He navigated around her, walking backward on the paved path. The gleam in his champagne eyes insinuated he had no intention of giving up the gun where nicknames were concerned.
“Whatever you say. You look nice today, by the way. Those jeans are working for you.” Daniel winked and spun around on his heel, fading into the crowd of students going their separate ways across campus.
She could not blame him for calling attention to her outfit. The ginger cable-knit sweater and black jeans were a massive upgrade from her usual baggy hoodie and yoga pants.
Still, it did not boost her confidence coming from his lecherous lips.
Ryleigh popped in her earbuds, shuffling the music library on her phone, its algorithm selecting Cake’s Love You Madly. Music made the ungodly long march across the lawn more tolerable. Plus, it gave her a convenient out to anyone who tried to get her attention along the way.
Several guys gave her suggestive nods or flexed their eyebrows in passing. Ryleigh kept her head down like a wanted criminal.
It was the one thing she had come to hate about college: the boys were relentless flirts, and much more audacious in their attempts than she had experienced in the company of their high school aged predecessors. It made Ryleigh ache for Peter, long for how he treated and valued her, how he loved her for her mind and soul and did not view her solely as a piece of meat to gnaw on before moving on to the next appealing slab.
He was a gentleman, in his own backward way.
As she neared the edge of campus, the music stopped. She pulled the phone from her front pocket to see if the app had crashed. An incoming call from Peter—rather than faulty software—was the culprit. Ryleigh’s brow furrowed; it neared 2:30.
His plane should have left Logan International by now.
A sinking feeling festered in the bottomless pit of her stomach. She gripped the mic bar between two fingers. “Don’t tell me your flight got delayed.”
“My flight was right on time. 11:45 last Friday.”
Her paces halted, feet frozen to the concrete as she pieced together his words. Peter was here. He had been here for a whole week. That bastard.
Heat surged through her and left her seconds away from detonation, but a wave of cold put out the sparking fuse. Throat constricting, she waited for him to say something.
Anything.
“I pride myself on not being one of those guys who cares about what his girlfriend wears, but I think I found a chink in my armor given your current attire. Off the record, those jeans? Jesus Christ, woman.” His compliment flooded her eardrums and made her scanty supply of breath hitch.
Ryleigh’s pulse hammered away, becoming more erratic by the second as she whipped around in every direction, searching for him. That erraticism built to near combustion when she spotted him sitting on one of the cement ledges bordering campus. Her hand flew to her mouth, tears filling her eyes as if on command.
She raced toward him—gaining enough momentum to have taken flight—uncaring about the mascara staining her cheeks, uncaring about the students who stared after her as she bolted across the Diag like a maniac.
Peter rose, dusting off his pants. One of those rare, earth-shattering grins was on full display. His mouth stretched miles wide, displaying his slightly misaligned teeth. The cheerful flex of his facial muscles accentuated his wondrous laugh lines and incriminatingly beautiful crow’s feet. To Ryleigh, it was like being granted a private viewing to the world’s most exquisite piece of art.
And it was all hers.
She leapt into his arms and though Peter caught her they stumbled and swayed; she had fully expected them to tumble to the ground, as he looked frailer than when they had parted ways in August. She had just been reunited with the love of her, thus far, short-lived life. It was hardly the appropriate time to inquire about his less than stellar dietary habits.
Ryleigh anchored her legs around his waist, fingers clasped behind his neck. The rivulets streaming along her cheeks did not phase her until he pointed them out.
“Don’t cry. You’re going to make me cry.” Peter’s attempt at dissuasion was unsuccessful due to his ceaseless grinning.
In fact, him telling her not to cry intensified her typhoon of tears. It was hard to accept this was anything but an elaborate dream when this scene transcended the fabric of reality.
He pinched her side through the thick material of her sweater. “Where’s your freshman 15? You’re still a skinny little thing. I know your parents didn’t skip out on the meal plan.”
