Dearest Clementine (14 page)

“It’s where the library stores its main collection, but it’s also where all of the hot makeout sessions happen on campus. I’m guessing an illicit affair with your scorching hot RA should have at least one hookup in the stacks.”

He smirks, and those dimples come out in full force.

“So now you’re my ‘scorching hot RA’?” I attempt a look of incredulity, but it’s tough when I’m wrapped up in his arms.

“Yeah. That’s me. And you’re my innocent little freshman who is dying to get in my pants.”

And there’s a total look of satisfaction in his face that makes me want to take down him down a peg or two.

So I laugh. “What else do I want to do to you?”

He looks down, a mischievous grin spreading. “I don’t know, but I’m eager to find out.”

I don’t have a chance to respond because as the doors open, Gavin grabs my hand and pulls me through a few aisles, and we twist and turn until we’re in what must be the farthest corner of the library.

“These are the stacks.” He reaches out one hand as though he’s making a formal introduction, and I’m about to ask what the big deal is when he turns around and pushes me up against the wall.

I gasp, surprised.

His hand pins me above my heart, which is pounding as he leans in so close I can feel his breath.

He pauses and raises his eyebrows, and I know what he’s asking.

I only need the briefest of moments to realize I’m not scared, not with him, not now, and I give him a small nod before his mouth crashes into mine and we pick up where we left off in the laundry room.

I’m immediately lost in his touch and taste. Gavin runs his hand along my back before he fists my hair, and my heart thunders in my chest.

He has the most amazing lips, the kind I want to bite. And in the spirit of inspiration, I decide I should.

I break the kiss long enough to take his bottom lip between my teeth. I look up at him as I gently tug, and I’m glad that he has his arm wrapped around my waist because the scorching look he gives me makes me weak.

He pulls back and stares, his thumb lightly brushing over cheek. Our breaths mingle in the short distance between us, the sound of each intake of air filling the silence.

Suddenly, he growls and pulls me closer, parting my lips with his tongue. The slight stubble on his chin rubs my face, and I run my hands up his broad shoulders and through his hair, pulling him tighter. He grabs my waist, and I’m in the air for a split second before I land on top of a small bookshelf. He nestles in between my thighs, and I yank on his shirt, wanting him closer.

Wrapping my legs around him, I press myself into his hard body as my nails score down his back. He grabs my ass and rocks against me, and I can’t help the moan that escapes me.

I don’t know how long I’m adrift in his kiss, but as I begin to wonder how smart this is, making out in the library, we’re interrupted.

“Ahem.” The sudden sound makes me jolt back, and I turn to see a very irritated librarian with a cart of books he apparently needs to shelve. I laugh as Gavin slides me off the bookcase. He grins as he grabs my hand, pulling me behind him as we run down the aisle and back into the elevator.

I’m still breathing hard from our little makeout session and laughing from getting caught when he turns and anchors me against the wall with his hip, bracing his hands on either side of me. Judging by what’s pressed up against my stomach, I’m not the only one turned on.

“Uh, you excited to see me?” I say coyly.

“You have no fucking idea.” He leans down and gives me the sweetest, softest kiss before he breaks away when the door opens to the main floor.

Dear lord.

* * *

I sit at my desk, thinking about how to capture what happened in the library. I touch my lips, which are swollen from having my mouth pressed against Gavin’s like my life depended on it. Trying not to overanalyze what’s happening between us, I focus on channeling the emotion of being with him. His touch. His delicious scent. His smile. I close my eyes and allow myself a reprieve from my cynical inner voice and try to enjoy the rush of the last few times we’ve hung out.

When I open my laptop, the words begin to flow, and I can see my characters—how they fall in love, their sweet embraces, their impassioned stares. It’s like my head has been uncorked, and everything is tumbling out so fast, my fingers can barely keep pace. It’s exhilarating, and my heart races with the possibilities.

It isn’t always this hard. Well, that’s not exactly true. I started writing as a form of therapy so I could deal with all the bullshit of breaking up with Daren. When I wrote my first book, I knew how it would end, how the characters would evolve, and roughly how they’d get there. This is different. I don’t know where this story will go, a thought that briefly douses my elation.

Somewhere around 4 a.m., I collapse in bed.

The alarm the next morning is painful. When I dress for class, I realize I’ve probably spent the last twenty-four hours obsessing over Gavin so I can write. I can feel it already, how I open up to him, how he gets me to take chances, how I’m willing to go outside my comfort zone for him.

This is dangerous. I could get hurt.

I keep waiting for the panic to set in, the panic that has tortured me throughout college and kept me from getting close to anyone. For once, it doesn’t.

-
11 -

The edges of the leaves are starting to change. In a few weeks, the street will be full of wild, chaotic color. Even the air this morning is crisp. It won’t be long before I’ll need to wear more than a light sweater or hoodie. The thought makes me frown because I don’t have money to go shopping.

When I reach for my mail, I see Student Accounting Services Office on the top envelope. My fingers hesitate at its edges.
No, rip it off, like a Band-Aid.
I tear through one side and pull out the letter. My eyes skim over the words until I find what I’m looking for. I have to take a deep breath when I see the amount because right now there’s no way in hell I can afford it.

Money wasn’t an issue when I chose this school. I loved the campus and the programs and the fact that it was so close to Boston College and Daren. Between a few academic scholarships and my track scholarship, I almost had a full ride. My parents seemed pleased with my plans when I told them I wanted to attend Boston University, so I never thought I’d be scrounging to pay tuition every few months.

