The Dean by Cassie Mint

Seven

Charlotte

We couldn’t have ruined the moment more if I’d thrown a bucket of icy river water over James. He lunges away from me at the sound of my father’s voice, guilt and horror etched on his face. I watch him go, slumped on the coffee table like an abandoned doll. My skirt is pushed up my thighs; my cheeks are still warm from his embrace.

“Nice,” I say flatly.

James comes back to himself. Scrubs a hand down his face then crouches in front of me, pulling my clothes gently back into place.

“I’m sorry. I—he took me by surprise. I thought he was on the other side of the country.”

A hard lump is sinking through my insides. “No kidding.”

“I just—I didn’t expect—”

“No.” I shrug him off, pushing to my feet and smoothing my skirt. “No, I guess you didn’t.”

So much for stay here with me. So much for that kiss. The first reminder he gets of my father, and James looks half sick with guilt. I don’t want to see this. Don’t want to watch the regret creep into his eyes. So I pat James on the shoulder on my way into the hallway.

“I’m going to my room. Tell Dad I’ve got a headache, okay? He’ll be here to see you, anyway.”

James doesn’t argue with that. He saw what it was like for me growing up. My parents have always been more comfortable with their friends and colleagues than with me.

“Charlotte, wait.”

I pause in the doorway, eyebrows raised. But he searches for the right words, his jaw clenching, then just shrugs, suddenly lost.

“It’ll be okay. Alright, sweetheart? Just let me deal with your father.”

I hum, rapping my knuckles on the door frame. I don’t know why I ever thought it would go another way.

“Enjoy your catch up.”

“Charlotte…”

“Goodnight, James.”

My footsteps thump up the stairs, Truffle’s little paws scrabbling behind me. And I keep my face carefully blank until I’m safely inside the guest room, where only my kitten can see me.

Then I flop on my bed, drag a battered paperback off my nightstand, and try to forget the last hour ever happened.

* * *

It’s the worst night’s sleep I’ve had since coming here. I go to bed way too early, before I’m even a tiny bit tired, and then I pay the price for it all night. I toss and turn, first too hot, then too cold, my previously comfortable mattress suddenly a lumpy nightmare. Shadows dance across the ceiling, Truffle snores lightly at the end of the bed, and all the while, muffled low voices drift up through the floor.

What are they talking about?

What did James mean when he said he’d ‘deal with it’?

I huff, rolling over and smashing my cheek into the pillow. It doesn’t matter. He’d never tell my father what we’ve done. Would never risk their decades-long friendship for a fling with a flighty young woman.

By the time the blue-tinged dawn light creeps around the edges of my curtains, I’m a basket case. I’ve been slipping in and out of sleep all night, fretting and grumbling and sad. Even Truffle’s tiny snores couldn’t cheer me up, and now I feel like death warmed over as I swing my legs out of bed.

Something tugs low in my belly. An ache. The constant reminder that James touched me somewhere sacred, that he wrung such intense feelings out of me that I forgot to breathe—then let me stomp upstairs, still wanting.

I didn’t even get to touch him in return. To feel what he’s really like beneath my palm, when I can explore his body without restraint.

I scowl at the wall, tugging my robe around my shoulders. Guess I’ll never know.

There are voices in the kitchen when I finally drag my sorry ass downstairs. My skin is flushed pink from my scalding hot shower; my damp hair scraped back in a neat bun. There’s nothing about me for my father to pick fault with this morning—as far as he knows, anyway—yet he still casts a critical eye over my dark pants and lilac blouse.

“What, you refuse to wear skirts to work now?”

That’s the first thing he says to me. He hasn’t seen me in months.

“Hello, Dad.” I ignore his question, rounding the table and crossing to the refrigerator. James is leaning against the counter, his arms crossed as he fixes my father with a scowl. Parker Young and James Gibson—the world’s oddest pair. My father is fair and ruddy where James is dark-haired and pale. Dad has softened in his old age, grown worn at the edges, while James looks ready to star in a Hollywood action movie.

Dad chuckles to himself, sat on an angle to the kitchen table. At least one of us finds him funny.

“What are you doing here?” My question comes out clipped. I hate that—I wanted to be cool. Unruffled. But the reminder that my father has barely spoken to me since I moved away is like rubbing sand in the wound.

He didn’t even knock on my door last night. Did he ask where I was? Did it even occur to him?

“Last-minute meeting in the city.” Dad snatches up his coffee mug, draining it in two gulps. “I always crash here, don’t I James? It’s a family trait.”

