Office Mate (Milford College Book 2) Read online

  Office Mate

  Milford College, Book Two

  Noelle Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Noelle Adams. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Office Mate

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Single Dad

  About Noelle Adams

  About Office Mate

  THE LAST THING I WANT is to share my beautiful office with an uptight, unfriendly new English professor. I don't care if he's incredibly hot. He's still the worst office mate in the world.

  We're stuck together for a year, and that might be too long for me to resist discovering what's hiding beneath his buttoned-up appearance.

  Office Mate is the second book in the Milford College series, novellas about the faculty and staff of a small liberal arts college.

  One

  THERE SHOULD BE A RULE against colleges dropping unwanted English professors into the offices of nice, unsuspecting members of the history faculty.

  There is no rule, of course. Colleges can assign office space as they like. Which is why I’m being forced to share my beautiful office with the new guy in the English department. The beginning of a new school year in the fall is usually my favorite time of year, but I’m not looking forward to this semester.

  At all.

  Space is always at a premium on college campuses—particularly small schools like Milford College, which doesn’t have a big endowment or a lot of rich donors. I understand having to juggle and rejuggle available space, and I’m usually a good-natured and flexible employee. But full-time faculty here have always gotten their own office, and it’s hard not to be annoyed by the fact that I’m suddenly forced to double up with someone new.

  I lucked out two years ago when I was first hired at Milford, a small liberal arts college in the middle of nowhere in south central Virginia. A long-standing member of the history department had just retired, and I ended up with his office on the fourth floor of the main academics building. It’s a big, quirky space with strange angles, a slanted ceiling, and two big windows. I’ve fixed it up with pretty wall hangings, curtains, throw rugs, and knickknacks. The office is exactly the way I want it, and I love coming in to work every morning and seeing it.

  But evidently the office is too big. It’s always had two desks, and I should have been more strategic and asked the folks in facilities to move the second desk out of the office when I first arrived so it wouldn’t be such a tempting target. But the second desk was convenient. I used it for students taking makeup tests or if I needed a clear workspace to grade papers or spread out notes for a research project.

  And now my office is going to be invaded by a new assistant professor—one I don’t know and who isn’t even in my department.

  I’m trying not to be sulky or resentful, but it’s a struggle.

  It’s my office. I’m thirty years old and have a PhD in early American history. I don’t have a very impressive salary because the college is small and my discipline is not in high demand. I teach four classes a semester and one in the January interim term. I’m the advisor to the history club, and I sit on three different faculty committees. The least they can give me is my own office.

  I’m grumbling about it at lunch on a Friday in late August to my best friend, Jennifer.

  “Marcus said they did try to find some other way to get you both your own office,” Jennifer says with a sympathetic look. She works in the financial aid department, and her fiancé is the director of facilities at Milford. “But they just couldn’t work it out.”

  “I know.” I took the biggest piece of coconut pie to try to assuage my wounded psyche, and I take a bite of it now, the sweet softness soothing on my tongue. “I’m sure they did everything they could. It’s not Marcus’s fault.”

  “He feels bad about it. We know you love your office. But it will just be a year, and maybe it will be kind of fun.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” The thought perks me up a little. “I did have fun with my office mate in graduate school. She ended up being one of my best friends. I think I’d feel better if I’d actually met the guy. I was visiting Mom and Dad when he came for his campus interview. But everyone was really impressed with him. Hopefully he’ll be nice and friendly. You met him, didn’t you?”

  Jennifer is pretty with shoulder-length, light brown hair and intelligent brown eyes. Unlike me, she has a way of coming across as serious and in control. I, on the other hand, have blue eyes that are too big, a baby face with too many curves and dimples, and a round figure that looks all wrong in tailored, professional clothes. I was made for long, soft skirts and pretty tunic tops, and my long, dark hair is always slipping out of any braid or bun I try to contain it in. I used to try to wear suits and look dignified, but I gave that up a long time ago.

  “Yes, I met him,” Jennifer says after a noticeable pause. “He seems incredibly smart.”

  “Smart? Smart?” My eyes get even bigger than they normally are. “That’s all you can say about him?”

  “Well, I didn’t get to know him. I just said hello and listened to his research talk.” She frowns, and I see something quite clear in that expression. “He seems very serious, but very... polite.”

  “Polite!” I say it too loudly. The students eating lunch around us turn and look. I lower my voice. “Polite? Oh God, you didn’t like him, did you?”

  “I didn’t not like him. I just didn’t get a good sense of him. I’m sure it will be fine.” She’s obviously trying to be encouraging, but it’s not working on me.

  Jennifer is naturally reserved. Not nearly as expressive as I am. But I can read the hesitation in her expression.

  “It’s not going to be fine,” I groan with exaggerated despair. “It’s going to be terrible.”