Ryleigh kissed his stubble-spackled cheek. “I’ve gained five pounds. I’m a third of the way there, thank you.”
Peter slipped a hand into the back pocket of her jeans, giving her butt a light squeeze. “I think it all went right here.”
“Put me down.” She laughed, smacking his shoulder. Ryleigh trailed the pad of her thumb along his rough facial hair, noticing a foreign smattering of gray. “You’ll be a silver fox before 40 at this rate.”
“Well, it’s definitely your fault. You stress me out. You’re making my hair turn white.”
She pulled on the front of his peacoat, staring up at him with a smitten smile. “Oh, I stress you out, huh?”
Peter craned his neck down to kiss her, but a passing student thwarted the action. An obnoxious guy in a letterman jacket, whom she vaguely recognized from some class, shouted, “Get it, Branson!”
“Animals,” they said in unison, breaking into soft laughter at sharing the same thought.
He grabbed her hand, their fingers lacing together like it was second nature. It felt inexplicably delightful to pick up precisely where they had left off, pretending that the months separating them had not messed with the rhythm of who they were when they were together. They trailed off campus, emerging in the bustling streets of downtown. “Know any good coffee places around here?”
Typical Peter, worried about his cappuccino fix.
She wanted to be alone with him, preferably somewhere with a padded surface, not in a cafe surrounded by who knows how many people. Still, she indulged his inquiry. “Rise and Grind. It’s not that far. We’ll take a left in two blocks.”
He nudged her as they entered a crosswalk. “Can I carry your bag?”
“It’s not that heavy,” Ryleigh insisted despite the straps digging into her shoulders.
“Bullshit. If you’ll recall, I picked you up, at which point I was brutally attacked by the full force of your million textbooks. Hand it over.”
She wiggled out of the backpack, surrendering it to a potentially uncaffeinated Peter. Ryleigh rolled her eyes as she handed off the bag; she expected to be treated like an adult when they hung out, not reduced to a little sister he was accompanying home from school.
“Those things—”
“Are going to roll right out of your head,” she mocked, voice impression and all. His honeyed gray eyes zeroed in on her while a smirk played at his thin lips. With that singular look, her mild annoyance melted away. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I’m here.” Peter squeezed her hand as they rounded the street corner. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A white foam mustache clung to Ryleigh’s upper lip after she took the inaugural sip of her caramel latte, which she opted to vanquish with her tongue rather than dabbing it away with a napkin.
They sat at a long, high top counter facing the storefront. Some golden afternoon rays had managed to sneak in through the gaps of the concrete structures downtown, penetrating the window and highlighting half of her makeupless face. Upon arriving at the shop, Ryleigh had excused herself to wash off the remnants of her shot to shit cosmetics.
A quietness settled over them as they sat and sampled their respective espresso drinks. It made Peter remember, with vivid clarity, how he had been on pins and needles around Ryleigh when she had unexpectedly swept into his life. Though she sat beside him in a crowded cafe, he found it hard to believe that this was his new normal, let alone that she had even cared enough t
o fight for his affections.
Eventually, her silence sparked a slight paranoia in him, prompting him to say, “I’ve never known you to be so quiet.”
The comment earned Peter a small smile and gave him the confidence to seize her hand. It seemed he could not bear to let go of it since their reunion some 30-odd minutes earlier, not for long anyway. That innocent though tender physical connection was a way of affirming that Ryleigh was really there and disproved the theory that he lingered in the company of a lavishly constructed figment of his imagination.
Thumb stroking the top side of her hand, Peter lowered his voice. “If something’s wrong, I hope you’d tell me.”
“Why did you bring me here?” Ryleigh conjured a slack expression, as if their being in a coffee shop were the most implausible thing in the world.
He propped his elbows on the counter. “What, you don’t like the coffee at this place? You recommended it.”
“The coffee’s fine.”