But that was before my father left for that European merger and decided that living on another continent was better than living with us. Before my mother had that meltdown because I wouldn’t model her clothes. Before both of them forgot I existed.

The ache in my chest reminds me that I still care too much.

They taught me how to shut out people. How to be cold. Shut off. Distant. Apparently, being a bitch is my only inheritance.

When I get to work, I find a mountain of invoices to process. Somewhere in my dreary afternoon, I step out of the office and run down to Starbucks, which is nestled in the corner of the first floor, next to the Barnes & Noble.

The guy behind the counter is new. He reminds me of a cocker spaniel, all perk and happiness as he hunts and pecks on the register. When his trainer Sarah sees me, she pushes the kid out of the way to take my order.

“The usual, Clem?” Sarah asks, her ponytail bopping on her head.

“Yeah, thanks.” I reach over the counter to grab my coffee. “By the way, your team did a great job last week selling the promo drink. You’ll be entered in the raffle for the gift card.”

“Cool!” she says with a big grin.

“There you are.” My manager Roger waves for me to follow him. He has a major crinkle in his brow, so I’m wondering what got broken. I make sure the lid on my drink is secure and run to catch up, but instead of leading me to the home department that has the glass knickknacks that are always getting smashed by the dumber-than-fuck frat boys, he leads me to Barnes & Noble. When he stops, I do a double take.

On the new shelf reserved for indie favorites sits my novel. Until now, I’ve only sold ebooks, so seeing the actual hard copy in a store is making me drunk with glee, but I try to stay calm.

Running my fingers over the glossy purple cover of
Say It Isn’t So
, pride swells in my chest. I got it done, in print and in stores. Well, a few stores. I touch the book again, my thumb running over the letters like they’re little gold nuggets. I don’t care what people say online. I still love the cover. The broken heart locket was mine, and nothing can symbolize what happens in my story any better.

 “I can’t keep these on the shelves,” he says as he taps on my book.

It takes me a second to realize he’s not just talking about my novel, that he’s referring to all of the titles in the indie section.

“This was a damn good idea, Clem,” he says. “I’m glad you suggested it.”

I had the good luck of tutoring Macy, the owner’s daughter last semester, and when we got talking about books, I mentioned the need for an indie shelf at the bookstore. And I
might
have shared my favorite titles with her, one of which
maybe
was my own. 

But she didn’t know it was mine. And neither does my boss who’s staring at it.

Unease takes root in my stomach.
Is it possible Roger found out?

My boss scratches his belly absentmindedly.

Trying to appear casual, I school my expression. “Um, how do you know I suggested it?”

He grins like he’s in on some big secret. “Because Macy’s dad told me.” He taps the shelf. “And since the titles are such a hit, I’d like to get a few of these authors to come for a book talk next month. I’ve heard back from everyone except the publicist for Austen Fitzgerald. With the best sales in the city, you’d think she’d give me the time of day.”

 The frustration in his voice makes me feel guilty, but I can’t tell him the truth, that I’m Austen Fitzgerald, a pseudonym I came up with by combining the names of my two favorite writers, Jane Austen and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

My publicist hates me because I won’t interact with fans beyond Twitter and a few social networks, but I’ve put too much of myself in that book to lay claim to it publicly. I figure that’s why I pay her, but apparently not enough because she should call Roger back or at least let me know what he wants.

I’m relieved it’s selling, though, because I have to scrounge up a crapload of cash to pay the tuition bill that threatens to kick my ass out on the street.

I motion toward my book. “Let me try calling her publicist. At the very least, maybe I can get some signed copies.”

“Good idea!” Roger is only forty, but he marches around here like a grandpa, always worried about sales and figures and schedules. “Corporate is crazy about you. They want you as a full-time manager when you graduate.”

“I thought they only hired MBAs for those positions.”

“That’s true, but they love all of your suggestions and how you incentivize the staff.”  He tilts his head. “I’ve been meaning to ask why no one ever calls in sick on your shifts.”

I smirk. “I tell them if they call in sick, I’m going to fire them and they’ll end up working as a media assistant setting up overhead projectors and presentations for classes, but they’ll screw it up and everyone will laugh at them, which will eventually give them a complex that will require intensive psychotherapy.”

He crinkles those eyebrows again, obviously unsure whether I’m telling the truth. I shake my head and laugh.

“Roger, I buy them shit every month they’re on time. Out of my own pocket. Sometimes it’s from the gift cards I get from those efficiency rewards corporate sends out.”

I’ve had practice with that sort of stuff. Like the online raffles I do for free giveaways of my book and autographed bookmarks that feature the cover of my novel. I even write people personalized notes as some of the characters in my story. Fans seem to love those the most. One woman even sent me a new locket after I blogged about how my broken necklace ended up on the cover.

His eyes widen. “You spend your own money? Really?”

“Yeah, but usually the kids are happy taking home the crap we give away after a promotion is over, so it’s not so bad. It’s better than dealing with their bullshit when they have hangovers.”

He scratches his head. “Can I clone you?”

I pat him on the shoulder. “I’m not sure that technology is available yet, so you’re going to have to settle for a box of signed books from Austen what’s-her-name.”

Roger smiles, and the wrinkle in the middle of his forehead smoothes.

“How do you know so much about business and marketing?”

Debating how much to tell him, I opt for vague. “My parents own a few businesses, and I paid attention.”

“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully. “Anything I know?”

“No.”
Um, probably,
I think, watching a couple of sorority girls decked out in clothes from my mother’s fashion line saunter by with the brand name emblazoned on their asses.