trouble.”
“Well, you’re going to get it if you don’t leave him alone.”
“We’re here to put a stop to it.”
Almost like they were in the chorus line of a Broadway show, their arms folded across their chests in unison. Their eyebrows flew up as their bottom lips stuck out, giving her a line of the most judgmental stares she’d ever encountered. God, this was a nightmare. Worse than a dream about showing up to class for the first time on exam day or naked. She’d take either of those happening in real life over the condemnation army.
They were here to stop her from doing the job she’d been hired to do. She was too afraid to ask how exactly they planned to stop her. If it was anything like the treatment she was getting now, it was better not to know. Just like maybe it was better to stop pushing.
This was absurd. It was one thing for James to avoid her, but pitting a security guard and a pack of fans on her was too much. If the professor sincerely didn’t want her help, fine. It was no skin off her nose if he wrote the book without her. In fact, she didn’t care if he never finished the book.
A measly stipend and a break from producing a trashy TV show wasn’t enough incentive to deal with this nonsense. Maybe if she called her old boss now and groveled, she could be back at her old job tomorrow. What did it matter where she worked? It was all temporary. Someday, when she’d secured the funding for her own documentary project—whatever it was—she’d work on that.
Throwing her hands up, Ali took a cautious step backward. “Don’t worry about me, ladies.”
She took another step toward the stairs. “Message received. You can tell the professor I won’t bother him anymore.”
Ali kept them in her line of sight until she backed into a wall. Then she made a run for it down the stairs. Heart pounding, breath heaving, she didn’t stop until she arrived at the assistant’s desk outside her mother’s office.
“Dr. Ferguson.” She gasped for breath. “Need to talk. To her. Now.”
Her red face and heaving chest must have been terrifying because the student office worker directed Ali in without question. Even more telling was the lack of surprise on her mother’s face when Ali threw the door open.
“I’m out,” she announced. “I was fine working with an eccentric egomaniac. But I’m not about to get tarred and feathered by the history department’s version of the Heathers. I’m going back to LA.”
Her mother took off her glasses and sighed. “Get the door and take a seat.”
The calm, cool way her mother issued directions took some of the wind out of Ali’s sails. Still fuming, but no longer in danger of erupting, she closed the door and sank into an empty chair. Her mother reached into a mini fridge that probably predated the Cold War and produced a bottle of water. Ali grabbed it, sipped, and the fury cooled even more to just above a smolder.
“James Mitchell won’t work with me,” she said more calmly.
Her mother arched an eyebrow. “You specifically or anyone in general?”
Ali slouched back in her chair, folding her arms under her chest. “Does it matter?”
“If it’s you personally, then I need to hire someone else who can get the job done.” She smirked. “No offense.”
Adding that did little to cushion the blow. But Ali was used to it. Her mother had never been much for subtlety.
“I’m pretty sure it isn’t personal.”
Though Ali couldn’t swear it. Maybe that’s what Sidney had meant by her going about this wrong. Maybe if she’d gone with another approach . . . No. “It’s not personal.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.” She grabbed her phone and scrolled through their mostly one-sided text exchange. “He said, ‘Tell your mother I do not require any assistance.’”
“I figured as much.” Her mother tapped her chin thoughtfully. “If you couldn’t get through to him, it all but confirms my suspicions.”
When her mother didn’t volunteer anything else but continued to stare absently at a print of The Reading by Édouard Manet, Ali cleared her throat.
“What did you suspect?”
“He’s desperate.”
Her mother couldn’t seem to give a full answer. “About?”
“Leaving,” her mother replied absently. “Missing the book deadlines. Skipping class. Showing repeat Robin Hood screenings when he does make it to class. Ordering sandwiches to meetings. Wearing jeans and leather to faculty functions. Calling me Fergie.”
Head spinning, Ali had been nodding along with the list until that last one. “He calls you Fergie?”
“Yes. But you’re right. His problems aren’t with you.”
Ali bit back a laugh, suddenly feeling much better. She couldn’t say why, but she liked knowing James didn’t hate her. Also, she had to give the man credit. He could certainly push a person’s buttons. Her mother detested being called Fergie.
“I’m surprised you didn’t fire him on the spot.” She gestured to another print on the wall, of Jacques-Louis David’s Mars Being Disarmed by Venus. “Maybe send him to the guillotine.”
“That has to be why he’s doing it.”
“To get maimed?” Ali’s eyes widened. “I was kidding.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s trying to get fired.”
That had been a joke too. “Why would he want that?
