The Dean by Cassie Mint

Three

Charlotte

“It’s not that bad.”

I glare over the rim of my takeout coffee cup. “I nearly flashed him, Avery.”

The English student bites her lip, visibly searching for something comforting to say. “At least he stopped you?” she offers weakly. She’s bundled up in a soft pink scarf, the tips of her ears flushed where they meet the wind. I burrow deeper into my pea coat, wishing for the hundredth time that I packed better for the weather here.

It’s not comforting that he stopped me. That’s the problem. I wanted to undress for James; I wanted him to see all of me. To look at the pale expanse of my bare skin with the raw hunger I sometimes glimpse in his eyes.

Instead, I made a fool of myself. Threw myself at my father’s best friend. I wasn’t even thinking straight, I had no grand seduction plans. Just got swept up in the moment.

Oh god, what if he tells my dad?

“I need to move again.” I slump down on the bench. “I can’t stay here. Not with James.” Even as the words leave my mouth, sorrow fills me. Wrenches my heart. Because to him, I may be an annoying lodger. A hare-brained assistant who tried to cross a line. But to me…

He’s become special. My anchor in rough waters.

Plus, I really hate moving. Packing is such a drag.

“That’s a bit dramatic.” Avery sucks hard on her straw, cubes of ice bobbing in her iced coffee. It’s early fall, with a bite to the breeze and crisp golden leaves underfoot. We’re huddled together on a bench against the chill, but she’s still drinking iced lattes. Maniac. I sip my own cappuccino, humming as it warms my tongue.

“Is it? What would you have done if you’d flashed Ellis and he turned you down?”

She chews her lip, thinking, then gusts out a breath. “Probably faked my own death. But that doesn’t make it a good idea, Charlotte! And besides—you didn’t actually flash him.”

“Because he was too horrified to let me.”

She grunts, gnawing her straw. “That is pretty awkward.”

“Thank you.” It’s not an argument that I’m thrilled to win. I knock my ankle boots together, scowling down at the scuffed leather. “Maybe I should go back home and stay with my parents like they wanted me to. Just while I set up my business.”

“No.” Avery’s command snaps through the air. I turn to her, eyebrows raised. Avery’s sweet; a blushing romantic—she’s not exactly the bossy type. But she gathers herself up to her full seated height, pinning me with a glare. “You’re not going back. You’ve come all this way, and you can do this. You can.”

“But—”

“Your parents don’t support your business idea, right?” I shake my head mutely. Pet photography is too cutesy for my parents; too gimmicky and embarrassing. I really need to stop going out for cocktails with the girls and blurting everything out. “Well, it’s going to be hard enough anyway to go after your dream. Why do it surrounded by people who are hoping you’ll fail?”

She’s right. God. I sigh and shuffle closer, leaning my head on her shoulder. I’m a few inches taller, so I have to stoop like a weirdo, but it’s worth it.

I’ve never had friends like this before.

“I can never look him in the eye again.”

“Who, the Dean?”

I snort. “No, the guy who made our coffees.”

“Don’t look at him, then.” She tucks her hand in the crook of my arm. “Avoid him until you find your own place. Then give him a thank you card and move on.”

“Yeah.” I stare at a patch of scraggly grass. It shouldn’t hurt this much, thinking about going. Especially when I feel so awkward at home, I can barely sit still. I’ve set Truffle so on edge, she’s been off her kitty biscuits. “I’ll call about viewing some places this afternoon.”

“Atta girl.” Avery nudges me. “Maybe you can find somewhere close to us.”

That would be nice. A small win after what sometimes feels like a lifelong parade of failures.

“I could come over for movie nights.”

She clicks her tongue. “You can do that anyway. You know you’re always welcome.”

“Can you guarantee I won’t see you sucking face with your professor?”

Avery smiles sweetly. “No promises.”

* * *

His office door is closed again when I return to my desk. Guess I’m not the only one hiding from the awkwardness—I’ve barely caught a glimpse of James all day. I scowl at the thick wood as I unwind my scarf from my neck, dropping it into my in-tray.

Must he avoid me like this? It makes it all so much worse. Like he thinks I’m some crazed pervert who could lunge for him at any time.

No need to hide out, Dean Gibson. I got the message, loud and clear.

A muffled sob floats through the door and I stiffen, straining to hear. There’s James’ low, calming murmur, and someone else speaking too—a young woman, hiccuping through her sentences.

Poor thing. She’s having a worse day than any of us. I shrug off my pea coat, hanging it on the peg on the wall, then gather up my Upset Student Supplies. Over the last few weeks, James and I have fallen into a good routine: he deals with the official stuff, takes the hard line in his office, and then I do the comforting bit afterward. I’ve starting keeping a box of tissues and a stash of chocolate bars in my desk just for times like this.