  “What’s going to be terrible?” Marcus Greene sits down beside Jennifer with his lunch tray. He’s a handsome man with striking blue-gray eyes and an easy grin. He’s giving it to me now. “Whatever it is can’t be that bad.”

  “It is bad. I have to share my office with an asshole.”

  “He’s not an asshole,” Jennifer objects with a little laugh. “I didn’t say anything of the kind.”

  “Who, Jones? I don’t think he’s an asshole.” Marcus pulls his eyebrows together. “Just kind of... serious.”

  I groan again. “It’s going to be terrible.”

  Jennifer laughs again, and Marcus drapes a casual arm around the back of her chair. His eyes on her face are soft and fond, and I feel the briefest flicker of jealousy.

  No man has ever looked at me that way. I know it for sure.

  I brush the feeling aside because it’s unworthy. I get plenty of male interest, and that’s not what gives me value anyway.

  “We did try to free up an office for him,” Marcus says. “I came up with several different configurations, but none of them worked.”

  “I thought you said he could take Cole’s office. He’s hardly ever there anyway.”

  “That was our first choice since Cole is in the English department and retiring next year. But he wouldn’t give it up.”

  I snarl. “He’s seriously only in his office a few hours a
week.”

  “I know. But he’s a full professor, and he’s not retired yet. We couldn’t force him out of the office.” Marcus looks resigned. He’s obviously fought many of these battles with faculty before. “And the only other available space was in the science building. The English folks were not okay with having their new guy all the way across campus. So sharing it is. Just for a year.”

  “Yeah. Just for a year.” I try again to fight the reluctance. “I’m sure it will be just fine. I’m a nice person, right?”

  “Right,” Marcus and Jennifer say at the same time.

  “People usually like me.”

  “Everyone loves you,” Jennifer says. “Everyone I ever talk to tells me how amazing you are. Sweet and funny and good at getting to know people. I’m sure Dr. Jones will love you too.”

  I’ve finished my coconut pie and now lean back in my chair. “But why does he have to be a Milton scholar?”

  Marcus and Jennifer exchange looks. “What’s wrong with Milton?” Jennifer asks. “Isn’t he a good writer?”

  “Of course he’s a good writer! But imagine being able to choose anyone in all of literature to focus on and choosing John Milton. Who does that? What does that say about this guy? And all anyone will tell me about him is that he’s smart and serious.”

  “And polite,” Marcus says with a twitch of his lips. “I thought he was very polite.”

  I groan again and sink my head onto my hands. “I’ve got to spend a whole year sharing my beautiful office with a smart, serious, polite John Milton scholar! Can you think of anything worse?”

  Jennifer and Marcus laugh, as I knew they would. I’m playing up my distress on purpose.

  But still...

  I’m not entirely making it up.

  I have some very real concerns about this man I’m being forced to share my office with.

  He doesn’t sound like a friendly, flexible kind of person. I hope I can manage to win him over.

  I GO BACK TO MY OFFICE after lunch to finish putting my syllabus together for one of my fall classes. Actual classes don’t start until a week from Monday, but the administration wants all the major course documents prepared and available online a week before the semester begins.

  It’s not a big deal to me since I’m teaching three sections of an American history survey class (beginnings through the Civil War) and one section of an upper-level American Revolution class. Both courses I’ve taught before, so I just have to tweak my old syllabus and update page numbers to the new editions of the books.

  I figure I can get all that done this afternoon and not have to be hassled Monday when my new office mate is going to move in.

  I walk the stairs up to the fourth floor—one of the resolutions I make every year to get more exercise that lasts for maybe two weeks—and turn down the hall that leads to a five-office suite that houses three history faculty members, one English professor, and an office for adjunct use.

  Now there will be two English faculty in the suite since I’m having to share.

  I tell myself to stop whining and focus on the new semester.

  I always like the beginning of the term. New courses. New students. A new chance to do better.

  A clean slate. An empty page.

  This semester is going to be good. I got my classes scheduled the way I like them best, and an annoying person has transitioned off the grievances committee so I won’t have to put up with her every month.

  Everything will be good.

  My office mate will be good.

  I don’t have anything to complain about.

  I’m just starting to believe my pep talk when I reach my office and discover that someone is already in it.

  In it.

  In my office.

  He’s reaching up to take one of my framed movie posters off the wall.

  I jerk to a stop and stare.

  It’s Dr. Evan Jones, the new assistant professor in English. I know it’s him even though I’ve never seen him before.

  Who else would have barged into my office and started moving stuff around?

  The movie posters aren’t the only thing he’s moved. He’s also picked up the throw rug I had near the desk that will be his, and he’s moved the three pieces of pottery I had in the second windowsill. He’s piled everything neatly on the chair next to my desk.

  He turns around, still holding the last framed poster, and sees me in the doorway.

  “Good afternoon,” he says without a smile.