“Because he’s only halfway through his contract.” Her mother spoke like everyone knew a visiting professor’s business agreement with a university. Like it was somehow common water-cooler fodder. “A few months ago, he asked if he could be done at the end of the semester. I said no.”
Ali frowned. “But why?”
Even she knew most academics were fighting for tenure—not abbreviated appointments.
Her mother waved off the question but nodded to herself. “That has to be it. His change in behavior started right after I told him the contract would stand. He’d been a model employee before. I should have realized this sooner.”
Ali was still struggling to follow everything her mother was saying. Or to figure out the motivation or reasoning behind it. The whole situation seemed so random, so absurd.
“You’re saying he’s not finishing his book on purpose. Because he wants you to fire him.” She shrugged. “Why don’t you just let him go? There has to be someone else who actually wants to teach medieval torture, or whatever he does.”
“We need him,” her mother snapped. “Donors like him. People actually buy and read his research. His classes are always full. He’s good for business.”
“And here I thought college was about academia.”
“It used to be.” Her mother paused to stare out her window. “But now it’s about money too. Tuition. Grants. High-ticket donors. Book sales.”
Which, apparently, was where James Mitchell’s worth came into play.
“But there have to be other—”
“If we lose him, we’ll lose key donors. And if we lose the donors, the administration will be displeased.” Her mother’s jaw set. “I’m up for review as department chair this summer.”
There it was. The heart of the matter. Eileen Ferguson, who had built a career by being the best, was afraid her career would be tanked by a rogue British professor with a penchant for leather jackets and avoiding conflict at all costs. Now she understood her mother’s urgency. It went beyond retaining a popular professor. It was about saving her job. No wonder she’d been able to find money in the already tight departmental budget to hire a project manager. It was all starting to make sense now.
Except for one part.
“Why does he want to leave so badly?” Ali asked.
“Who knows? It hardly matters.”
“Does he have another job offer? Is he homesick? Has he had some sort of conflict with another professor? Or—”
“I told you it doesn’t matter.”
Ali would argue that it did in fact matter. If he was upset enough to torpedo his reputation and book deal in order to leave, there had to be some root cause. But if her mother didn’t want to discuss it, well, it was her department.
Ali set her bottle of water down and started to rise. “This seems pretty hopeless. It was worth a shot hiring me. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
Her mother blinked in surprise. “You’re not actually quitting?”
“I told you I was done. That’s why I came here.”
“But that was before. When we thought he might have a problem with you.”
Ali didn’t bother pointing out that she’d never actually said that. “Whatever his reasons, there doesn’t seem to be much point in my sticking around. It’s pointless if he’s set on leaving.”
Her mother rose, rounding the desk to place a gentle but firm hand on Ali’s shoulder. “You just have to find another way to get through to him.”
“I’ve already tried.” It had been demoralizing and embarrassing.
“Corner him at home.”
“I tried that.” And she’d been all but barred from the premises. “I tried everything.”
Pushing her mother’s hand away, Ali moved for the door. “Like I said, I’m sorry this didn’t work. But this isn’t what I signed up for.”
Her mother sputtered incoherently. Ali would’ve felt bad about getting her mother so worked up, if not for the recent memory of her encounter with James’s minions.
Ali’s hand was on the door handle when her mother called out, “I can give your film seed money.”
She froze and turned around. “You’d pay for me to make a documentary?”
“Probably not the whole project.” Ali started to move again. “But if it has something, anything to do with the humanities, I can help you find additional funding.”
Her heart fluttered as excitement coursed through her veins. She shouldn’t get excited. This could all be a ruse. Or it could be the answer to her professional quandary.
She swallowed hard and spoke slowly. “You’re saying you’d take money reserved for something else and give it to me. To make a film. In exchange for getting James Mitchell to turn in the completed first draft of his book.”
“Yes.”
Her mother was even more desperate than she could have imagined. Not only was her department broke, but ever since splitting with Ali’s father, she’d despised documentaries. She called them emotionally manipulative vestibules for distorting the facts.
If Ali took the deal, her mother would probably lord it over her forever.
Still, Ali would have the means to do what she’d always wanted. In exchange for suffering what was sure to be more embarrassment—or at least a headache—at the hands of a very determined Brit.
And just in time for her thirtieth birthday in a couple of months. By the time her mom was her age, she’d earned a PhD and a faculty spot at Missouri State. Her father had already been nominated for his first Emmy. A headache might not be such a bad trade-off to make something out of her current nothing.
“Okay,” she said at last. “But I’m going to need this in writing.”
“Done,” her mother said. “And after we do, you might want to make an appearance at a little gathering I’m holding this evening.”