The following Tuesday during office hours, Cade reached into his book bag for his ringing phone. Instead of the phone, however, he pulled out a plastic rabbit Happy Meal toy on wheels. He sat back in his chair for a moment and rolled the bright blue plastic thing on his desk. As he did, the bunny’s ears wiggled and its head bobbed up and down.
Despite himself, he smiled. The toy brought back memories of Gabby coming to his rescue with chicken nuggets. She had this way about her, of making people smile. It had certainly worked with his daughter. And, he hated to admit, with himself.
His phone screen said Joanna Devereaux, his literary agent, was calling. He debated letting the call go to voice mail, but experience taught him she didn’t give up easily.
“Hello,” he said.
“Cade, hi,” she said. “How’s life in Ohio?”
“Great. Getting settled,” he said. A familiar sense of dread settled in his gut, because he knew why she was calling. And it wasn’t to talk about Ohio.
“So I’m wondering if you’ve got any pages for me.”
“Joanna, we talked about this. No pages. I’m sorry.”
He heard her sigh. “Your publisher hasn’t given up on you yet. There’s still a chance to keep your foot in the door.”
“I took a teaching job, and I’m on the research track for tenure.” He tried to sound optimistic, focused, and confident. “I’ll be too busy to write. I’m sorry.”
“I can’t believe you’re ever too busy for something you have a real passion for, and I know you. You are passionate about writing.”
He used to be. “I’ve started a new life. Lots of people do it.”
“You had a few bumps in the road.” Her voice held a note of pleading, which slayed him. “All I’m saying is consider it.”
He’d stopped making money for Joanna, yet she still called to check in. And to encourage him. “Joanna, I really appreciate your…concern.”
“You have talent, Cade. You’re a good writer. Call me when you’ve got something for me. Okay?”
“Got it.” If only he could. He’d tried—for three years.
Cade hung up the phone and heaved a sigh. He was dry…a one-hit wonder. Washed up at thirty-two. He hated disappointing Joanna, who had believed in him from the start. Even worse, he hated disappointing himself.
Well, he had other things to focus on. Building a life for Ava, for one. Their house might be charming, but it was more like a charming train wreck. Just this morning he’d found a puddle of water in the kitchen, even though he’d just had the roof inspected before they’d moved in. Old homes always needed work, but honestly, he found fixing things to be relaxing. Unlike his real life trials and tribulations, those kinds of problems actually had solutions.
Work was busy too. Today, he’d had a meeting with the chairman, Jake LaGuardia, who’d hired him, and the committee that decided tenure. They wanted to make sure he was on the right track. And they wanted to meet again, next time with a full proposal for his planned research project. If he didn’t have a solid plan for his research and put some kind of positive spin on the fact that he was no longer writing, they’d soon flag him for the fast track…right out on his butt.
He needed to leave behind the capricious, back-stabbing, muse-killing literary life and focus on cold, hard facts. He loved writers of the Jazz Age—Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Faulkner, Stein—and planned to expand on his PhD research about the great literature of the past rather than bleed himself trying to write fresh stuff. Besides, critics could string up an author by the balls for his or her writing, but research, if it was sound, rarely got critiqued in the same way.
He shook the negative thoughts off and took a sip of his leftover coffee. It was cold and very, very bitter.
A knock sounded at the door. He opened the door to find a man who, with his longish, dyed black hair and tight skinny jeans, gave the impression of wanting to look younger than he was. “Hi,” his visitor said, walking in and making himself at home in one of the seats, “I’m your neighbor from the office next door. Name’s Tony. Tony Livingstone. I teach American writers of the nineteenth century but I also write historical fiction. Great to meet you.” He extended a hand, which Cade shook.
Tony seemed nice enough. But three other professors this week had already told Cade he was a snake and had probably used grades to bribe students to sleep with him. Tony hadn’t been caught yet, but Jake was aware of the situation.
“Hey, you’re good friends with Jake, aren’t you?” Tony asked.
“I worked under him in grad school a few years ago,” Cade said, alarm bells going off. He’d known Jake a long time, and Jake had given him this job when he was floundering. Cade wasn’t about to do anything to risk that or to screw the one person who’d helped him when few others would.
“As one fiction writer to another, you know how hard it is to get academic grants for writing. We should stick together. And maybe we could help each other out.”
