Carpool (Milford College, #1) Read online

  I’m sympathetic. I really am. I know enough to know that faculty offices are hot commodities, and for the past two years Beck has laid claim to a big, quirky office on the top floor with slanted ceilings and cubbyholes that she’s decorated with pretty things in her typical overabundance.

  But I choke on a laugh and try to hide it with a cough. “Pillaging?”

  “You know what I mean. How can they do that to me?”

  “What are they doing to you?” The male voice comes from behind us. We both turn and see Marcus leaning against the doorway.

  “You’re doing it! Invading my office.” Beck is melodramatic by nature, but she’s obviously not genuinely angry at Marcus, despite his role in facilities.

  He sees it too because he chuckles. “Oh. Yeah. I really am sorry. We’re trying to find a better space for him, but sharing yours is one possibility. We’re hoping we can talk old Cole out of his office since he’s just about retired anyway.”

  Beck’s face conveys a rush of relief. “Oh. Yes, that would be perfect. He’s hardly ever on campus anymore anyway. Maybe this guy can take his office instead, and it would be in the English suite so it would be better for everyone.” With her characteristic quicksilver changes in mood, she’s already smiling again.

  “Hopefully that will work out,” he says.

  I can see that Marcus is trying to be encouraging, but something tells me eighty-year-old Dr. Cole might not be willing to relinquish his office until he has to.

  “Who did they end up hiring in English anyway?” I ask, trying to think back to when the faculty candidates were brought onto campus in the late spring.

  “Dr. Evan Jones,” Beck says with a little snarl.

  “Which one was he?”

  “The one I was out of town for. I’ve never even laid eyes on the man, but he has a ridiculously long vita and a contract on a book.”

  “The guy in the suit,” Marcus says, meeting my eyes in a significant way.

  I hide my reaction as I realize who he’s talking about. Most of the faculty candidates wore some version of a suit, but I immediately know who Marcus is referring to. He was young and good-looking but also very serious. Rather uptight. Definitely lacking a discernable sense of humor.

  Perhaps the worst office mate I can imagine for fun, effusive, very feminine Beck.

  I don’t share any of this with Beck, however. She’s already upset enough. “It’s going to be fine,” I say instead. “I bet Cole will have to give up his office and you’ll keep yours to yourself.”

  “Hopefully.” She sniffs and notices Marcus’s outfit for the first time. “Why on earth are you wearing a tie?”

  Marcus groans. “Why does everyone keep asking me that? I had a meeting. I was trying to look decent. Can’t a guy put on a tie on this campus without an inquisition?”

  Beck and I both giggle at that, but I feel the same sense of confusion I did this morning when Marcus picked me up, wearing his best trousers, a new shirt, and a tie. I asked him about the meeting, but it didn’t seem important enough to dress up for.

  He looks tired and hot and adorably incongruous in his slightly wrinkled shirt (still tucked in all the way!) and tie. I know he shaved this morning, but it looks like he needs to again.

  I love him so much I want to squeeze him, tie and all.

  “Okay,” Beck says, picking up the big bag she always carries on and off campus. “From Jennifer’s expression, things are about to get sappy here, so I’m going to make a discreet exit.”

  “We’ll work on the office thing,” Marcus tells her as she heads for the doorway of my office. “I’m sure it will work out.”

  “I hope so. Thanks for trying. Talk to you later, Jennifer.”

  “See you.”

  When Beck has left, I smile at Marcus, and he steps over to give me a sweet little kiss. I take his hand as we leave the building and head for the staff parking lot where his pickup truck is parked.

  “You want to go out to dinner?” he asks as we walk.

  I look at him in surprise. “We can if you want. It’s a little early. Or were you thinking Hal’s?”

  “We can go to Hal’s. Or we can go somewhere nicer. We can get a drink first so it’s not so early.” His voice is light. Intentionally casual.

  I peer at him suspiciously. “You just don’t want to waste your tie.”

  He chokes on a burst of laughter. “You got me. That’s exactly it. I didn’t put on this tie for nothing.”

  I glance down at myself, pleased that I wore my pretty black-and-white polka-dot dress today. “Okay. Let’s do it. Maybe we can go to Stella’s, if that’s not too fancy. It will be fun.”

  “Stella’s is perfect.”

  I’m smiling as I open the car door and haul myself up into the seat.

  Marcus has gotten in too, and he’s looking at me strangely.

  “What?” I ask. “What’s going on with you?”

  He stares for another moment, and then his shoulders shake. He leans his head forward against the steering wheel.

  I honestly can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying.

  “What the hell, Marcus? What’s the matter?” I shift in my seat, suddenly aware that something is poking me in the butt. “What am I sitting on?”

  I lift up slightly and feel at the car seat with my hand.

  Marcus is shaking even more, but he’s turned his face to look at me so I can see that he’s laughing in tight, suppressed spasms.

  “What’s so funny?” I demand, suddenly growing excited for no reason I’m consciously aware of. “You’re being annoying right now. You know that, right?”

  He’s laughing too hard to answer, but his eyes never leave my face.

  I finally manage to get my hands on the poking thing I’ve been sitting on. I bring it up to peer at it.