He winks at me. I force a smile.

I’m being childish. This is ridiculous—nursing a grudge for my father’s lack of interest when he’s done so much for me over the years. So I take a deep breath, pour my own coffee, and sit opposite him. Offer a real smile this time.

“It’s good to see you, Dad.”

He grunts, cutting into a plate of bacon and eggs. I bet this is part of why he stays here, too—the freedom from Mom’s strict wholegrain toast regime.

“How’s your business going?” he asks, not even looking up. “Animal photos, wasn’t it?”

Heat crawls up my throat. Damn it. Damn it. How is it that a few bored words from him can make me feel three inches tall? Can make all my plans and dreams feel suddenly stupid?

“Yes,” I rasp. “Pet photography. It’s going well, thank you. I’ve started a portfolio—”

Dad whistles. “A portfolio, eh?” He grins at James. The other man glares back. “Good thing you’ve got a real job to fall back on. Is this one working you too hard?”

“No,” I snap. “Dean Gibson barely looks in my direction.”

In the corner of my eye, James’ head jerks towards me, the movement startled, but I glare down at the table as my dad roars with laughter.

“He’s got better things to do, love,” he wheezes at last, shaking his head at me fondly. And if I could sum up my relationship with this man, that sentence would be it.

He’s got better things to do.

“Bullshit. I do not.” James sounds angry. My dad pauses, glancing between us, and I can’t do this.Not on twenty minutes of sleep.

“I’m going in early.” My chair scrapes over the tiles as I stand up. “I already fed Truffle. I’ll see you there, Dean Gibson.”

“Charlotte—”

“Bye.”

I hurry out before I say anything else. I don’t trust myself not to make a horribly embarrassing scene—not to burst into tears or lash out at these two men who seem to like making me feel small.

“See you later,” I whisper as I pass the kitten attacking the coffee table. Truffle pauses, blinking up at me with huge eyes. “Good girl.” Her fur is soft beneath my fingertips, and my racing heart slows as I pet her before marching to the door.

Thank god for kittens. They’re better than people, that’s for sure.

* * *

My desk phone rings mid-morning. I clear my throat, dusting the crumbs from my coffee break cookie off my fingertips, and pluck the phone out of its cradle.

“Dean Gibson’s office, this is Charlotte speaking. How may I help you?”

“Charlotte.” My father’s voice makes me stiffen. I dart a glance at James’ office, but the door is sealed shut.

“Dad.” I cough once, suddenly tongue-tied. “Um. Hi.”

A long pause stretches between us. The rasp of his breath crackles down the phone, and I grimace at the polished surface of my desk.

“Shall I put you through to James?”

“No.” He sniffs. “No, uh. I’m calling for you.”

“Ooo-kay. How did the meeting go?”

“Good. Yes… Good.” Wow. Is talking to your parents supposed to be this agonizing? I shift in my chair, ducking my head as a group of laughing students pass the open doorway. Their raucous voices echo behind them, loud enough for my father to hear.

“You’re busy.” He sounds relieved. “I won’t keep you.”

“Okay, I—”

“I apologize for this morning.” The words sounds so alien coming from him. So stiff and rehearsed. I pull the phone away from my face and stare at it in my hand. The crackle of the handset brings it back to my ear. “I’m very proud of your business idea, Charlotte. You’ll do fine.”

This is a dream. A weird cheese dream. Or a product of sleep deprivation. I glance at the Dean’s closed door again, narrowing my eyes.

“Did James…?”

Dad coughs. “He had a word once you left. Look, I’m—I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“That’s okay,” I tell him, my lips numb. I can’t tear my eyes away from that door. “Did he use his angry Dean voice?”

Dad chuckles. “He did. He always could be a scary motherfucker.” He cuts off quickly, realizing what he’s said. But I’m already grinning, sliding lower in my seat.

“He makes the football players cry sometimes.”

“Ha! I bet.” Dad’s voice changes suddenly. Gets serious again. “I hope he’s not harsh with you?”

The memory of James clipping out commands in my ear, of him taking utter control over my body, the crack of his palm against my ass—it makes me shiver.

“No,” I manage, voice strangled. “No, James is nice to me.”

“Good. Well, uh. I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”

I hang up with a weird ringing in my ears. That’s the longest conversation I’ve had with my dad in years. And he’s definitely never apologized to me before—never spoken to me like an adult.

I bite my lip, glancing one last time at James’ office. Then hiding a smile, I turn back to my work.