Five days.
Five days of silence since those goddamn panties showed up in my mailbox, and I've convinced myself that if I just throw myself into coursework hard enough, I can somehow exorcise Adrian Lewis from my system through the power of academic overachievement.
"Victorian literature will save you,"
I mutter to myself, speed-walking through the English department hallway with my arms loaded down like a pack mule.
"Feminist theory will rewire your brain. You just need to study harder, Sophie. Read more. Bury yourself in books until you forget what his hands felt like."
It's working about as well as expected—which is to say, not at all.
My travel mug of coffee sloshes dangerously as I navigate around a cluster of students discussing their weekend plans. The coffee is probably seventy percent caffeine at this point, but I need every molecule of artificial energy I can get.
Sleep has been... elusive since Adrian's little gift arrived.
"Okay, you can do this," I whisper to my textbooks like they're therapy animals.
"Morrison's Victorian Women Writers, then Feminist Literary Theory with Patterson, then three hours in the library researching your paper on the male gaze in nineteenth-century novels. See? You have a plan. Plans are good. Plans don't involve thinking about…"
I cut myself off before my brain can finish that thought.
"Nope. No thinking about him. No thinking about anything that happened. You're fine. You're absolutely fucking fine."
I'm so busy giving myself a pep talk that I don't see the brick wall disguised as a human being until I slam into it at full speed.
Coffee explodes everywhere like a caffeinated bomb went off in the hallway. My textbooks scatter across the linoleum like academic shrapnel, pages fluttering as they settle into puddles of what used to be my morning survival juice.
My bag tumbles off my shoulder, spilling pens and highlighters that roll away like tiny deserters.
"Oh no, oh no, oh NO!" I stare in horror at the disaster zone I've created. "This is not happening. This cannot be happening right now!"
And standing in front of me, now completely drenched in coffee and looking like he just survived a natural disaster, is possibly the most attractive man I've seen since…
No. Not going there. Do not go there, Sophie.
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" I drop to my knees without thinking, frantically gathering soggy papers and trying to salvage what's left of my organizational system. "I'm so sorry, I'm such a disaster, I'm literally the worst person alive, I—"
"Well," the coffee victim says, and there's something in his voice that makes me pause in my frantic cleanup.
He's examining his now-brown dress shirt with what sounds suspiciously like amusement instead of the homicidal rage I deserve. "I was wondering how to make this shirt more interesting. Mission accomplished."
I look up from my position on the floor, ready to grovel and offer to pay his dry-cleaning bill and possibly his therapy costs, and nearly forget how words work.
Jesus Christ.
Bright brown eyes that are polite about the coffee disaster, yet there's something almost predatory in the way his gaze travels over my face, like he's cataloguing every detail for later.
His smile is all dimples and charm, but there's heat underneath it that makes my stomach flutter unexpectedly.
Dark blond hair is professionally tousled, and that makes me want to run my fingers through it to mess it up properly.
The coffee-soaked dress shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, revealing the kind of build that comes from actual physical work rather than just gym memberships.
Broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, arms that look like they could pin someone down without much effort.
Stop it, I tell my suddenly interested libido. You are not checking out the man you just assaulted with caffeine.
But I can't help noticing the way his forearms flex when he moves, or how his hands look strong and capable and exactly the right size to—
Nope. Not happening. Shut up, Sophie.
"Your shirt is ruined." I blurt out, because apparently my brain has relocated to my feet and decided to abandon all social skills. "And now you look like you wrestled with a coffee machine and lost."
He laughs, actually laughs, and crouches down to help me gather my scattered belongings. "It's just a shirt. Though I have to admit, coffee-stained chic wasn't exactly the look I was going for on my first week."
"First week?" I repeat, trying not to notice how his forearms look when he reaches for my Victorian Poetry anthology. "You're new here?"
"Brand new. Still figuring out where everything is, actually." He hands me the book with another one of those easy smiles. "I'm starting to think getting lost and ending up here was actually the universe's way of helping me meet someone."
Is he... is he flirting with me? While covered in my coffee? What kind of person does that?
"Someone who destroys your clothing and ruins your day?" I ask, shoving books back into my bag with zero regard for organization. "Because if that's your type, you've definitely come to the right place."
"Someone who apologizes with genuine horror and offers to buy new shirts," he corrects, standing and offering me his hand to help me up. "That's actually exactly my type."
His hand is warm and steady, and for a moment I let myself imagine what it would be like to be touched by someone who makes jokes instead of commands, who smiles instead of smirks, who helps instead of controls.
Then my phone buzzes against my thigh and I glance at the time. My soul immediately leaves my body.
"FUCKING SHIT!" The words explode out of me with the force of pure panic. "I'm late for Morrison's class!"
I scramble upright, nearly tripping over my own feet as I shove the last of my belongings into my bag.
Professor Morrison doesn't just murder students who are late—she dissects them slowly, academically, in front of the entire class while explaining why punctuality is a cornerstone of intellectual respect.
"I owe you a new shirt," I call over my shoulder, already backing away from the scene of my latest disaster. "But I gotta run before she murders me academically!"
"Wait, what's your…" he starts to ask, but I'm already sprinting down the hallway like campus security is chasing me.
"Sorry!" I shout back at him, probably looking like a complete lunatic as I careen around the corner toward Morrison's classroom. "I'm sorry about everything!"
I can hear him laughing behind me, which is either a very good sign or evidence that I've finally driven someone to hysteria through sheer catastrophic force of personality.
The last thing I see before I disappear around the corner is him standing in the middle of the hallway, coffee-stained and gorgeous, shaking his head with what looks suspiciously like fond amusement.
Great, I think as I burst through Morrison's classroom door thirty seconds before she starts her lecture. Just great. The first attractive, normal-seeming man you've talked to in months, and you assault him with caffeine and flee like a deranged criminal.
But even as I settle into my seat and try to focus on Victorian women's narratives of domestic confinement, I can't stop thinking about bright brown eyes and easy laughter.
Maybe, just maybe, there are worse things than ruining someone's shirt.