Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
And as much as I enjoy cavorting like bandits around the house, there’s still a persistent voice that tells me I need to figure out what I want. Sooner rather than later. Even though Jack knows about Nate, and Nate doesn’t want to be exclusive, it isn’t fair to anyone involved to try playing the neutral party between two guys. Least of all myself. I don’t have it in me to protect my heart, the longer I let myself entertain the possibilities with both Nate and Jack.
After the holidays. By then, I’ll have had time to clear my head and get some perspective.
And then I’ll decide.
“After the holidays,” I assure myself.
“And what shall be transpiring after the holidays?” comes Mr. Baxley’s crisp not-interested-but-totally-absolutely-interested voice.
I grin as the bespectacled man settles across from me at my study table.
This has become our routine, reluctant as he likes to appear. I come in at my usual time to my usual table, spread out my study materials, and send him a wave. For a few minutes, he grumpily ignores me. Then he eventually gets up for his tea break and strolls up to my table to glance at my work on his way back with a steaming mug. He’ll brusquely ask about my Tulley research (or some such thing as a pretext to start a conversation), and I will happily update him until it inevitably turns into a recitation of my recent love life dramas.
Despite the disinterest he portrays behind his flat expression and smudged glasses, he stands and listens. Sometimes sits. But he never walks away.
Once or twice, I’ve extracted a personal detail or two from the man, and I’ve learned that he’s single and lives alone. Well, not entirely alone. He had a cat who died last week, a detail I managed to pry out of him after noticing he’d looked particularly distressed.
“I’ll choose between Nate and Jack,” I clarify. “Just pick one and date him. Only him.” A groan lodges in my throat. “Who do you think I should pick?”
Mr. Baxley sips his tea. “I cannot provide that answer for you, Ms. Bly.”
“Coward.”
He arches a brow. “Oh, I’ve no doubt in my mind as to which gentleman you will select.”
“Wait, really? You know who I’m going to choose?”
“Of course. It’s quite obvious.” His expression is mildly smug as he takes another sip.
“Oh my God. Tell me,” I order.
“Absolutely not. I feel a duty not to become involved in the love quarrels of university girls.”
My jaw falls open. “You traitor. I thought we were best friends. Oh, hey, I forgot—I promised you a picture of Hugh.”
I scroll through my photo album until I find a shot where our cat doesn’t look satanic and slide the phone across the table. Adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, Mr. Baxley peers at the screen and nods in approval.
“Very handsome feline. That coat is marvelous.”
“It’s a pain in the ass is what it is. He sheds like crazy, which has Lee furiously vacuuming the house twice a day. I try to tell him it’s hopeless, but he’s determined to beat back the encroachment.”
“It helps if you brush them,” Mr. Baxley says, admiring the photo.
“I’m probably the only one who could get close enough. Hugh tolerates me okay, but he’s declared open war on the rest of the house. Lee’s entirely abandoned him at this point. Threatened to toss him on the street the other day when he stepped in one of Hugh’s cold hair balls he’d coughed up overnight.”
“The brushing will help with that too,” Mr. Baxley informs me, regaining his aura of superiority. “They make certain food and treats that can decrease hair balls. It’s important he get sufficient moisture content in his food as well as fresh water.”
And then, as I sit there agape, he proceeds to share a plethora of cat-rearing resources with me, going on about general cat maintenance and using more words than I’ve heard him speak all semester.
It appears I’ve found Mr. Baxley’s true passion.
After the library, I swing by the pub to grab a drink with Celeste for happy hour. It’s a big crowd for a weekday, but we manage to snag a couple stools at the corner of the bar and order some chardonnay.
“I’m knackered,” she says, slumping against the bar. “Last night, I was up till four in the morning reading for a two-hundred question exam only to realize I read the wrong book.” She takes a swig of wine and wipes her mouth. “Please, Abbey. If you value our friendship, stab me through the eye with the stem of this glass.”
I hoot out a laugh. Celeste is clearly at her wit’s end, her untouchable composure long since abandoned. It’s a condition we’re all suffering from with the semester coming to an end.
“You’re brilliant,” I remind her. I don’t think she’s seen less than ninety percent on an assignment since coloring inside the lines and writing her own name. “Chin up. It’s almost over.”