  It’s a small velvet pouch with something inside.

  I know what it is.

  Of course I know what is.

  I gape at it embarrassingly.

  Finally I turn slowly to look back at Marcus. He’s not laughing anymore. His eyes are warm and very soft.

  “You let me sit on it!” I burst out.

  “I thought you would see it before you sat down.”

  “I sat on it!”

  “It’s a diamond. They’re pretty hard. I don’t think you did it any damage.” He reaches over and takes it from my loose grip. He pulls a ring out of the velvet pouch.

  I’m making the silliest noises—half pants and half whimpers.

  “I love you, Jennifer. You see me for real. I see you. And I love everything I see about you. I want to marry you. To love you and be loved by you for the rest of our lives. If you want that too.” He pauses. “Do you?”

  I make a couple more of those frantic gasps before I can manage to say, “Yes! I do! I want that. I want to marry you too.”

  He’s laughing as he reaches for my left hand and slips the ring on my finger. It’s a pretty princess-cut diamond solitaire—not particularly large—on a simple gold band. It’s perfect. I hug it to my chest.

  “There,” he says, leaning over to kiss my mouth. “Now we’re engaged.”

  “We’ll have to go show it to Grandma first thing tomorrow. She’ll be so happy for us.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  We gaze at each other for a minute.

  Then, “I can’t believe you let me sit on my ring!”

  “I would have stopped you if I saw it soon enough. But I fell in love with you here. In this truck. So I wanted to propose to you here too.”

  “It’s perfect.” There’s no way to contain the extent of my joy. I throw myself across the seats and give him a big, sloppy hug. “I fell in love with you here too. I’m glad you proposed here. And we better keep this truck for the rest of our lives.”

  “I’m not sure it will be drivable when we’re in our nineties, but if it means you’ll still be by my side then, then I’m never getting rid of this truck.”

  It’s t
he perfect thing to say. And now I’m wearing the perfect ring.

  We drive to Stella’s for drinks and dinner and a lot of sappy plans for the future.

  And that’s perfect too.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: The next book in the Milford College is Office Mate (about Beck and the new guy she’s sharing her office with). You can find an excerpt on the following pages.

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  Excerpt from Office Mate

  “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 did 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 had bought it. 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?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a big change, I guess. Moving here to Virginia.” I wonder why he took the job at Milford. Notre Dame is a good school, and his publication history is already impressive. Surely he could get a more prestigious job. The job market is tough for faculty in the humanities, but I’d be really surprised if Milford was his only job offer.

  “Not really.”

  That’s all he says. Not really.

  “Where are you from originally?” I ask, still searching for a way to get him to loosen up.

  “Virginia.”

  Oh. Well, that explains it. No wonder he doesn’t think moving here is a big transition. “I’m from Virginia too. Farmville,” I offer. Some people open up easier if the other person does first. “I did my graduate work at the University of North Carolina.”

  “I saw that. On your faculty page on the Milford website.”

  So he’s been looking me up. Not surprising. I would have done the same thing. “My folks still live in Farmville. It’s nice that they’re only a couple of hours away. Is your family still in Virginia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where in Virginia?”

  “Richmond.”

  “So you’re pretty close to them too. That’s good.”

  He doesn’t answer. If anything, he looks even more closed up than he did before.

  I try not to make a face at him. He’s making even simple conversation difficult. “Well, I hope you like it here.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine.” He’s still standin
g, looking at me. It would be more natural if he’d go back to unpacking his boxes, but he doesn’t.

  I turn on my computer, mostly for something to do. “Well, I’m going to work on a syllabus.”

  He nods. “I already have mine mostly done.”

  Of course he does.

  Then he adds, “I’d like to know your teaching hours, if I may.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your teaching hours? When your classes are? I need to finalize my office hours, and I’d like to coordinate with your teaching hours if possible.”

  “Oh.” I stare at him, trying to figure out what he’s saying. Surely he doesn’t think he’ll have the office to himself when I’m not teaching. “I’ll be in my office at other times too.”

  “Naturally. But if I schedule my office hours during your teaching hours, we won’t be trying to conference with students at the same time.”

  Conference with students? It’s all I can do not to repeat the words back to him. “Oh, um, okay. But students stop by whenever.”

  “I understand.” He doesn’t move. He’s still waiting.

  I manage not to roll my eyes. “This semester, I’m teaching on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at eight, nine, ten, and one.”

  For the first time, a real expression crosses his face. It’s faint surprise. “You really stack your classes.”

  “I prefer it that way. The first three are repeats of the same class, so I get into a zone with them. And I prefer to have Tuesdays and Thursdays to focus on my other work.”

  “I see. That will work fine then. I’ll put my office hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. My classes are on Tuesday and Thursday at eight thirty and ten and a Wednesday night class.”

  He’s only teaching three classes? How did he get so lucky?

  I’ve really got to stop acting so petty and thinking the worst of him. They probably gave him a one-course release because this is his first semester.

  He hands me a printed sheet of paper, and I stare down at it in surprise. It’s got his teaching and office hours printed out.

  “What if I said I was teaching different hours?” I ask.