“Help each other out?” Cade asked, trying to squash his suspicion that this guy was asking him for favors already.
“Yeah, you know. I could sure use a good word whispered in Jake’s ear from a fellow author that I’m worthy of the fiction fellowship that’s being given out next semester. It allows an author to have a reduced class load to be able to have time to write. In return, I could help you too. I sit on a lot of influential committees.”
“Well, I’m new here, so I’m not in a position to recommend anyone,” Cade said in a definitive tone as he ushered Tony out. “But it was nice to meet you.”
A little later, the sound of shuffling papers made him look up. Carol Cartwright, the department secretary, had walked in. She’d been a fixture in the English department for fifteen years, and from all accounts basically kept the whole place running. Every day she wore a different-colored suit with matching shoes—today’s were orange—and had a short, practical haircut that she wore in an unchanging style.
With her usual no-nonsense stride, she approached his desk. “Good morning, Professor Marshall.” She glanced down at his coffee. “You do know there’s a fresh pot brewing, don’t you? Want a cup?”
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll get one later.”
Jake popped his head in behind Carol. “Ah, Cade. Glad you’ve met Carol, our secret weapon that keeps the department together.” He walked in and shook Cade’s hand and gave him a friendly pat on the back. “I just wanted to say it’s great to have you here, son.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to run to a meeting. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
“Thanks, Jake,” Cade said, grateful to have Jake as his boss as well as his friend.
Jake ran out, leaving Cade with Carol, who set down some papers in front of him. “We’ve got a couple of great graduate student candidates if you’re looking for help with your research. And one community professional who wants to work with a professor as part of her classroom experience this semester.”
There were a slew of literature and creative writing grad students who needed to earn their tuition, and it was customary for professors to keep one busy for a semester. Cade understood how the system worked; he was once one of those eager students himself. But he certainly didn’t want a student to help with his research for The Book That Refused to Be Written, as he called it. And as for his proposal…well, he had a lot of thinking to do on that.
He hadn’t done research since his PhD work five years ago—he’d gone from there into the MFA program at Iowa, where he’d written Girl on the Edge, and his career had taken off. He never thought he’d be doing academic research again. At one time, he’d loved the power of fiction to break the rules, to free him to feel deeply beyond the constraints of facts, and to say something he felt was important about life. Yet here he was.
“I may—um—pass on that opportunity until next semester. Since I’m new and jumping into Professor Shreevesanan’s classes and all.”
“You sure about that? Grad students are usually very eager to do extra work, like grade papers. And they’re pretty good at it.”
He smiled. “I’m sure. I’d rather get my feet wet myself, if that’s okay.” He was determined to go this alone until he found his footing.
A few minutes after Carol left, there was another rustle at the door. He looked up from his paperwork to see Gabby standing in his doorway. She wore a bright yellow rain jacket with clingy athletic pants that showed off shapely legs. Raindrops rolled off her hood, her wet hair curling crazily. Judging by the pink flush in her cheeks, he’d guess she probably rode her bike onto campus again.
Wow. Just wow. What was it about this woman that hit him without warning right in the gut? An image entered his mind, of her hair tussled from sleep, cute toes peeking out from beneath worn flannel pj pants, and the shapely curve of her breasts visible under that “Make Love Not Law Review” T-shirt. It made him think of things he’d rather not think of. Like how she would look after being made love to, thoroughly and well.
“Hi, Professor,” she said with a frown, then broke into a little smile. Even the smile floored him. With that and the raincoat, she literally looked like the sunshine coming out after a cloudburst. He imagined rising up from his desk chair to kiss her, good and hard.
He cleared his throat and sat up, trying to act like a professor. “Good afternoon, Gabby—I mean, Ms. Langdon.”
“Good afternoon, Professor,” she said tongue-in-cheek, and he could tell she was biting down on the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing. “You can call me Gabby, you know. I wanted to thank you for returning my bike the other day. And for looking it over. I like what you did to my seat. It feels really good now.” Gabby broke out into a bright crimson blush.
“You’re welcome.” He loosened his collar, because dammit if he wasn’t sweating. She sat down in the seat across from his desk, slipped her bag off her shoulder, and pulled out some papers. “I’m sure you didn’t come all the way to campus just to thank me. What can I help you with?” he asked. In his heart, he already knew why she was here, and reminded himself, no matter how much he liked her as a person, his job wasn’t to blow smoke up students’ butts.
