After my Arabic III class, I head to the coffee shop with a knot in my stomach. I arrive ten minutes early and order my drink and sit at a table by the window, pulling my Arabic homework out to work on while the subject matter is still fresh in my head. I lose myself in verb conjugation, and I’m surprised when I see that it’s already twenty after three. Tucker hasn’t shown. I pull out my phone and double-check his e-mail to verify the time. He said three o’clock, and this is the only coffee shop on campus.
Tucker enters the shop with two friends as I’m packing up. They are loud and boisterous, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. My anger flares at his lackadaisical attitude as well as his disrespect. But mostly I find myself disappointed with him, although for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. Tucker Price is Tucker Price. The guy I saw yesterday was a figment of my imagination.
Tucker sees me and wanders over, a lazy smile on his face. “Where are you going?”
This part I dread. The attention Tucker has drawn follows over to me. My face flames, and I keep my head down as my shaky hand stuffs my books into my bag. It would be so much easier to stay and avoid the eyes of everyone in the room, but the truth is that all these eyes would be on me anyway. Tucker is the center of chaos everywhere he goes. I refuse to be sucked into it. Computer program or not.
He puts his hand on my bag. “Scarlett, where are you going?”
I look up into his face. Confusion wrinkles his brow. He really doesn’t get it.
I dig deep down and find the strength to do this. “You said three o’clock, Tucker. It’s now three twenty-two. You’re late, and my time is valuable.”
His eyebrows rise in surprise.
I jerk my bag from his hand and loop the strap over my shoulder.
He holds his hands out from his sides, his cocky attitude bleeding through his stance. “I’m here now.”
“Good for you. I’m not.” I head for the door.
Tucker follows behind, cutting in front of me and blocking the exit. “Scarlett.” My name rolls off his tongue, smooth as silk. I’m sure many a girl has given him much more than their attention when he’s used that voice. Fortunately for me, I’m not one of them. “Let’s just sit back down, and we’ll work during the time I have left.”
“Tucker, if you don’t get out of my way, I’ll call campus security.”
All eyes in the shop are on us. He shakes his head in disbelief. I’m quite certain he’s used to getting what he wants whenever he wants it. He’s not sure how to handle me.
My throat tightens and my lungs burn for oxygen. My body wants to gasp for air, but I fight the sensation, focusing every speck of my attention on the puzzled blue eyes less than a foot in front of my face.
We have a standoff, in the doorway of The Higher Ground coffee shop. People are outside the door waiting to get in, but Tucker’s hand is on the handle, preventing their entrance as well as my escape.
I lift my chin and grit my teeth to keep them from chattering. “Get out of my way. Now.”
He stares for another three seconds before he curses under his breath. His hand drops, and he takes a step back.
Someone outside pulls the door open, and I push through the group, my eyes stinging from my unshed tears and the cold. I walk at a brisk pace until I get to the mathematics building, then find a back stairwell and sink to a step. Closing my eyes, I bury my face in my hands and give into a full-blown attack as the realization of my fate sinks in my head.
I may have stood up for my principles, but I’ve just committed career suicide.
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Chapter Six
Several minutes later we climb the staircase to my apartment. I worry that Tucker will fall down the stairs in his stupor, but he only trips once. When we reach my apartment, he leans his shoulder into the brick wall as he watches me fumble with the lock. I push the door open and wait for him to enter. The soft lamp light from the living room welcomes us in from the cold.
He waves to the opening. “Ladies first.”
More surprises. I go inside, and he follows, shutting the door behind us.
I go into the kitchen, my stomach churning. I’m suddenly unsure this was a good idea. “Sit down at the table, and I’ll clean up your hands.”
He obeys, sliding a chair across the floor closer to the wall and landing in the seat with an oomph.
I take off my coat and lay it across the back of another chair. “I need to get some towels.” When I come back from the bathroom with several hand towels, I wet one with warm water and lay the rest on the counter. I reach for his right hand and begin to tenderly pat the now-drying blood.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks.
I’d love to know the answer to that question myself. “You can’t do your homework if you can’t hold a pencil.”
He slides down in his seat, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes. “Strictly professional reasons.”
“Of course.”
We both know it’s a lie, but he doesn’t call me on it.
When I get most of the blood wiped away on his right hand, I sigh. His knuckles are swollen and purple. “I think you should go to the ER and get x-rays. You might have broken your hand.”
The back of his head is propped against the kitchen wall, and his eyes are closed. “Good thing I don’t need my hands in soccer.”