Floored - Karla Sorensen Page 0,80

because I couldn't hold up the weight anymore. "Now what?"

Jude's gaze tracked over my face, which was probably still splotchy and red and awful looking. "I think, love, that you go home and be with your family. I'll finish my season. We'll talk every week, yeah? We'll figure out all those unanswered questions."

I swiped at a tear that leaked out. What a rude little tear, I'd given no permission to cry in this conversation.

It wasn't like I wanted him to know that I'd fallen in love with him, or that I was closing a door by ending things like this.

He watched the tear, which I'd missed, and a muscle clenched in his jaw.

Noisily, I sniffed. "Okay."

Jude's fists clenched, but his face smoothed out. "Do we ... shake hands? Hug?"

I tried not to think about whether it was smart, but I stepped forward. Immediately, he opened his arms. They folded around my back, and while he held me, chin resting on the top of my head, I allowed one more tear.

"You changed my life, Jude McAllister," I whispered. His chest, warm and broad and strong, expanded slowly. "I'm glad I met you."

He didn't answer right away, but I felt the whisper of his mouth against my hair. "I'm glad I met you too, Lia Ward."

If I looked up at him, with the loaded, rough tone to his delicious voice, I'd probably want to kiss him. How stupid I was when it came to this man. So, I pulled out of his arms and walked out of the room.

A few doors down, Isabel stood in the hallway, looking down at her phone.

She glanced up when I exited. "You okay?"

I shook my head.

Isabel held her hand out, and I took it. We walked back to our room like that, and by the time I curled up in bed, she'd booked my tickets home with her in three days time.

I didn't cry myself to sleep, but I curled a hand around my stomach and promised my little peach we'd be okay. All of us.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Lia

I did okay packing up my things. No tears were shed as I packed the brand new suitcase I'd purchased to accommodate the new items I'd purchased the past few months. Even my Shepperton hoodie and winter hat made it into the suitcase with dry eyes, which I was pretty ecstatic about. Isabel helped some, but I also forced her to do a few of the touristy day tours she'd booked.

My paper, once it was polished and printed and bound into a hardcover binder, had been delivered to Atwood's office earlier in the week, as well as via email. The beautiful thing about the way we'd structured my semester cohort with her was the flexibility in my schedule. My flat was empty and clean, Isabel gone early from her Oxford B&B to do a day in Bournemouth. Originally, I'd planned to go with her, but Atwood had availability in her schedule and emailed me a cryptically short message that had my stomach twirling with nerves that she hated my paper and I'd end this entire semester with no credit.

When I knocked on her office door, I felt the first stirrings of emotion that I wouldn't be doing it again.

"Come in," she called.

Peeking around the corner, I gave her a tentative smile. "Ready for me?"

Professor Atwood watched me over the edge of her glasses, and I felt the weight of it like a wool cloak, something that in the right situation could be warm and wonderful. Or hot and oppressive.

I took my usual seat and saw my bound paper on her desk, next to her ever-present teacup. "Well, you didn't burn it. That's a good sign."

She smiled softly. "No, definitely not."

Nodding, a sigh escaped my lips in relief.

Atwood twirled an expensive-looking pen in her hands, briefly tapping it against her desk before she spoke again. "Your final product was quite lovely, Lia. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you." I exhaled. "I was worried you'd hate the change I took with the end."

She shook her head. "On the contrary, I thought it was a wonderful shift in perspective and shows the understandable change you've undergone in your time here."

"It felt right, I guess."

Atwood picked up the binder, flipping to the back. "This is the part that I highlighted. Discontent is a powerful motivator for change and a fuel of ingenuity, but only when it's coupled with an unwavering sense of self. When applied through a lens of the past, the indomitable spirit of