  “Hi.” I try to pull myself together. A good first impression will not include a scowl at all my pretty stuff being moved.

  Evan is not particularly tall—just four or five inches taller than my five four. He’s got a lean, fit build and an upright posture. Very close-cropped dark hair and equally dark eyes. A square jaw. He’s wearing neat khakis and a green golf shirt. Tucked in.

  He looks around my age. He can’t be much older.

  He’s focused on me but still hasn’t smiled.

  I’ve managed to control my immediate resistance to his unexpected presence, and I smile at him. Everyone says I have a good smile. I had a lot of orthodontic work, and I’ve got dimples on both sides of my mouth. “I thought you wouldn’t be here until Monday,” I say, pleased that I sound light and natural. “I would have moved my stuff out of your way.”

  “It’s fine,” he says, his eyes never leaving my face. “I didn’t mind moving it.”

  Okay then. Definitely not friendly.

  I’m not sure what to do, so I walk over to my desk, moving one of the framed posters he’s leaned against the side chair to make sure it’s stable. I don’t like having my rooms messed up. My little house is neat and pretty with everything in its place, and my office was always the same way.

  But now he’s ransacked it. The empty wall across from my desk glares at me. What if he puts something ugly up and I have to look at it all year long?

  What if he doesn’t put anything up and I have to look at an empty wall?

  I’d been vaguely hoping he was one of those guys like Marcus who doesn’t give a second thought to furnishings and would let me leave the office decorated as it was.

  Evidently not.

  He’s standing very straight, still focused on me as I move across the office. He hands me the poster he’s still holding.

  I take it and lean it against the other two.

  I’ll have to put them in storage or else find room for them on my side of the office. To do that, I’ll need to rearrange everything, but I don’t want to do it right now while he’s in here being uptight and silent.

  Maybe judging me.

  When I put down the poster, I realize I haven’t even introduced myself. I smile again and step toward him, extending my hand. “I’m sorry I never properly greeted you. I’m Beck Wilson.”

  “Dr. Wilson,” he says soberly. “I’m Evan Jones.”

  Dr. Wilson? Dr. Wilson? He’s calling me Dr. Wilson? No one but students call me Dr. Wilson, and half of them can barely manage that. Is he really that formal? Is he going to expect me to call him Dr. Jones?

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I tell him, pulling my hand out of his warm, firm grip. “I hope you don’t mind sharing an office for a year. They did try very hard to work it out so you could have your own.”

  “They told me. I’m sure it will be acceptable.” He’s got the most unnerving look—those dark eyes are so completely unsmiling.

  Acceptable. All right then.

  “This is a large office for one,” he added.

  “It is big.” My cheeks feel pink. I feel hassled and flustered. I’m normally comfortable around people—even strangers—so I don’t know why this man has gotten me totally off stride. “It just happened to be vacant when I started here.”

  “I see.”

  I sit down with a flop on my desk chair. I bought it as a present for myself when I first got this job. It’s plush and comfortable with good back support and the prettiest shade of rose pink. “So when d
id you get into town?” I ask. Maybe he’s just one of those people who are stiff until they get to know someone. Maybe if I talk to him, he’ll loosen up.

  “This morning.”

  “This morning?” I try not to sound too surprised, but I’m sure my eyes get big. “Didn’t you want to get moved in and everything first?”

  “I’d rather get moved into my office so I’ll be ready to work on Monday.” He glances back at the six stacked boxes near the empty bookcases.

  There are two bookcases in the office. I was wise enough to know that anyone who moved in would want to use one of the bookcases, so I emptied it early this week. Thank God. Otherwise this man would have piled all my books up on top of my desk.

  I clear my throat and try to think of something friendly to say. “Where did you find to live?”

  “I’m renting a house on Straight Street. It’s just three blocks from campus.”

  “Oh yeah, you’re in my neighborhood then. I’m on Bush. In the little pink house.”

  The two-bedroom house was pink when I moved in. That’s one of the main reasons I bought it. But I can well imagine this guy’s response.

  He doesn’t disappoint. His dark eyebrows go up. “Your house is pink?”

  “Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “No. You must like pink.” His eyes lower to my top, which is dark pink with a scoop neck and three-quarter sleeves. I’m wearing it with a long, casual skirt, and I’ve pulled the top half of my hair back with a clip and let the rest of it loose. I thought I looked pretty and curvy when I left the house this morning, but I suddenly feel self-conscious.

  I push it away immediately. Being a young-looking woman in academia has its challenges, and one of them is that we have to fight for people to respect us and not assume we’re silly.

  I’m used to surprised, skeptical looks when I introduce myself as a faculty member.

  To be fair, Evan doesn’t look skeptical or judgmental. He just looks unfriendly.

  “I do like pink,” I say with another smile, rather forced this time. “So you were at Notre Dame for your PhD?”