“I know you inside and out, thanks to our questionably long phone and video calls the last five months. Although, it wouldn’t take a genius to see that something’s up with you right now.”
“I guess,” her lips pressed together in hesitation, “this isn’t the venue I pictured for our reunion.”
Peter took a swig of his cappuccino, utilizing those few seconds to cope with the idea that someone had ascribed such importance to being reunited with him. “No? Might I ask what venue you had in mind, my little planner?”
She surveyed the busy shop and leaned in close to him, mouth caressing his ear as she spoke. “Somewhere with a bed, I had hoped.”
Ryleigh’s proximity and the heat of not only her breath but her words made his brain hazy, wondering why he had not, indeed, whisked her away to his apartment to consummate their fledgling relationship. And it was not until she pulled back that the haze lifted, and Peter recalled why that was not their current reality.
His speech sought to remedy the goosebumps sheathing his forearms and newly developing predicament in his slacks. “My place is in no condition for company. I’ll invite you to stay for a weekend as soon as everything is sorted out, I promise.”
In lieu of a response, Ryleigh traced her mug’s saucer, visibly swallowing as she stared out the window.
Placing a hand on her thigh, he whispered, “Ryleigh, baby?”
Her softened gaze snapped to him. Ryleigh’s hand covered his and her shoulders dropped in silent submission to whatever he had to say.
He was unsure if using her full name or the rare usage of a pet name had caught her attention, but either way, Peter ran with it.
“Don’t you dare, for one second, think that I’m not dying to be with you. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than I want you—but, now that we’re living in the same zip code, I don’t want you to feel any kind of pressure, alright? Whenever we come to that bridge, it’s going to be 100% your choice whether we cross it.”
All of the tension abandoned his frayed nerves when Ryleigh produced a signature breathy laugh, an angelic sound that left him feeling weightless.
“Bridge-crossing metaphors, seriously?” She smirked, accentuating the plumpness of her lips and effectively driving Peter insane.
“God, you’re right. I sound like a crotchety, old dad.”
Shrugging, Ryleigh dismounted the barstool. “I don’t know, I think it’s pretty sexy.”
Peter drained the remainder of his cappuccino and grabbed her rucksack of bricks as they made a beeline to exit the coffee shop. “This coming from the girl who’s in a relationship with someone twice her age when she should be dating a Greek geek fraternity ringleader.”
“Please. If we weren’t together, there’s a 9 out of 10 chance I’d be shacking up with one of my professors. I should be thanking you for saving me from such a socially stigmatizing affair. Oh, wait.”
He nearly allowed the door to hit an incoming patron as he trailed Ryleigh out of the shop and onto the street. She shot him a tongue in cheek smile and bounded along the sidewalk in the direction of her dorm complex, taking Peter’s stuttering heart right with her.
Peter likened himself to a frightened kindergartener on the first day of school when he showed up to the Ann Arbor Times office Monday afternoon. The towering structure made its presence known downtown, competing with the high-rises and residence halls that comprised the city’s humble skyline.
He had grown fainter and fainter since getting ready and driving to the office, and he bordered on passing out alone in the claustrophobic confinement of the elevator. The vessel took its sweet time ascending, as if it meant to taunt Peter and his irrational nerves. Tossing his head back, he regarded the ceiling and inwardly chided himself for being held hostage by anxiety over something as inconsequential as the first day in a new workplace. His near state of hyperventilation suggested he was preparing to enter the newsroom of The New York Times or the Chicago Tribune, rather than a mid-size, midwestern publication.
No sooner than the turn of the next century, the polished elevator doors parted, revealing the office lobby. Above the receptionist’s desk there hung a sleek silver sign in the paper’s name.
“You must be the new guy,” the woman behind the desk said. Her short, fuchsia hair framed her fine-boned face in a million micro ringlets.
“What was the tip-off? My obvious look of discombobulation?” He approached the desk, extending his hand across the high counter. “Peter Rosenfeld.”