“I stopped by to discuss your comments on my homework.”
“Certainly. I’m always happy to discuss.”
She held up the first page of the paper so he could see. “It looks like the Red Wedding.” His eyes flicked up at the Game of Thrones reference, and he found that the corner of her pretty mouth quirked up a little. It made him want to laugh it off too, but he forced himself to keep his expression serious. She continued, “I—um—I didn’t notice anyone else’s paper looking quite so…injured.”
Cade was torn. Yes, he’d been tough on her. But yes, her story did have major problems.
He reminded himself that his writing class was comprised of adults who had other jobs, who were taking this class for their own reasons—to explore writing or for fun. Most, maybe all, of these students would never develop the talent or drive it took to be a bestseller or to survive as an author. Hell, even with all his special training, he himself couldn’t sustain his own career.
“Excuse me, did you just hear what I said?” she asked. She was leaning forward in the chair. He hadn’t heard a word but he could smell her. Strawberries, maybe? Something sweet and delicious. Oh no, did he just think that?
“I’m sorry, come again?”
“I said, I read through all of your comments, and I’m still not clear on how I can improve my story.” She flipped through the pages. “‘Cliché,’” she read off. “‘Been done a thousand times before.’ I can’t help feeling you hated my story.” Having punctuated her remarks with a final flap of her paper, she sat back and waited for him to answer.
“It doesn’t matter how I felt about it,” he said. “How do you feel about it?” He rotated his desk chair and pointed to a print that was hanging on the wall behind his desk. It was a photograph of Ernest Hemingway sitting at a desk with a pen poised in his hand, leaning his elbow on a book. The quote above his head read “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” It was the cold hard truth, and Cade’s favorite quote.
Her eyes widened in surprise. She sat forward again. This time she spoke animatedly with her hands. “I realize you don’t know me at all, but I graduated summa cum laude. I also graduated in the top ten percent of my law school class, and I don’t do below-A work. So if there’s a problem here, I want you to know that I will do whatever it takes to fix it.”
That was unexpected. Underneath the bubbly, effervescent exterior lay a crouching tiger. Intriguing.
“I appreciate that you’re a good student. But you still haven’t told me what you like about your story.”
“Well, it’s got magic, a smart teenage girl wizard, and a tortured vampire who can’t ever have her. There’s tons of angst and emotion. Isn’t that good? Plus, it’s light, upbeat, and hopeful. I’d like to think that’s also my attitude about life.”
“Pain and suffering are at the root of every human experience,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. Rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? I mean, life has good things in it too, Professor.” He felt his professorly edge eroding faster than the truth, which was hard to deny. That this student was not like any student he’d ever had. She was fearless, annoying as hell, and…off-limits.
He tried again. “Your story is a cross between Harry Potter and Twilight. Both have been done before.” Now he wanted to roll his eyes but decided to take the high road.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” she asked. “Catchy, high-concept? That’s how they pitch movies, isn’t it?”
“For someone doing this for fun, the story is fine. If that’s your goal, then we can work with that.”
She stood up and approached his desk. “I’m not doing this ‘for fun.’ I spent all weekend on this assignment. I want to learn how to make it better. So please don’t hedge on your answers.”
He sighed. “Your writing itself is very good. You have a great command of language, but the story has problems. Novice problems. If you’re serious about writing, they’ll have to be addressed.” He paused, debating whether to continue. “This story doesn’t feel like the story you were meant to write.”
Cade swore she went pale. Her hands fluttered in her lap. Clearly he’d hit a nerve. “I’m going to be brutally honest with you, if that’s what you’d like me to be.”
She crossed her arms and braced herself to take one on the chin. “I want honesty. I’d appreciate it.”
He shouldn’t have walked around to the other side of the desk, because he was close enough now to see that she had the tiniest mole near her mouth. “All right then. What you turned in is technically correct writing but there’s no underlying…excitement there. I had the sense that the writer was waiting for an IRS audit instead of truly wanting to tell a story.”