The door swings open, the sniffles coming louder, then a red-faced student is walked to my desk. James stands at her shoulder, jaw tense, but not because he’s afraid of women crying.

Just of them flashing him in his kitchen.

“Charlotte. This is Danielle. Perhaps you could, ah…” He gestures at my spread of chocolates and tissues, already laid out. I’ve drawn up a second chair for her, ready and waiting.

Danielle—windswept black hair and a freckled nose behind glasses—drops into the seat, tugging two tissues out of the box. She screws up her eyes as she blows her nose, shaking her head from side to side.

“You’ve got it from here?” James murmurs, his steady eyes finding mine.

I nod, too tied up in knots to speak. And when he pats Danielle’s trembling shoulder, a wave of irrational jealousy tears through me, so strong it steals my breath.

I want his hands on me. Me, and only me, damn it.

I grit my teeth and tamp those feelings down. No need to add ‘crazy’ to the list of my worst traits. James is being polite, utterly professional, and besides—it’s not like I have a claim. I have no right to growl and snap over him like a she-wolf.

Even if I do want to drag him into his office and muss up his neat dark hair; want to suck my bruises all over his throat below his beard.

“Are you alright?” James peers down at me, concerned. I give myself a shake, then focus on Danielle.

“Fine. I’ve got this.” He lingers for half a moment, then turns and retreats to his office.

He leaves the door open this time. Just a crack. But I stare at that six inches of space until my eyes go dry.

* * *

The crash echoes through the silent house. I sit bolt upright in bed, heart hammering, sweat beading my top lip. It takes a second for my brain to catch up, to realize what’s happening.

It’s late. The middle of the night. And I was sleeping, curled up alone in my guest bed, trying not to dream endlessly of James Gibson’s big hands tracing over my skin.

I strain to listen. There’s no sound in the house—no creak of footsteps or murmur of voices. All I can hear is the drip, drip of the rain on the windowsill.

Crap. I’ve never dealt with anything like this before. We had a break in once when I was a little girl, but the alarm went off before the intruders even reached my floor. Still, I remember the raw fear of that night. The chilling realization that some people don’t care about boundaries, or about you feeling safe. They’ll invade your space; they’ll shatter your peace without a second thought.

“Shit.” My whisper is loud in the dark room. I shuffle to the edge of my bed, throwing the covers off. “Shit, shit, shit.”

The floorboards creak as I swing my legs out of bed. I push to stand, a throw wrapped around my shoulders. My pajama shorts are tiny, barely more than hot pants, and James’ white cotton t-shirt isn’t exactly warm.

“Shit.” I stare at my bedroom door, willing my feet to move. But my muscles are locked, rigid with tension, and my heart is racing so fast I feel lightheaded.

Come on, Charlotte Young. Are you a woman or a mouse?

A mouse. Definitely a mouse. But my feet shuffle forwards, dragging over the rug. Whoever has broken in had better not be here to fight, because I’m moving like a hundred year old woman.

“Ah!” I jump half a foot into the air the second I push my door open. There’s a shape in the hallway, a man’s shadow, and oh my god, this is how I die.

“Charlotte! Charlotte. It’s me, sweetheart.” Warm hands grip my shoulders, dragging me back to reality. James stands in front of me, his eyes shining in a shaft of moonlight. He’s wearing dark green sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt.

Okay. Is this a sex dream?

“You heard the crash?” he murmurs, thumbs rubbing at my collarbone.

Nope. Definitely awake. Got it.

“What do we do?” My whisper comes out strangled. I don’t sound like someone starting a fancy new adult life; I sound like a scared teenager. But James’ hands on me are warm and steady, my breaths slowing just from having him near.

“You’re going to go back inside your room and lock the door.” His deep voice is assured. Dangerous. “I’ll take care of it.”

But… what if there are weapons? Rabid dogs? Serial killers?

“I—”

“Quickly, Charlotte.” His tone brooks no argument. James crowds me back into my bedroom, his broad shoulders blocking any chance of escape, and like a wimp I let him do it. “Stay quiet. If I don’t come and knock in fifteen minutes, call 911.” He hovers for a second, the sharp planes of his face cast in shadow, then ducks down and kisses my forehead. The brush of his lips is so swift, by the time he turns away, I’m already convinced I dreamed it.

Oh, hell. I sway on the spot, squeezing the throw blanket in my fists, so freaking overwhelming by the last few minutes that my circuits are fried. It takes the creak of James’ footsteps on the stairs to jerk me back to life, and then I’m moving. Striding on suddenly functional legs.

I’ll wait up here, sure, but not in this cold, unfeeling guest room. This empty box, devoid of life or comfort. If I’m going to wait around like a sitting duck, I’m going to do it in the safest place I know.

I slip through the hallway shadows and into James’ bedroom.