Chapter 1
20-year-old Ava stared at the paper quivering in her hand, tears burning in the corner of her eyes. The chattering of university students in the classroom barely registered in her ears; all her focus was drawn to one mark, a number in black ink circled with a bright, accusatory red.
Forty-two percent. Rapidly she blinked back the tears that were threatening to fall in front of her peers, who already thought she was an overachiever and a little dramatic. She was famous for taking over group projects--she preferred to say she was assertive--and making sure everyone did what they needed to do, and if not, she was quick to finish other people's tasks. People reacted to that in a mixed bag; some wanted to phone it in, others not so much.
She couldn't cry in front of everyone. What would they think? Wasting no time, she shoved the failed paper into her bag with her laptop and headphones, and powerwalked from the room directly to the library, where she disappeared in the stacks. Better that than crying in a bathroom stall like some drunk freshman.
Her university was big. Thousands of students walking and running to class in what seemed like predetermined currents, same as any ocean. As such the library sprawled, taking up as much space as possible, with many secluded corners and the odd unlocked closet. Tucking herself into one such room, she tipped her head back and leaned against the closed door. Light filtered in from beneath it, barely illuminating the shelves burdened with books and files of some kind. She'd snooped before, and they looked like records, but that was neither here nor there.
The thing was, Ava was a straight-A student. To the best of her memory, she'd never failed an assignment, not even in high school, where she graduated as the valedictorian. Fuck. The first tear fell, a single droplet running down her cheek. Angrily she swiped it away, sinking to her feet and then plopping on her ass. Hopefully nobody walks in, she thought, burying her face in her hands, because this is ridiculous. It's only one grade.
One grade, out of hundreds. She had to--she had to redo it. She had to get extra credit. There was another student--Jason--who she was contending with for the top of the Dean's list. Even one failed assignment would be enough to put her in second, and she couldn't have that, her scholarship notwithstanding. She would do anything.
Ava would do anything.
Her first step would be to chat with her professor, who held office hours after each class. He was... he was something else. Thomas Jones. Even his name sent shivers down her spine, electricity that melted to magma low in her belly. With his tan face, dark hair and eyes, he gave off a kind of intensity that drew people to him. He constantly had his students lingering around him, almost begging for his attention.
But not Ava. Ava knew better than that. She saw the way he looked at them, the way his eyes narrowed the closer his students got to him, their hands itching to touch his arms, his shoulders. She couldn't exactly blame them; he dressed well, in tailored jeans--only ever black or the deepest indigo--with elegant sweaters that looked sinfully soft. Or, on warmer days, button-up dress shirts with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing his many tattoos. Veins a nurse would die for.
He was hot. A little older than she was--maybe in his mid to late thirties--but he was hot. Still, she could tell that he was uncomfortable with the attention. Sometimes, in the midst of all the clamoring, Thomas would look up and see her watching him. His eyes would soften, and that alone caused warmth to blossom in her chest and zip down her body like the fire on a sparkler, trapping her breath in her lungs.
Ridiculous. Ava would never stoop to her classmates' level, so she kept her distance, kept her feelings from her face--whatever they were. Kept herself from going... liquid at the sound of his voice as he said her name, like he meant it, like he wanted her. Instead, she focused on her academics, on writing skillful, insightful papers, living for his notes in the margins telling her good job, or that's an interesting point, might be worth following. Little crumbs of validation sprinkled throughout the pages, each more delicious than the last.
She was being ridiculous again. Whatever this was... couldn't interfere. It simply wasn't worth risking her place at the university, so tenuously gained with a scholarship that covered the entirety of it, as long as she kept her average over ninety-five percent.
Glancing at her phone, she noted the time. If she stopped crying and rinsed her face, she would be able to make it before he left, so long as there weren't other people ahead of her.
That decided, she wiped her face with her sleeve, and waited a few minutes for the redness she knew was there to subside. Her bag heavy on her shoulder, she ducked into the nearest bathroom and rinsed her face with cold water, drying it on a sleeve.
Better. Her face, round and golden, stared back at her. At this point no one could really tell she had been crying. No redness around her green eyes, the colour of a new leaf with the morning sun coming through, her dark brown hair neat in its braid. She did have a bit of a resting bitch face, if she was honest with herself. Only when her thoughts were occupied.
Her thoughts were, of course, always occupied.
By school, and by Thomas. Professor Jones, whatever. Who would hopefully give her a break, or some extra credit work, something, anything. The school's grand hallways extended before her as she found her way to the stairwell, swinging around the banister and heading up to the third floor, where most of the faculty offices were. The dark wood paneling shone burnished in the light coming in from the leaded windows as she hurried down the hallway, checking the plaques beside each door.
"Jones, Jones, Jones," she murmured to herself. "Ah, here it is."
She balked at the doorway, suddenly bubbling with nerves, distracted by the fizzing in her stomach. Was it nerves--or excitement? She couldn't tell as she smoothed her shirt over her stomach, a short-sleeve shirt whose neckline was always a little too low for comfort; she loved the way the scarlet set off her green eyes, so she wore it anyway. Her hand shook slightly as she raised it and knocked on the chocolate brown wood of his door, the little bronze plate glinting in her eyeline.
"Please, come in," Thomas called. His voice was deep and rich, with hints of amusement and an easy charm. Ava pushed open the door and walked through, surprised to see him leaning against his desk and facing her. His sweater, the deepest evergreen, was pushed up a little, which caused Ava's heart to stutter once. Or twice.
"Ava, I thought I might see you today," he crossed his arms. "Not happy with that grade, are we?" He sighed. "Close that door, would you?"
Ava did so, dropping her bag in one of the two chairs before his simple wooden desk, which was covered in a couple stacks of paper: assignments, probably. His office was of medium size, neat and lined with shelves and books, painted a green that mirrored his sweater. A small couch with a blanket draped over the back sat to the right of the door.
"You're right, I'm not happy with the grade," she admitted, shifting her gaze to his. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of disappointment and... something Ava couldn't identify, sparkling and deep. "It's a good paper, I'm sure of it. Could you look at it again?"
He sighed, gesturing with his hand. "Give it here."
Ava dug through her bag and handed him the wrinkled paper.
"Please, sit," he waved distractedly at the empty chair before lowering himself into his own. He was surprisingly graceful, clearly fit. A tattoo peeked up from beneath the neckline of his sweater; what looked like a flower of some kind.
Glancing up, Thomas noticed her staring, and pointedly adjusted his sweater to cover the ink. "It is a good paper," he conceded, handing it back to her. "It's just not on topic."
Ava's brows came together, and wave of anxiety swept through her. "What do you mean? I followed the rubric exactly."
He shrugged. "It was supposed to be about Shakespeare's plays, not his sonnets. I don't know what to tell you. My grade is final."
