Another clearing of his throat, and not in the I-need-a-lozenge-kind-of-way. “The student’s family made a considerable donation to the school”—nothing like the all-powerful buck to bend people over backwards—“and I already told him we’d have no problem getting a tour arranged for tonight.”
A him—perfect. Just what the world needed; another entitled, rich, man-boy skating through life on his daddy’s designer coat-tails.
“Of course if you’re not available tonight I can do some checking to see if someone else is available,” he said, as a gesture. We both knew there was no one but me on the committee—at the whole university—who would be free on a Friday night.
“I’ll do it,” I sighed under my breath. “No problem.”
His shoulder’s fell. “Great, thanks Bryn.” He stepped aside and let me pass by. “He said he’d be at the MU commons at seven tonight.”
Mr. Money-Bags had already set a time and location before anyone had agreed to it. How typical. He was feeding into every stereotype of a rich boy I had.
“Name?” I called out over my shoulder, shoving the auditorium door open.
“William,” he hollered, the name rolling down the aisle and blowing over me. I got a sudden chill. “William Winters.”
“How am I supposed to find him in the MU?” The building was huge and packed to overflowing with bodies around the clock.
“If it’s anything like when I met him for breakfast this morning in the cafeteria”—he scratched his head, chuckling—“he’ll be surrounded by a throng of women.”
Super—a rich, entitled, womanizer. My favorite kind of human beings to be around.
I crunched through the wintered grass towards the MU a little past seven, kicking a pinecone in an effort to release some tension. I was still irritated I’d been conned into this, and more irritated I’d gone through two outfits before settling on the fitted cashmere sweater and dark skinny jeans I had on. I tried convincing myself that my indecision had nothing to do with the new student I’d be playing tour guide for tonight, but the only other time I’d gone through several wardrobe changes had been . . . never. Not even on a first day of school. I sent another pinecone sailing into the slithering fog, contemplating turning around and changing into a mismatched pair of baggy sweats and throwing my freshly straightened hair under a baseball cap. I didn’t need—or want—the approval of the new guy. As a matter of fact, I hoped he didn’t approve of me at all.
The fog gave way to the hazy shape of the MU building, its windows glowing like a beacon light. Eager to be rid of the winter chill still hanging in the damp Oregon air, and wishing even more I had a sweatshirt to cover the thin sweater, I jogged the remaining distance and heaved the glass entry door open. I crossed my arms, rubbing them together to create some heat, as I scanned the room.
It took me two blinks to find him—although I couldn’t exactly see him. Professor Robert’s had underestimated when he’d said a throng of women. I’d call it more of a gaggle; a strutting, eyelid-fluttering, glossy gaggle of female co-eds about five deep.
Now I was even angrier with myself for caring so much about what I looked like tonight because I’d come down to their level. That level being where one’s worth came from whatever a man thought of them, and pathetically, my best attempts didn’t even register with the sparkling, twirling gaggle of spinners before me.
I turned to leave, knowing I’d owe Professor Roberts a huge apology on Monday, when a voice cut through all the commotion. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone here, but she’s already ten minutes late.”
I spun on my heels, that quick-trigger Irish anger rising up. Here I was, taking time out of my life—on a Friday night, no less—to roll out the welcome carpet for him and he had the audacity to announce to his fan club that I was running late. So maybe I wasn’t going to write him off until I gave him a piece of my mind.
I felt my eyes narrowing as I took a step forward like a charging bull, when the sea of girls parted, and there he was. His eyes found me without searching the room, as if he knew exactly who I was and where I’d be.
I shivered—no doubt because I was still chilled—and tried to turn my eyes away. They wouldn’t be deterred, something was overriding my system and keeping them grounded on him. A smile that was slow and smooth—too smooth—crept over his face, and with each millimeter it inched up, my heart jacked up exponentially.
Great, now not only was I trying to dress the part, I was acting the part of the bewitched women surrounding him.
He waved his hand, and began weaving through the sardined bodies in my direction, while a tried again to look away. I couldn’t do it—and the most frustrating thing about it was that I didn’t have a clue why I was staring all moon-eyed at the new guy. I didn’t have a type, but I knew it wouldn’t have been him. Everything about him looked polished and finely tuned, in that I’m-so-out-of-your-league-we’re-not-even-playing-the-same-game way.
I took a step back, and then another, something inside knowing I should turn around, run in the opposite direction and forget I’d ever seen him. It was like fate was whispering it to me.
He waved at me again, gesturing for me to wait. I was drowning in indecision when he took his final step in front of me, escape no longer a possibility.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, taking a step closer. The most peculiar shade of pale blue eyes stared back at me—the color of arctic glaciers. It was out of place given his copper skin and hair that was a shade or two shy of black.