For the flash of a second, she looked upset. But then anger lit in her eyes. “You’re saying my story is boring?” She tossed up her hands. “How could it be boring? There’s a vampire chase, the heroine gets a concussion, and the hero and heroine get attacked by a pack of werewolves.”
Carol stuck her head into his office. “Is everything all right in here?”
Cade looked from Gabby to Carol. “Yes, Carol, we’re just…discussing a class matter. Sorry. We got a little…passionate. I mean, loud. We got a bit loud. In our discussion.”
“It’s okay, Carol,” Gabby said, biting down on her lip to stay serious. “Professor Marshall is chewing my writing out a little. We can close the door.”
Carol looked at him and cocked a brow. “Professor?”
Do not close the door, he said silently to himself. Do not—
Yet Carol gave an efficient nod and did just that.
He rubbed the back of his neck, which had suddenly developed a crick, and tried to gather his thoughts. “That’s all very exciting, but it feels like the story you think you should write, not the story that’s in here.” He rapped his chest with his fist. Now he was getting emotional. He took a breath to make himself calm down. “I believe you’re capable of more.”
There, he’d said the truth. Maybe she’d get teary and upset and leave, but based on her earlier reaction, he doubted it. He almost hoped she would, because she felt dangerous to him in ways he didn’t quite understand.
Gabby broke eye contact first. She swallowed. He hoped she wasn’t a crier. When she looked up, he could see she was not taking his criticism well. Dammit, he should have known better than to be brutally honest, regardless of what she’d said about wanting the truth.
She shoved her papers back into her book bag.
“I’m sorry if I upset you,” he said softly.
She shook her head. “I’m not upset at you. Although it does feel like you’re being unnecessarily harsh. Or at least harsher toward my work than you’ve been with the other students.”
“You’re misunderstanding me, Ms. Langdon,” he said.
“And I think you’re misunderstanding me,” she responded. “I just want to prove to myself that I can do this. I need to.”
Just then, there was a knock on the door. Carol’s short bob reappeared in the doorway. “Yes, Carol?” Cade said.
“I’ve got some paperwork for Gabby. If you’re done with her, Professor?”
“I’m so done you can stick a fork in me and serve me on a turkey platter,” Gabby said. He hoped her attempt at humor meant she wasn’t too upset by his criticism.
“Look,” Cade said. “My comments weren’t meant to discourage you from writing. Only to make you think about what you’re writing. To make it yours and not a mash-up of what someone else has done.”
“Don’t worry. It’s going to take more than one terrible grade to make me give up.”
“It’s not personal, Gabby. One of the first things a writer has to learn is how to develop a very, very thick skin.” Funny, but everything seemed personal about his interactions with her.
“Well, I’d say thank you,” she said, smiling again, “but that might be pushing it.” She zipped up her bright yellow jacket.
Carol turned to her and said, “Before you go, Gabby, I wanted to show you the professor we’ve assigned you to for a research experience. He’s next door, and you can meet him now if you want.”
“That’s great, thanks.”
“He said to bring you right over.” Carol glanced at Cade. “As soon as you’re done with Dr. Marshall, that is.”
“You applied to do research?” Cade asked. “How is that, when you’re not a graduate assistant?”
“I just wanted the experience of working with someone who writes fiction. I’ve done a lot of research during my work in law, so I’m qualified to help.”
Cade picked up some random papers and feigned disinterest, but his heart was pumping so fast he heard the blood whooshing in his ears. Tony Livingstone’s office was next door. The thought of Gabby working with someone surrounded by so much suspicion made his stomach churn. And the brief interaction he’d had with Tony today had roused the hairs on his own neck.
Cade decided to stay out of it, to let it lie. Gabby was an adult, and certainly not defenseless. And hadn’t he already had a heated enough exchange with her? Besides, maybe she hadn’t been assigned to Tony. The hallway was long and full of professors’ offices. “Who is Ms. Langdon set to work with, Carol?”
“Dr. Livingstone.”
“Absolutely not,” Cade said a little too quickly. Fuck.
Gabby and Carol both stared. Gabby’s mouth dropped open in a little O that was a bit too appealing. A strange thought occurred to him—that he was worried about Tony overstepping boundaries, when perhaps he should be worried more about himself.
“I beg your pardon?” Gabby said, indignation lacing her voice.