“That sad little cardboard box of personal items, for starters.” Eyes twinkling with amusement, she accepted the handshake. “Delia Sampson.” She peeled a sticky note that already had something written on it off the desk and offered it to him. “This is going to be your extension. Do you have any preferences I should be made aware of regarding incoming calls?”
“Yeah, if it’s my mother, tell her if I didn’t answer her call to my cell that I’m too busy to talk.”
“There’s something about guys who are sweet on their moms. They’re always the nicest in relationships.”
“Well, that quality hasn’t gotten me too far in the realm of dating, until recently. I thought I was going to end up like Norman Bates for a while, there.”
“You’re funny, new guy. I think you’ll fit right in.” The cordless phone rang, and Delia held up a purple polished finger, signaling for him to hang around. “Ann Arbor Times, how may I direct your call?” A pause. “I’ll patch you through to advertising. They’ll be with you in a moment, ma’am.” She punched a button on the dialpad and returned the landline to its cradle receiver. Delia fixed her glassy gaze on Peter. “Ms. Reyes wants to see you in her office before you settle in.” Aiming a pen at the hallway, she instructed, “All the way down the hall, last door on the right. If it’s cracked, she’s expecting you. If it’s closed, knock.”
Peter padded off toward his new boss’s private office, shoes clacking against the tile. A lightness had infiltrated him after the tolerable interaction with Delia, the worry from the elevator ride gone without a trace.
Stopping short of the door, he adjusted the weight of his old leather computer bag, a college graduation gift from his mother that somehow remained intact after more than a decade of use. He raised a fist to knock out of habit but froze.
Peter found himself privy to a one-sided conversation.
A phone call. He had not intended to eavesdrop. It was an inevitable byproduct of his uncertainty.
“I looked over his file ahead of the Skype interview and I wasn’t sure if I could justify a hire based on that alone, but when it came time for the interview? Well, Christine, all I’ll say is he’s easy on the eyes and has a voice made for radio.”
Was she talking about him? Peter’s shoulders slumped and his grip on the box let up. He had been daft to think the position had gone to him solely based on journalistic merit when it was likely dozens of reporters with more prestigious experience had applied alongside him.
Still, he was inclined to belie
ve his near 15 years of experience in the industry had to amount to something even if, on its own, it had not been enough to land him the job.
He had his genes to thank for that.
A throaty laugh came from within the office before it met an abrupt end. Perhaps the possibility of being overheard crossed his boss’s mind. Too little, too late.
“Maybe staff meetings will be a little more bearable with some eye candy among the ranks of unfortunate men who hold jobs on this floor.”
Unable to stomach another second of the phone conversation, Peter checked his cowardice at the door and entered the room. Though, whatever bit of cowardice stalled in its departure was thankful to see that Ms. Reyes’ desk chair faced the windows and not him.
Black and white accents ruled the professionally decorated, spacious office, which looked more in line with a fashion magazine mogul’s den than someone who ran a media group. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows afforded a view of the neighboring streets. The clean, minimalistic space bore a sharp contrast to Mr. Roberts’ cramped and cluttered office, which had been littered with personal mementos. This felt more corporate—and Peter could not decide if he cared for that initial impression.
They were a mid-size paper with a five-digit circulation. As far as the newspaper industry went, this was as close to the big leagues as he would ever come.
Ms. Reyes must have heard his approaching footsteps or spotted his reflection in the window. She ended the phone call without so much as a goodbye and spun around in her chair, ruffling her caramel-colored hair and tearing off her fire engine red, rectangular glasses.
“You’re early, Peter. Quite early.” She brandished a smile which seemed to pain her, baring teeth white enough to annihilate the retinas of any onlooker. “I could’ve sworn I’d informed Delia that I’d gone to lunch. No matter.” Motioning to the acrylic chair in front of her desk, she insisted, “Please, have a seat.”
Having Rosenfeld (Rosenfeld Duet Book 2) Page 3