“I mean…what I mean is, Ms. Langdon, how can you possibly have time to do research with your demanding work schedule and the time you need to devote to my class?”
“As I said during our—discussion—I’m used to working hard, Professor Marshall. I don’t think it’s any of your bus—”
Tony suddenly appeared at the door, tossing back his boyishly long hair, his eyes lighting on Gabby like she was a steak dinner complete with baked potato and chocolate fudge cake. “Are you Gabriella?” he asked in his deep, charming baritone.
Cade took a deep breath. Told himself he was new here. No one had any proof on this guy. Even Amira Shreevesanan had let him know they were all watching him carefully.
“I understand you have an interest in writing fiction,” Tony said, leaning on Cade’s desk and inclining his body toward Gabby.
Cade cleared his throat. “I don’t think your research interests are a good fit with Ms. Langdon’s.” Considering that the only research Tony might possibly want to do was the kind under the sheets. “What I mean is, she should be with someone who writes contemporary American fiction.”
That certainly wasn’t Cade because he wasn’t writing any fiction, was he?
“Oh, I’m confident I could satisfy Gabriella’s interests,” Tony said. “She’s a mature student, and I’m certain I can be very flexible in meeting her needs.”
Okay, that was it. This guy was not meeting anybody’s needs, much less Gabby’s. Before Cade knew what he was doing, he’d stood up and leaned over his desk. “Actually, I just offered Ms. Langdon a position working with me and she’s…considering it.”
“Oh, is that right?” Tony said. “Funny, but I was passing by in the hallway a little while ago, and I overheard you telling Carol you were too overburdened this semester to take on a student.”
“I changed my mind,” Cade said with a pointed look at Gabby. “I could use some extra help this semester. If Ms. Langdon’s willing, of course.”
His gaze met hers. She was frowning a little, as if she couldn’t really figure him out. Hell, he couldn’t figure himself out.
“Well, I’m excited to have two amazing options,” Gabby said. “I’d like to think this over, if that’s okay with both of you.”
“Feel free to come speak with me more if you have any questions,” Tony said, his crocodile gaze sweeping her up and down as he walked over and shook her hand. “I look forward to seeing you around the department, Gabriella.”
Tony and Carol left, and Cade took a seat in the battered wooden chair next to Gabby. He would have to bring some real furniture in here, because the stuff that came with the office was really uncomfortable.
“Why—” she began.
He shrugged. “I won’t speak badly about a colleague who’s innocent until proven guilty,” he said, thinking of his own situation, when so many of his colleagues had seemed so eager to believe his ex over him.
“But?” Gabby said.
“There are…allegations. There’s no proof of wrongdoing yet, but we’re all on high suspicion. And I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”
“I see.” She looked at him with clear, honest eyes. “I know you don’t really want me as your research assistant. I’ll ask Carol for another assignment.”
“No, I—I have plenty of work to keep you busy. But it’s research, not fiction writing. I can, however, work with you on your fiction if that’s what you want.”
“What’s your research?”
“I’m exploring the letters of Fitzgerald to his editor. They talk a lot about his novels.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“And about before. I probably was a bit harsh. I’m not used to teaching writing. I forget to hold back.”
“I’ll rethink the story.” She blushed again.
“Okay, so I expect you to see me after our next class for your first assignment. And we may have to work around your schedule to make time to talk about things. If that’s all, I’ll see you in class.”
“Yes, Professor,” she said, saluting him and standing up. Just as she reached the door, she turned back. “Thanks for the opportunity—and for telling me the truth about my writing.” She paused. “I think.”
Their gazes collided again for one last, lingering moment before she was gone.
Cade got up, closed the door, and leaned against it for a moment. Outside the palladium window, the campus was rainy and wet, the first sign that summer was about to end and change was on the way. Students rushed past with multicolored umbrellas and rain gear. Then an old-fashioned red bike passed by, driven by a woman in a yellow rain jacket.
Cade closed his eyes. He’d been hard on her, but he hoped encouraging too. Yet he could not help but know that the story he was meant to write was trapped beneath layers of bullshit he’d been unable to wade through for the past three years. What kind of teacher was he, who could not practice what he preached?
Plus he had a serious problem with this woman. She was gorgeous, and now he would have to figure out a way to not only have her in class, but to work with her outside of it as well. What had he done?